EXPLORATIONSA Publication of Mountain Empire Community College’s Fine Arts Magazine • 2014

Photography • Poetry • Drawings • Paintings • Writings ELCOME to Mountain Empire Community College’s 2014 arts magazine, Explorations. In these pages you will find the nonfiction stories, poems, photographs, drawings and paintings of some of our very talented students and alumni. The artistic style and vision that produce each piece may vary greatly, but all the works represent an artist who’s creative, inspired, engaged with the world, full of curiosity and Wenergy, and eager to reach an audience.

On behalf of the entire campus community, we would especially like to thank all the contributors for their willingness to share their talents with all of us. Also, we extend our heartfelt gratitude to the very talented judges, all distinguished in their respective fields, who agreed to judge the entries for us: Ms. Rita Quillen for nonfiction, Ms. Jada Ach for poetry, Ms. Brooke Wonders for short story, Ms. Val Lyle for painting and drawing, and Mr. Mike Smith for photography. Finally, we appreciate the support of the college administration, Student Services, the Arts and Sciences division, the Print Shop, and the Office of Community Relations for their financial support and technical expertise.

Explorations Faculty Sponsors: Alice Harrington Brandi Martinez Janet Richards Derek Whisman

Mountain Empire Community College JUDGES 2014

MIKE SMITH - Photography Mike Smith was born in Germany but served in Vietnam as a part of the U.S. Army. He earned a BFA from the Massachusetts College of Art and an MFA in photography from Yale University. He is a professor of photography at ETSU, where he has served since 1981. Mr. Smith has published several works in the New York Times, Washington Post, Oxford American and Harper’s magazine, among many others. He has been featured in countless exhibitions all over the country from New York to California and has won several awards for outstanding photography, including the Tennessee Governor’s Distinguished Artist Award.

VAL LYLE - Painting and Drawing Val Lyle is an acclaimed artist currently serving as one of the three artists-in-residence at the William King Museum in Abingdon, VA. An adjunct professor of art at Emory & Henry College, Lyle is a graduate of the ETSU MFA program with an emphasis in ceramic sculpture, but her work includes painting and printmaking as well. In addition to her teaching she is currently working on two public sculpture commissions for the City of Bristol. One will be a life size bronze sculpture for the Birthplace of Country Music and the other is a collaborative work of art with Charles Vess as an entrance to the Bristol Public library.

RITA QUILLEN - Nonfiction Rita Quillen’s first novel, Hiding Ezra, will be released in 2014 from Little Creek Books. Quillen’ poetry collection, Her Secret Dream, was named the Outstanding Poetry Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writers Association in 2008. A new book of poetry, Something Solid to Anchor To, will be published in 2014. Ms. Quillen was one of six semi-finalists forthe 2012-14 Poet Laureate of Virginia. Her poetry received a Pushcart nomination, as well as a Best of the Net nomination in 2012. She was also a finalist in the 2005 Dana Awards competition. Her previous works include poetry collections October Dusk and Counting the Sums, as well as a book of essays, Looking For Native Ground: Contemporary Appalachian Poetry.

JADA ACH - Poetry Jada Ach is currently a doctoral candidate in American Literature at the University of South Carolina- Columbia. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Slice Magazine, Apple Valley Review, Southern Humanities Review, and elsewhere. In 2011 Jada participated in the Dzanc Books/CNC DISQUIET International Literary Program in Lisbon, Portugal. More recently she was awarded a 2012 North Carolina Arts Council Regional Artist Project Grant to help fund a writing program in Lithuania. Three of her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

BROOKE WONDERS - Short Story Brooke Wonders’ fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Electric Velocipede, and the Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 2013, among others. Her nonfiction has appeared in or is forthcoming from Brevity, The Collagist, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere. She reviews for American Book Review and serves as nonfiction editor at new online literary magazine The Account. She will soon be receiving her PhD in creative writing from the University of Illinois at Chicago. Table of Contents

Winner of the Mike Smith Award for Overall Most Outstanding Photography...... 3 Color Photography 1st Place - Rohini S. Swaminathan - “Art of Steel”...... 4 2nd Place - Kayla Gillenwater - “Memories” ...... 5 3rd Place - Rohini S. Swaminathan - “I See Myself in You” ...... 5 Honorable Mention Lana Kennedy - “Legs”...... 6 Pam Shelton - “Leap of Faith” ...... 6 Nonfiction 1st Place - Lorraine Dresch - “Flight Plan” ...... 7 2nd Place - Teresa Ward - “Early Morning” ...... 8-9 3rd Place - Jonathan Perry - “And Then There Were...”...... 10-11 Black and White Photography 1st Place - Rohini S. Swaminathan - “Maybe Heaven Will Be Better”...... 12 2nd Place - Geena Phipps - “Good Day Moon” ...... 13 3rd Place - Kayla Gillenwater - “Waiting”:...... 13 Honorable Mention Geena Phipps - “Reflections of Where My Heart Is” ...... 14 Rohini S. Swaminathan - “Unanswered Prayers” ...... 14 Poetry 1st Place - Teresa Ward - “The Gardner” ...... 15 2nd Place - Stephanie Cassell - “Where I’m From”...... 16 3rd Place - Teresa Ward - “Note On The Pillow” ...... 17 Drawing 1st Place - Jessica Hall - “Eisley”...... 18 2nd Place - Jessica Hall - “Bookshelf”...... 19 3rd Place - Kelsey Blanken - “Ghost Town”...... 20 Honorable Mention Holly Hayden - “The Crow’s Nest” ...... 21 Geneva Church - “Solitary”...... 21 Rohini Swaminathan - “Vinyak”...... 21 Kristina Padilla - “What You See and I See Are Two Different Things”...... 21 Garrick Cox - “Broken Palette”...... 22 Crystal Willcuts Cole - “Smoke”...... 22 Kelci Richelle Lawson - “Wake Up”...... 22 Short Story 1st Place - Brandon Whited - “Miller’s Pond”...... 23-26 2nd Place - Joseph Collins - “Detours”...... 27-28 3rd Place - Matthew Henson - “We Are Primal” ...... 29-31 Painting 1st Place - Taylin Valentin - “The Wonder of Life”...... 32 2nd Place - Jessica Hall - “Girl With a Saxophone”...... 33 3rd Place - Crystal Willcuts Cole - “Reflections”...... 34 Honorable Mention Crystal Willcuts Cole - “Camouflage”...... 35 Melinda Church - “Aglow” ...... 35 Sharmin Merriam - “Banjo” ...... 35 Jessica Hall - “Little Bottles Still Life”...... 35 Melinda Church - “Lantern”...... 36 Taylin Valentin - “The Pleasure of Life”...... 36 Heather Culbertson - “Let’s Turn This Boat Around” ...... 36 Heather Culbertson - “Alice Ann”...... 36

Explorations Winner of the Mike Smith Award for Overall Most Outstanding Photography Maybe Heaven Will Be Better Rohini S. Swaminathan

Spring 2014 | 3 Explorations First Place 2014 - Color Photography Art of Steel Rohini S. Swaminathan

4 | Explorations Explorations Second Place 2014 - Color Photography Memories Kayla Gillenwater

Explorations Third Place 2014 - Color Photography I See Myself in You Rohini S. Swaminathan

Spring 2014 | 5 Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Color Photography Legs Lana Kennedy

Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Color Photography Leap of Faith Pam Shelton

6 | Explorations Explorations First Place 2014 - Nonfiction Flight Plan Lorraine Dresch here’s a solid, sickening thump on the picture window. I’m ripped violently from the written world lying on Tmy lap. My head turns and my eyes widen to focus on the window, registering a feathered blur in the quick instant before gravity takes the senseless form to the unyielding ground two levels below. The scene is nauseating, ending in mere milliseconds, leaving unanswered questions surfacing in my mind, like goldfish gasping for oxygen in a crowded aquarium. “Did you see that?” I ask Samantha, the staff member on duty at the time. “That bird? Yeah…happens every few days. That’s what we get with these glass walls at River Centre Clinic,” she nonchalantly replies, her Northern accent still sounding foreign to me. But I am completely horrified. I’m too appalled to walk across the navy carpet to the window and gaze downward, searching for a crumpled body, looking for feathers splattered with blood and blanketing a section of damp earth. I would much rather believe the poor creature found its second wings and a warm updraft, or perhaps a soft patch of moss. Who’s to say it didn’t, if I never look? I won’t seal the bird’s fate. I was helpless a few moments ago, but now I am empowered. All I must do to save the creature is imagine its pain away, as a young child singing a song to keep the rain from pouring. I won’t think of its last moments-had it seen me, sitting on the couch, escaping into a book? No, I won’t even believe there were last moments to consider. At least, not yet. Maybe in a year or two, or in a couple of months, when autumn leaves fall and winter tiptoes over Toledo, Ohio, and steals the land of its color. But the facts I know whisper that a robin could not survive a plunge from this height. Two stories is not a pleasure fall, a far cry from a toddler leaping into a father’s arms. Was this a divine wakeup call? Someone is reminding me of life’s vulnerability. It is too fleeting to be wasted, too precious and fragile to be spent with regrets, too intricate and detailed to notice only blurred silhouettes. Is this lesson so important that a Someone would teach it at the expense of another’s life, to save mine? It had to have been to be an accident, and should be explained by animal instinct only. It had to have been a flittering instinct in a tiny, raisin-sized brain, causing wings to flap and a small form to spring into motion. Until it struck an invisible barrier and couldn’t anymore. The tragedy gives rise to a pause, if only for a moment, for me to think of mortality. I think of my own flight path. I recall my route in the cold winds of self-hatred and the turbulence of destructive behaviors, straining for unattain- able flawlessness, until I crashed into the invisible barrier of anorexia nervosa. I fell swiftly from my lofty position in the sky, my momentum carrying me at a rate tripling the speed of my ascent. There was no imagining away my fate, unlike what I longed to do with the poor robin. I had sealed my destiny the second I had kissed the envelope shut and mailed my mind away to an angry idol. Her name is Perfection. She haunts me still, reminding me of that hastily scrawled yet infinitely precious letter. In six months, I had changed into a new person. A complete transformation from an average teenage girl to a depressed, underweight sixteen year old who wished she were thinner. One who felt she was not worthy of love and natural human affection, who wanted to tear herself apart piece by piece, until there were only bones. I was a person who didn’t believe she was feminine enough, beautiful enough, or a person at all. I was someone who couldn’t enjoy life’s simplest, most basic pleasure-food. I couldn’t control my anxiety anymore. It unleashed a crescendo of terror surging through my veins whenever I lost the tenuous hold on my eating disorder. At the first sight of a meal, it took all my strength not to curl into a sobbing ball on the linoleum floor. But sometimes my strength left and I had to stay there, alone in the kitchen, a shaking heap of a girl. Collateral damage in the battle of mind versus body. Which one was the real me? How could I tell? I was both victor and victim. Everything in me screamed its own opinion. My mind won, until my parents wouldn’t let it anymore. They stepped through the battlefield in solid armor, dragging me from the fight. But while they may win a battle or slay a thousand soldiers of my thoughts, the war continues and ten thousand march up to fill the vacant space. It rages on now, at this very moment. I know, not from experience but from faith, that it will be easier as time passes. I must fight it one bite at a time. I have to accept that I have flaws. I have feelings. I am not a robot, circuitry programmed for perfection at society’s benefit and the expense of my own freedom. I need to realize the scale can offer me no more than a numerical reflection of my relationship with gravity. It won’t show the weight of my soul. It never did. And if I don’t quit, I win. I will pull myself up from the ground and emerge victorious from the ashes, a resilient phoenix over the flames. There will be no more glass walls.

Spring 2014 | 7 Explorations Second Place 2014 - Nonfiction Early Morning Teresa Ward itting on the side of the bed I gently ease into my sweater and jeans so as not to disturb the warm quilt-encased Sform sleeping next to me. I slip my boots under one arm and slowly open and close the bedroom door. Pre- tending I am a prima-ballerina, I toe dance quietly down the hallway towards the kitchen. Flicking on the overhead light, I consider making coffee. I smile as I sit down to pull on my boots. No, I will wait for coffee, I think. The taste of him still lingers on my lips and his smell in my hair. I pull a golden lock around to inhale deeply. I just cannot give that up, yet! Leaving the warmth of the kitchen, I slip my jacket from a hook by the rear door and head for the path to the barn. I have serious thinking to do this morning and sometimes, only nature and my horse can help. The eastern sky is pinkish as I walk under the heavy boughs of juniper trees down to the horse barn. Somewhere, I hear a dog barking and his snippy remarks rise high and amplify in the brisk air. The water trough is frozen and I have to use my bare hands to break up the thin layers that form on top this time of year. Wiping my red frozen fingers on my pants and blowing on them, I regret not grabbing gloves when I left the house. That diamond shines so bright! I just had to figure out if this ring fit. The barn is cold but not as bad as outside. I pull a string and the bulb feebly lights my way past bales of hay to where an open bag of oats sits on the plank floor. I kick the bag before dipping my hand inside because I have learned by experience that mice like oats for breakfast, too. When none appear, I say a silent thank-you prayer and reach into the bag with an old coffee can to fill the five-gallon bucket at my feet. By this time, both horses have their heads stuck over the railing and out into the narrow breezeway. “All right, all right, already,” I say as I shoo them back so I can pour the grain over the railing into their feed buck- ets. As they chomp noisily, I grab a block of hay and a cotton lead off a nail and make my way through the gate into Moon Lady’s stall. My beautiful roan mare slings her head impatiently as I reach up to fasten the halter over her nose and around her neck. She is not through eating and is perturbed that I have interrupted her breakfast. I never let her finish before we ride. I do not want her to be too full and I always treat her with a little extra when we return. Taking a stiffbristle brush, I begin to work. I start at the withers and work my way down with the growth of her course winter hair. She is so warm! I lean into her as I brush her neck. She bobs her head telling me she is enjoying the attention. I move to the other side and start on the hindquarters and tail. Moon Lady smells of horse and hay. Not the sour sweat smell after a hard ride but a sweet musky smell that is unique to horses on cold mornings. I slowly run the brush from her mane down the middle of the back to her tail. I begin again and can feel her quiver. I finish brushing her belly and flanks, then run my hands down each leg checking for sores, burrs, or thorns. Having finished that, I lay a thick horse blanket high up on her withers knowing it will slide down as we ride. I heft the heavy saddle into place with a grunt. Wrestling the saddle into place, I breathe deeply and inhale the smell of the leather and mink oil. This saddle is one I have ridden since high school and is well used, but it fits me perfectly. It is molded to my rear-end and as comfortable as a rocking chair. I think of Ben lying in bed, still. We have known each other since second grade. He is as comfortable as my saddle and I know he loves me as much as I love him. I suppose this marriage thing just took me a little by surprise, though I know everyone expects it. I guess I saw us as buddies forever even though the relationship was obviously much deeper than buddies! Am I ready for marriage? Things are going so nicely just the way they are. I finish up with the bridle and let Moon Lady walk out into the open. We both shiver. She snorts openly and shows her disgust at leaving the warmer barn. My sister’s horse, Princess answers back. I lead the way, opening and closing the pasture gate before lifting my leg and slinging into the saddle. Moon Lady crow steps a little as she feels her oats on this cold morning. She would have to stumble and roll before I could be thrown, however. .. not on this horse, not in this saddle. We have a special trust and understanding between us that has never needed words. Odd, Ben and I have the same kind of relationship. A gentle squeeze of my knees is all it takes to get Moon Lady and me going. Soon we are in a good trot headed south along a fencerow with the sun rising on the left. We reach the top of the hill and I stop to take in the view. The sun is up now and I can begin to feel a little warmth on my face. Moon Lady is anxious to get moving again and jerks her head up. I give her, her head and let her set the pace. We both know these pastures and this is a good place to gallop. Down the gentle slope, we race with me bending low over her neck, eyes watering and stinging from the cold. I am part of her now, horse and rider moving as one. With the wind roaring in my ears, all I’m aware Continued on page 9

8 | Explorations Continued - Early Morning by Teresa Ward of now is Moon Lady’s mane brushing my face and the thump of my own heartbeat, wishing Ben was here. We have run more than half-of-a-mile before we begin to slow and time can start ticking again. With my legs trembling and pulse racing there is no way I could walk right now if my life depended on it. I lean over the saddle resting my head on Moon Lady’s steaming neck. Great plumes of smoke shoot from her nostrils as we both try to catch our breaths. We are about two miles or more from the barn when we head back walking and trotting as we see fit. After unsad- dling and giving her a good rubdown and some extra oats, I let Moon Lady and Princess out into the corral and make my way back into the house. By this time, Moon Lady has convinced me just how well my diamond really does fit. I need Ben and I need him forever! My legs ache and I am sure the inside of my knees will be bruised from the hard ride. All I can think of now that my decision is made is that I am absolutely starving! As I open the kitchen door, I am met with a cup of hot coffee and a sleepy smile. I smile back and think that maybe breakfast can wait. Slipping off my boots, coat and everything but my diamond, I make my way back down the hall.

Spring 2014 | 9 Explorations Third Place 2014 - Nonfiction And Then There Were... Jonathan Perry

omething written within a good day amongst bad, uncreative and obstructed days. S Something that came to mind during an uncreative day. I sat at my desk, at work. Looking for inspiration. Reading Screwjack, by Hunter S. Thompson. Then an email popped up, from one of the greatest people I know. A link, to a pair of boots. A pair of boots that were suggested to be something I’d fall in love with. It worked, and I found my inspiration. The day was not lost and I had to create a metaphor to give credit to my awesome companion, the boots and the legendary Thompson:

And then there were the boots. Those blue leathery non-leather clobber-knockers I’m so fond of. Something like a cross between the shit kickers of the Gestapo, mud rompers of a farm hand, foot sheathes of an eighties punk band and something that says, “Yea, I might be a conforming non-conformist, but goddamn if I don’t like girls with blue highlights in their hair who drive Volkswagens with the top down and aren’t afraid to let the wind make a mess of their beautifully ordinary features. Oh, and the occasional Cuban cigar.”. They certainly caught my eye and invoked lust. From the second I read, “these things have your name on them.” I was a kid on a coaster. They were blue paramilitary vegan boots and I was an excited red-in-the-face deranged lover. Very para, very deranged and very blue indeed. So much in fact, that I’d totally wear them to sporting events and so- cial outings –perhaps I’d even go as far as to say lounging in the summer’s eve under an orange sun and a blue moon, sporting my vegan para-blues with some crazy shorts, my Rasta hat and overly robust yet appealing and security im- bibing sunglasses. Hell, I was in such groove of mania this day that I’d even go as far as to add that I’d get the madness and stumble out and play croquet, solo, on the faded and thinning Astroturf of a run-down Vegas hotel, just after sunrise with a gut full of liquor and a horribly stained bath robe stolen-loaned from the maids cleaning cart, smok- ing a slow burning bowl of Humboldt County’s greenest green with a backdrop worthy of a Tarantino movie. Weird colors and people grooving to the slow buzz of Russian folk music and that rude sound of automobiles screeching through the distant strip. Incessant ringing of a telephone, no machine and persistent assholes who keep dialing. All of those strange armadillos skittering about through the hoops and pegs of this nonsensical game of wooden mallet and ball. No… No that can’t be right, this isn’t Florida, there aren’t armadillos in these parts. Or perhaps these arma- dillos aren’t armadillos at all, perhaps they’re observations of things that aren’t actually there. Cuil Theory. Or maybe, the decadent roaring of that green lawn-beast across the street cutting and hacking and slashing away at desert sands and the occasional scrub and stick and scarce gravel being shot out from this dragon with a flaming velocity, scream- ing for the nearest window in the Winnebago or the closest small child swinging from a broke down and sad excuse for a porch that’s grown into the side of the trailer after years of peeling, lead infused paint and abuse. Yes, maybe that’s what’s putting me on edge. Holy mother of fuck. Goddamn gophers and their plans for world domination. They’ve never fooled me, I’ve been onto their schemes since before I could walk. All of this crazy while sporting those wicked awesome para-blues. Those lust inseminating boots. I’ve slipped off again -dreaming, fantasizing; fading away, ranting about those boots. Within a madness talking about madness. No escape from this week’s manic episode. Get up, go out, run away. I’m in an awesome place, a euphoric dizziness of an obstructed-clear mind. Kick that door open, damn it. I’m outside. I’ve made it, no longer a POW of that insane circus. The clouds are lit up, faintly. Little patches of snow and ice scattered about like landmines, waiting, frothing to take your footing and land you on your ass at any moment. The shaking. The nervousness. It subsides as I exhale the stale and stagnant poison-air from inside, and suck in copious amounts of a staggering and sobering ten degree night air like a filter-feeder sifting for plankton. Yes. I can think. Pacing, to and from. Nine days of the blurry headed sickness, sleeping and constipation of my creativity tract are suddenly released like the loaded bowls of a pelican, bombing unwitting beach-goers. Thoughts, pictures and ideas overload my senses and I keep seeing an epic slow motion scene between every thought, picture or Continued on page 11

10 | Explorations Continued - And Then There Were... by Jonathan Perry idea, where Mr. Universe is balancing upon a great sphere, closing his hands together above his head in a jumping- jack motion, grasping an electric cord in each hand. They meet with a vicarious conclusion; sparks and fire and blue lights and red fireworks erupt from all around the sphere and that crazy music from 2010: a space odyssey comes to a climax. It’s here, that warm feeling. Inching up my back like a centipede, no, a snake. NO. A spider, with long, jagged legs. Needle appendages used for climbing, and they’re stabbing through the skin, tearing into the muscle and rooting into my spine like mountaineer thrusting his ice-pick into a northern face. Every vertebrae is penetrated, every nerve struck as it creeps up and up and up. Latching on to the back of my head, scratching and biting until it reaches my spinal cord, cold fangs sink in and inject it’s all-too-welcome poison into my system. Taking control. What is this ridiculous festival? What is this lavishly lit-up tilt-a-whirl I’m on, spinning round and round? I don’t want the tilt-a-whirl, I want the ferris wheel so I can spin vertically rather than laterally. It doesn’t matter. Can’t con- centrate on the outside world at a time like this! I have notes to take, things to do. So many things to create, so little time. A large canvas with a fisheye close-up perspective of a blue tootsie-pop with the reflection of a great shark, leaping out of the ocean –cutting against a whitewash background. Collecting uniformly shaped and sized sticks to stack into a cube, five feet by five feet, one side painted yellow, the others painted black, taking residence in a random park or field or hillside or whatever. Three guitar chords thrown together and feverishly strummed to the beat of your heart, rather than tablature. Several more words and pages to add to my atrocious writing, revealing the dark but unavoidable plot of a fictional non-fiction character as he loses the final and climactic inner battle, starting the beginning and outlining the ending of my book with a “bang!”. Nude sketches. Clippings from assorted magazines glued to a box. Laying under the clouds for hours with my camera to take hundreds of pictures and stitching them together to make fast-forward videos of soft white and hard blue. Candy canes, paint brushes, ink pens and paper. Flashlight silhouettes, lyrics and liquor. I don’t want it to end. I can’t let it end. I’ve got the fear again, a panic creeping up from my stomach. Loathing and dismay for when this is gone. How many days will pass this time? How many nights will be lost and mornings wasted? No time, can’t contemplate the future man, have to tap into the present. Where to put these things? More pacing ensues. I have to bottle them up for now, cage them like wild beasts that long for the open range. I can document this, save it for a later time. Stow it away and send a message in a bottle to that shitty gray, melancholy island. Hoping my islander-self will stumble across it and put the fire in his eye. Tapping into the now, later. And that drab black & white B movie island will burst out of the ocean of despair and heave and boil and burst into a continent, exponentially to the power of n larger than its previous confines. Color splashed about, raining down on everything. Gray sand be- comes tan, grass green, coconuts brown the sky blue and lotuses purple. It’s a lovely swirling effect of life from death and animate from inert. I can type this, log this voyage with more explicit detail than a sea navigator’s map. Poking away at that ridiculous contraption with the buttons. Those damned buttons, with their shapes and spacing and completely illogical layout. Cursing and tapping and punching the keyboard. Vehemently riding this great beast until it gives out, when I have nothing left to say or do; tabula rasa. And then it ends. I come down, tuning into that melodramatic radio station called life. Strange conversations about lawyers and tropical fruit are adrift in the parking lot. I retreat back inside, sit in front of my computer and strike the mouse with a sleep depraved lunacy. I log back into this plastic crate of silicon chips and transistors, zeros and ones. I pull up my most recent browser window. And then there were the boots.

Spring 2014 | 11 Explorations First Place 2014 - Black and White Photography Maybe Heaven Will Be Better Rohini S. Swaminathan

12 | Explorations Explorations Second Place 2014 - Black and White Photography Good Day Moon Geena Phipps

Explorations Third Place 2014 - Black and White Photography Waiting Kayla Gillenwater

Spring 2014 | 13 Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Black and White Photography Reflections of Where My Heart Is Geena Phipps

Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Black and White Photography Unanswered Prayers Rohini S. Swaminathan

14 | Explorations Explorations First Place 2014 - Poetry The Gardner Teresa Ward

His hands were still good, very good, with no knots of arthritis, and his knees still fair for kneeling next to mounds he would rake up with a long hoe. We often worried about his hips, though, when he’d limp in damp weather and deny any such pain right through a wince.

We watched him poke holes in tilled ground then thread pale seeds before closing with loam. At dinner, through May, June, July, August, September, and into October, he offered updates on new breaks in the soil, first shows of green, multiplication of leaves, the progress of tendrils, and when pollution discolored a butter-cream moon into something akin to red; he invited us out to compare the blood golds of his squash blossoms.

“The Gardner,” is rich in earthy detail. She selects her words with such economy, thus offering readers a multi-sensory understanding of the gardener and his work. Ward invites readers to marvel at the gardener’s art as it develops over the course of one growing season, from the “multiplication of leaves” to the resulting explosion of “blood gold” blossoms. In less than 20 lines, an entire life—pain, devotion, curiosity, loss—is communicated. - Jada Ach, Explorations Poetry Judge

Spring 2014 | 15 Explorations Second Place 2014 - Poetry Where I’m From Stephanie Cassell For George Ella Lyon (and my mother)

I am from penny candy, Baby Ruth bars and factory scrap dresses, Clothes boiling in a black iron pot, Sheets sun-bleached and wind-dried. I am from kudzu vine swings and dandelion wishes Car tires filled with begonias and petunias spilling From rusty pots and pans.

I am from the newsprint gray of winter walls Yearning for warmth And snuggling with sisters four to a bed Fighting for space. I am from Hayes and Copes and cotton fields From make do or do without And children should be seen and not heard Spying through knotholes and soaking up adult secrets From underneath the porch trellis. I am from praying that our help would come from the Lord, But learning that, more likely, The Lord helps those who help themselves.

I am from Sandy Ridge and rented gray shacks Homemade cane syrup and coffee simmering on the woodstove From kitchen chairs thrown in anger And front porch rocking chair gospel sing-alongs. I am from being cussed and kissed in the same whiskey breath Scrapping and surviving Growing too tall to be hidden By the long sweep of Mama’s housedress.

16 | Explorations Explorations Third Place 2014 - Poetry Note on the Pillow Teresa Ward

It was an early rise for me this morning, and in my thoughts you blossomed with the lilac and morning glory vibrating against the white thin veil of fog enveloping the meadow.

I watch the morning symphony from the deck with a hot cup of strong coffee. I go about the task of emptying out my files of work only to fill them again tomorrow with more;

all the while being thankful that you know my hand travels along the grain of your heart.

I love you, and that is my good fortune, between the flowers, the fog, and my daily tasks.

When you awake, may these thoughts of me warm your day and paint smiles across your face.

Your woman of computer files, 1 0-cent words, and loving heart.

P.S.

Love you all the way through, from the callus on your toe, the fine gray streaks in your hair, and the push of your heart leaning toward the tug of my soul.

Spring 2014 | 17 Explorations First Place 2014 - Drawing Eisley Jessica Hall

18 | Explorations Explorations Second Place 2014 - Drawing Bookshelf Jessica Hall

Spring 2014 | 19 Explorations Third Place 2014 - Drawing Ghost Town Kelsey Blanken

20 | Explorations Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Drawing

The Crow’s Nest Holly Hayden

Solitary Geneva Church

Vinyak What You See and I See Are Rohini S. Swaminathan Two Different Things Kristina Padilla

Spring 2014 | 21 Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Drawing

Broken Palette Garrick Cox

Smoke Wake Up Crystal Willcuts Cole Kelci Richelle Lawson

22 | Explorations Explorations First Place 2014 - Short Story Miller’s Pond Brandon Whited f you’re traveling on Route 42 through Sullivan County, Virginia, there’s a sort of tourist attraction you might Iwant to stop and check out. The only “tourists” that ever venture to it are the small number in the know – out- of-towners with family in the area, newcomers – those types. Your type, I might say. Heading north on that old two-lane highway, you’ll pass a small Baptist church on your right called Clear Springs. About a half-mile past it, you’ll see a little combination gas station-diner on the right, just as you’re coming around a sharp curve. It’s called J&N Gas & Eats. Stop there. You can get a fill-up with friendly, genuine southern service, and the food isn’t half-bad, either. But that’s not why I would have you stop there. That attraction I was telling you about? It lies in the woods up behind the station. Pull your car over into the gravel parking lot and walk to the left side of the building. You’ll see the beginning of an old logging road going up into the woods. The owners of J & N keep it cleared off up to a certain point, but since you’ll be passing through in October, the entire pathway should be clear. Unless things have changed, there’ll prob- ably be a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign nailed to a tree. Go in the station. The place is run exclusively by the Jacobs family, owners of the land that the logging road runs into, so you can tell any of the employees of your intentions, which is “to go check out the pond” – remember that, okay? – and they’ll know what you mean. Now you can proceed up the trail. It’ll take you on a winding course up through the hills, which are really strik- ing in the fall. When you’re about a quarter-mile up in the boonies, you should see Unusual Sight #1. There’s an old wrecked car, at least fifty years old, lying on the hillside, rusting away. I never figured out where it came from, and never heard anyone else say, either. But it’s there just the same, as are several large stumps if you want to take a rest. From this point, you’ll find the trail gets wider, but twists more, taking you on up through the mountains. Now, I’d say after about half a mile up from the car you’ll come to an old, deserted camp site to the left of the trail. You’ll know it by the rusted metal milk crate, the antique type, setting in the center of a circle of rocks. It once served as a grill of sorts for the campers who used this site. I know this needs some explaining, and that will come in due time. Just beyond the old camp, the trail winds steeply around the ridge, turning a sharp corner that doesn’t allow you to see what’s beyond until you’re there. Go along this curve and you’ll likely stop dead in your tracks at what lies before you: a large, deep pond, right smack in the middle of the woods. This, my friend, is Miller’s Pond. Miller’s Pond is ten shades of gorgeous in October, with the freshly fallen leaves floating on the surface, and the crisp, blue autumn sky reflected through the bare tree limbs. I know it will be hard to do, but draw your eyes away from the pond and look to the left embankment – you’ll see a concrete beam, about three feet tall, slanted at the top. It’s worn, chipped, and moss has overtaken the base. On the slant there rests a plaque, which is still legible, as the Jacobs family sees to it as they do the trail. It reads like this: “In memory of those young adventurers who dared not to idle away their time in the summer of 1962, choosing instead to set sail on a course for imagination on the surface of this body of water, a mirror with which to reflect God’s creation. May they find peace sailing beyond our earthly shore.” I recall what it says verbatim because I have read it hundreds of times. I even helped build the structure on which it sets, and I was there at the dedication ceremony in the spring of 1963. Now, divert your attention from the plaque and look straight ahead. You’ll see something long, thin and dark protruding from the surface near the bank. You’ll probably mistake it for a tree limb, as most do. It is not. What it is in fact is a rusted clothesline pole. There was once a bushel basket hanging from the T-section at the top. A basket for the lookout…hanging from the mast. You see? You have found the Main Attraction. You have found the last visible traces of a shipwreck of sorts. Yes, that’s right. You have found the Killer Whale. At this point you’re likely confused. I sent you nearly a mile back in the sticks…for a rusty old pole? Well, I admit Continued on page 24

Spring 2014 | 23 Continued - Miller’s Pond by Brandon Whited

it’s no Niagara Falls, but tell me where else in the country (and likely the world) you can stand on the bank of a pond within a few feet of a shipwreck in the middle of the woods? I suspect nowhere. Now, your explanation, as I promised. It’s quite an unusual story; one that has become deeply imbedded in local talk over the last forty years. The ruin of that camp you walked by was created by three young boys – the Ottoman twins, aged 12, and a Jacobs boy, aged 11 – around the summer of ’61. They camped out there frequently, sitting up late roasting marshmallows, telling ghost stories, and occasionally sneaking off a few cans of Old Milwaukee from the younger boy’s family’s fridge. Boys will be boys, you know. But these particular boys were not so average, really. They were easily bored with the small-town world they’d been brought up in, and when they got bored they could come up with some of the craziest ideas to pass the time. That particular summer, ’61, they were convinced they could build an airplane out of an old soapbox derby car and scrap parts from a car engine. Of course, everyone knew it couldn’t be done, except them. In about two weeks’ time, right up there by their campground, they had fashioned together what at least looked like a small airplane, with an old fan blade serving as a propeller and two long pieces of tin for wings. The “control panel” was a speedometer and odometer yanked from a junk car, and there was a Plymouth steering wheel and a Buick gearshift in there, too. Anyway, having taken the time to build the thing, they naturally wanted to try to fly it. I honestly don’t know what they thought would happen – they’d take off into the wide blue yonder, I guess – but on a warm, clear morning in August they pushed their plane up atop the ridge overlooking the pond. The youngest of the three, the Jacobs boy, decided he would be pilot. That or the older boys decided for him. Either way, he climbed into the seat, and the twins gave him a hefty push to get him going. Only he didn’t take off into the blue like he’d planned. He flew, all right – straight into a cliff facing. And later his mom flew, too, rushing him to the hospital with a mild concussion and broken arm. After that incident, the younger boy’s parents grounded him; the twins’ did likewise (something they rarely did). The three of them didn’t return to their stomping grounds for the rest of that summer. But as they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it wasn’t long before one of the twins turned his high-powered imagination away from the sky and toward Miller’s Pond. The trio had always included the pond in their woodland adventures – fishing, catching frogs, and sailing toy sail boats. But not a one of them could swim. Perhaps it was from this fact that their next big plan was cooked up. They decided to build a sailboat, not a toy but a real one they could ride, and could sail across the pond without fear of ending up drowned. Over the course of the winter of ’61 – Christmas vacation in particular – they planned. They gathered materials to build with, storing it all in the twins’ basement and the younger boy’s shed. A long, light wooden crate would become the hull. It had once belonged to the twins’ older sister, serving as her toy chest. It was a big chest at that – about eight feet long and probably three-and-a-half feet wide, I’d say. An old metal clothesline pole – the one that can still be seen today – would serve as the mast. On it would be harnessed a bushel basket that had been thrown out by the market for some reason. It’d make a fine lookout post, even if it was too flimsy for any of them to actually sit in. The winter of ’61 passed into the spring of ’62, and come April the trio could be seen assembling their boat outside the shed outside the Jacobs boy’s house, smartly nailing old sheets of tin to the sides and bottom of the toy chest for added durability. Atop they nailed a piece of plywood, shorter than the chest, leaving a gap at the back. This was their hatch. See, I told you these kids were inventive! Over this was placed a thin, square piece of iron of unknown origins; something they dug out of the junkyard. Now they could “batten down the hatch,” so to speak, and stay on the pond during bad weather. And when they were done, they had a crude, rectangular – but likely floatable – boat. They christened her the Killer Whale, smashing an empty bottle of Upper 10 on one of her corners to make it official. Finished, the Ottoman boys got their neighbor to set the boat on his wagon and haul it up the logging road with his tractor. The Killer Whale did indeed float! Over the remainder of that summer, everyday it seemed, those boys were out Continued on page 25

24 | Explorations Continued - Miller’s Pond by Brandon Whited on Miller’s Pond. But in their minds, I suspect, they were somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. A few times, Mr. Jacobs had come looking for them around sunset, and had found the three of them still on the boat. When summer vacation began to grow short, the Ottoman twins took to spending a few nights a week camped out in the boat. The Jacobs boy wasn’t allowed. They threw in some blankets and pillows and hung a lantern, but I still fail to see how they found comfort in a crate. Mid-August was upon the children of Sullivan County before they knew it, and attached to it was another school year. I’ve come to believe that there’s a determination in the hearts of all children to make this last day of summer vacation the most fun day they’ve ever had, and the trio were no different. They spent their day dragging boards and logs up to the pond; a dock was being built for the Killer Whale. By evening it was done: four logs set into the mud of the shallow east end of Miller’s Pond, with boards atop. A dock for their boat it was, at least in the eyes of youth. That night, the two Ottoman boys decided to spend one last night on their boat. That Jacobs boy, despite his beg- ging and crying, had to stay home, what with a new school year starting the next morning. When he asked his mom why the twins got to, he was given a critique of their parents’ lack of ability in “raisin’ young’uns up right.” Evening turned to dusk, and throughout the county girls and boys reluctantly came inside, had their dinner and then their bath, and laid out there things for the dreaded morning. As they closed their eyes and tried to shut out the worries all kids have before that horrific First Day dawns, a hard storm blew up. It was as though nature herself were telling the children that yes, summer break was over. And on that depressing night, the Ottoman boys lay wide awake inside the Killer Whale, listening to the rain pelt the boat’s tin sides. Perhaps their adventurous minds spun images of Japanese fighter planes firing upon a battleship at Pearl Harbor. If the sound of the rain was comparable to gunfire, then the sound of the giant limb cracking in the wind above their heads must have resonated as the explosion of a torpedo. Maybe they didn’t have time to think this at all. The Killer Whale was tied on each side with rope, one side to a post on the new dock, the other to the big oak the boat was floating directly under. It was from that tree that the terrific crack! of the breaking limb came. Seconds later that limb crashed across the boat. The plywood upper deck split down the middle and caved inward; the planks of the crate superstructure splin- tered, the tin siding popping loose and bending outward. All of this destruction occurred in the flash of a second, and in another flash the Killer Whale was forced to the bottom of Miller’s Pond by the weight of that limb and the damage it caused. Sad as it is, I’m afraid it’s also true: those young boys were sent to the bottom, too, trapped under the weight of the limb. Really, they were likely crushed, if you think about it. I don’t like to. When morning came and the boys didn’t come home, Mr. Ottoman trekked up to the pond, a whipping in mind no doubt. What he saw was…nothing. The boat was gone, as though his sons’ imaginations had taken over and they really had sailed off on the high seas. The dock had fallen in. One of the log supports was still in place, and a lone two-by-four floated nearby, but other than that, nothing. It was then Mr. Ottoman noticed the rope tied to the tree. It extended down into the water, and was taut, obviously tied to something. He knelt down on the mossy bank and gave the rope a few good, hard tugs. It gave, sending him onto his back. Up with the other end of rope, the knot still laced through a hole in it, came a tattered scrap of plywood. Everything came together then with horrifying clarity. Mr. Ottoman yelled and plunged head-first into the still, dark water. His palms at first gripped only silt, then his fingers grazed wood. A limb. His open palm brushed across the sharp edge of a piece of tin, drawing blood. The boat! The boys! He surfaced, yelled in agony, and dove back under, desperately trying to heave the large limb off his sons’ boat. His sons’ coffin. It’s said, and I believe it, that when Mrs. Ottoman found him, Mr. Ottoman had driven himself to exhaustion. Collapsed on the bank, mud-caked and bleeding, he cried and simply pointed into the water. That afternoon, a couple of locals with diving certificates were finally able to roll the log off the crate. The bodies of the Ottoman boys were retrieved, and they now rest in the Green Hill Cemetery. And the Killer Whale still rests in Miller’s Pond, that rusted pole marking the spot, like the hand of a drowning Continued on page 26

Spring 2014 | 25 Continued - Miller’s Pond by Brandon Whited

person breaking the surface a final time. A morbid comparison, I know, but one I cannot help making every time I see it. The following spring, I helped my father construct the concrete memorial marker that now stands by the pond. Mrs. Testerman, the librarian at Dagger Creek Elementary where the Ottoman boys had gone to school, wrote the lines that are on the plaque. Not exactly poetry, but the feeling is there, all the same. Now, you may find yourself wondering about how I know so many details of this story, or why I have made it a point to get you to Miller’s Pond. You see, the Jacobs family from which the younger boy came from, and the same family who now owns the land the pond is on, is my set of Jacobs. Perry Jacobs, as you well know, is me, and I was that Jacobs boys I’ve been speaking of. I do hope you will visit Miller’s Pond when you come this fall, and see the beauty of the Virginia autumn reflected in her glass surface. Perhaps I’ll join you there. I’m sure that plaque is due for a good cleaning. And if we become lost in thought looking out at the pond, let us promise not to break the process, for imagina- tion is the most precious gift, one we as older people must work to cling to. I have certainly worked to keep mine, nurturing it as a precious seed, for in always remembering what it means to imagine, I know I will never forget my friends, who knew all too well.

The second person is used to great effect, and the transition into first person produces a genuinely surprising twist end- ing. The details of setting were evocative, and the piece featured excellent use of foreshadowing, as we can predict the story’s tragic end. A story about the danger of imagination that also acknowleges how, despite very real risks, it is our capacity to dream and imagine that makes life worth living. - Brooke Wonders, Explorations Short Story Judge

26 | Explorations Explorations Second Place 2014 - Short Story Detours Joseph Rollins Sometimes a single book can change a life. I was considering this as the flea market on route 23 came into view. However, I doubted that the required reading for my English class would fall into that category. Maybe I wasn’t giv- ing the book a fair chance, I thought. Perhaps if I just embraced the philosophy and put it into action I might reap unthinkable rewards. “ I must expand my circle of influence, learn to understand others while maintaining my emo- tional stability, and stay in quadrant number two!” Lost in my thoughts I almost passed the flea market, but quickly recovered, laughing aloud I hit the blinker and pulled in the parking lot. Shaking my head a few times I headed toward the first vendor. After a few non-productive stops and polite chats I found myself engaged with a grizzly old veteran of swap-meet wars. Granted, I needed the cat litter box he was selling, but one could be had brand new at Wal-mart for little more than what he was asking. He also felt that the previously opened cat food he was selling deserved near retail price. As I stood ready to depart purchase-less, the thought EXPAND! came into my consciousness. Okay then, I will try this out and see what happens. So, instead of walking away from the reseller of items best left out for the trash man, I did my best to put myself in his place and understand his needs. It was not as painful as I thought it would be, and 15 minutes passed quickly. Remembering why I had went out shopping in the first place; I asked the man if he knew anyone that might have a push mower with a bag for sale. He promptly gave me the address and phone number of a guy he knew in Wise. I thanked him and left. “Wow, that actually worked out pretty well, I may come home with a mower yet today”, I thought, as I tossed the litter box and partial bag of cat food into the back of my blazer. On my way up to Wise I returned to an ongoing theme in my life, my career path(or lack thereof), and pondered my future prospects. As much as I love Clintwood and my family, I daydreamed of seeing more of the world, having some adventure, and perhaps even finding some prosperity and security along the way. After all, that was the reason I began attending the local community college in the first place. While I am fairly proficient at constructing burgers to order, and punching the right codes into the cash register, I hoped that the electrical and HVAC classes I was taking would provide me the opportunity to better myself. How exactly I was going to make that happen seemed to always be nagging at the edges of my thoughts. Now close to Wise, I phoned the guy with the mower and he happily gave me directions to his home. Arriving, I noticed a clean-cut younger man with all his hair and natural color, standing behind a well-kept looking Snapper mower. We shook hands and talked about the weather and how fast everything seemed to be growing. Finally get- ting around to what he wanted for the mower, I asked if he had a price in mind. Before he could respond, his phone chimed a pleasant ring-tone and he excused himself. He returned and apologetically explained that his cousin had been seriously injured in a mining accident, and frequently called when he needed help. I expressed concern and asked if I could help in some way. He thought deeply for a moment, then smiled. My new mower bumped around in the back of the Blazer as I rolled down highway 58 headed toward Lebanon. I was pretty pleased with myself as I considered the terms for my new mower. All I had to do was go to “the cousin’s” house, mow his lawn, tidy up a bit, and the mower was mine free and clear. In a happy mood I hummed along to the Rolling Stones and marveled at the beauty of the Virginia countryside as the miles passed by. Eventually I located “the cousin’s” FARM! I knocked on the screen door and was ordered to come in; I stepped inside where I was met by a large man in a wheelchair fussing with a laptop computer. He said he was expecting me and asked if I knew anything about computers. I said I knew a bit, but was by no means an expert. Wondering exactly how many days it would take me to mow his grass I suddenly became much more expert than I felt, and told him that I could probably fix the problem with his wireless network. At least I could fail indoors where it was cool. It turned out to be a simple matter of re-installing the router software and updating the firmware. He was quite impressed with my efforts and very happy to be back online. I was glad to have fixed the problem, but was dreading being banished to the outdoors. He offered some lemonade and a snack, which I gratefully accepted. When I felt it could put it off no longer I asked him if he wanted me to get started on the yard. He said there was really no need to mow anything, his cows and goats would take care of it. He further explained that he sometimes just called people and asked for

Continued on page 28

Spring 2014 | 27 Continued - Detours by Joseph Rollins

help because he felt lonely and isolated since his accident. He said being back online would help alleviate a lot of his loneliness and thanked me once again for re-connecting him. I was rolling again, and he waved through the screen door as I pulled away. I cranked up the classic rock station and headed for home, completely delighted with the way the morning had worked out. Expand! There is was again! Before I could fully consider the irritating thought , my foot jammed on the brake and the Blazer stopped inches from a truck broke down on the inside of a curve. A frantic older lady ran up to me and jabbered out that her truck had stalled and she could go no further. I told her the first thing we need to do is to get her truck out of the blind curve. I instructed her to get back in her truck, and told her I would push her to a safer place. Greatly relieved once we were safely in a pull-out, we got out of our vehicles and greeted each other behind her truck. She explained that her husband was waiting for her to pick him up at a hospital in Johnson City. With no cell phone reception and little else I could do, I offered to take her there and told her we could call for roadside assistance once we had cell recep- tion. She looked me over once or twice, and then agreed, seeing limited options herself. We chatted as we drove, and she seemed to relax a bit after she called roadside assistance and got word to her husband that she was on her way. As we drove I tried to make small talk and put her at ease. I asked her where she was from and she replied Roa- noke. Now even with my limited travel experience I know that Roanoke is a fair bit from Johnson City, so I asked her about this. She explained to me that her husband was being treated there for cancer by a specialist who came highly recommended through some family members. Just as I was sensing a trip to Roanoke in my future, she called her son in Kingsport and he agreed to meet her at the hospital. I was feeling relieved as we pulled into the hospital and she called out to a heavy set man near the entrance. I attempted to drop her at the entrance with Jimmy Ray but she would have none of it. She insisted we park and I was formally introduced to Jimmy Ray as, “…the nice man that saved my life”. Blushing slightly, I tried to explain that it was nothing quite so heroic, but it was hard to speak engulfed in Jimmy Ray’s bear hug. After some time, and when I could breathe again, I told them I hoped everything would work out okay and that I really needed to get back up towards Clintwood. Mrs. Miller hugged me and thanked me again. Then holding me at arm’s length she told me that if I was ever in Roanoke to stop by, besides she had a single daughter my age she wanted me to meet. I said that sounded wonderful and would try to make it up that way, at the same time I dodged Jimmy Ray’s attempt at a farewell hug, and managed to shake his hand instead. We parted like family and I headed north. While I looked for the signs that would guide me back to the big road, and home, I cranked up some AC/DC and tried clear my mind with the driving beat. It wasn’t working; something was gnawing at the edge of my conscious- ness. I pulled into the quickie mart to get a pop and a snack. When I came back out a mangy looking dog was walking away from a wet spot on my front tire. “Hey you! Bonehead!” I hollered at him. I must have guessed the correct name because the dog sauntered back over to me. We had a brief discussion about peeing etiquette, and he seemed to be contrite, so I gave him a piece of my corndog. He was a bit skinny and still looked hungry, so I gave him the rest of the corn dog. I patted his head and told him I had to go now, but as I opened the door he barked. I closed the door and walked back over to him and he sat immediately. Well, maybe he was lost and some little boy was waiting for his dog to return. The best thought I could come up with was to go inside the store and get a paper, maybe the dog would be listed in the lost and found section. I went in and bought a paper and another corndog. I sat beside the dog, offered him half, and opened the paper to the classifieds section. Just then a young boy ran up screamed, “Rambo!” and threw his arms around the dog. All pads and elbows, off they went, hardly noticing me sitting there at all. I smiled, gently shook my head, and returned my attention to the paper. I stared down and saw: Electrical Apprentices Needed, Must Be Willing to Relo- cate to Roanoke, Call Superintendent Jimmy Ray Miller, Monday 8am-Noon, and the number followed.

The specifics of place and character, and the consistency of the voice, were backed up some truly arresting images. A subtle story of a character confronting the possibility of change. - Brooke Wonders, Explorations Short Story Judge

28 | Explorations Explorations Third Place 2014 - Short Story We Are Primal Matthew Henson

“There is more difference in the quality of our pleasures than in the amount.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

The silent Pentecostal congregation sat upright with perfect posture and their faces expressionless. The pastor’s monotone voice vibrated from the speakers, uniform and flat. “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, Galatians 5:22.” I never understood the purpose of attending religious services. They were nothing like what they used to be. Be- fore the Patch, our gatherings were loud, exciting, and soul-filling, but now they are silent and pointless. I think the only reason people still attend is to be able to remember what it was like to feel, to able to relive the past. When the Patch was first released, there was a craze. Everyone wanted this miracle cure to the blues, the lack of energy, and so much more. Dopamine Industries swore the product was safe for everyone to use, even children; they were sold worldwide. Over several months, every middle and upper class citizen was wearing a Patch. . The Patch was supposed to create a perfect balance of serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine in the brain. These three chemicals play a major role in all emotions and bodily functions, mess with one and the body and mind are a mess. The only problem with the Patch was that when you stopped wearing it, you felt a thousand times worse than before; our society became addicted to the Patch. What Dopamine Industries did not test, was the affects long time usage. After an extended period of use, our bodies began to stop producing serotonin, dopamine, and norepineph- rine naturally. When the FDA announced a recall on all the industries products, there was a panic; people rushed to the closest store to buy as many Patches as they could. When there were no more, millions of people began going through a horrible form of withdrawal; some even dying, the end result being a life out of a science-fiction novel, a life of no emotions. Scientist, still wearing patches, worked constantly, and after several autopsies they concurred that the Patch had caused the neurotransmitters in the brain to shrink by several micrometers, causing the lack of emotions. Our society turned robotic and repetitive. People went to work for money, to survive; no one participated in leisure activities. We attend social gathering and religious ceremonies because we feel the need for contact. We are simple. We are basic. We are primal. When the service is over, I am one of the first to leave. I walk to my car, at a perfect pace. I hit the button to un- lock my car door, and I hear the familiar click of the lock. From somewhere in the shadows, there is a low growl, animalistic and feral. I move to open my door and climb directly into the driver’s seat. I insert the key into the igni- tion, calmly. I start the engine and put the car in reverse. I apply pleasure to the gas pedal and back out of my parking space. When the head lights reach the spot where the growl came from, a small humanoid figure rises. As my eyes adjust, I see what made the sound; a small girl with filthy, matted blonde hair and eyes as red with blood, a Rage. After withdrawal from the Patch, some people’s bodies began to slowly produce some chemicals once again, but it was always unbalanced and caused psychotic mental states. They were driven by a primal emotion: Anger. I put the car in to park, and reach into my purse and pullout my government issued cellphone and dial the emer- gency hotline. A flat voice answers, “Emergency Response. What is your location, caller?” “1003 Cadburry Street. I am reporting a rage sighting along the church wall,” I reply. “Approximate age?” “Ten to twelve years of age,” I say. “Incident noted.” The line goes dead. I should probably warn the other people here about the Rage presence, but it is getting late and I need to head home. I shift the car into drive and make my way home. As I leave the parking lot, a sensation starts in my stomach; I feel wrong. Should I turn around? No. What if someone is hurt? No. My head aches to an extreme that I have never felt. I pull the car over and climb out the door, leaving the vehicle running. I sprint across the street into the field on the other side, my head pounding the entire way. Squeezing my eyes shut, I fall to the ground kicking and scream- ing; my cheeks burn and my heart races. I feel a way I have never felt before, so angry and upset with myself. Soon Continued on page 30

Spring 2014 | 29 Continued - We Are Primal by Matthew Henson

the anger fades, tears and heartache replace the animosity, and all the while my brain still feeling like it could burst. I begin a fit of laughter, a reflex so alien to my body; my diaphragm contracts painfully. As the laughter slows, I open my eyes a look at the sky. I actually see the sky for something beautiful and not as just empty air above my head. I see opportunity and feel a fear of the unknown. I lie in the grass for a long time, just looking. When I feel as if I can stare no more, I climb to my feet and walk back to my car, the scent of flowers invoking images in my mind. When I return to where I left my car, I find it as I left it, still running. One of the last great changes in our society before the Patch was the change to solar energy. The people before were nothing but greedy and mined the earth until there was nothing left. Maybe the Patch did more for use than it is given credit. I get behind the wheel of my car, feeling a new found excitement. I role down my windows and find an old C.D. in the console, never having a use for music before, I put the disc in the C.D. player and turn it up loud. “Shake it out, Shake it out,” the song vibrates my seat. I put the car in to drive, and take off. Before I always drove the speed limit, it was necessary, but now I fly, letting the wind blow through my long black hair. It is not long before I hear the blaring of sirens from behind me; I instantly slow down and turn my music off. My heart races at rate like never before, I am afraid. The officer approaches my vehicle. “Please step out of the car,” he commands with authority. I do as I am told and step out of the car. “Please turn around,” he says. And when I do, I feel a sharp pain in my neck; the world begins to darken and I collapse. “This is patient one,” a deep voice says. “Do you think she’s the one?” a second lighter voice asks. “We won’t know until the results come back, but Field Officer Slemp said she was speeding and reacting to music, an obvious sign she’s no longer one of the Broken.” “True, but just because her neurons regenerated doesn’t mean she’ll be of any use to us,” the second voice said, sounding unconvinced. “I know that, Donald,” sighed the first voiced. A door slides shut and the voices dissipate, I open my eyes, and I am instantly blinded by bright white light. My joints ache, and my head throbs. I sit up slowly, drinking in my surroundings. I lie in a small, twin bed, with white sheets. The surrounding four walls are white like chalk, and in the corner there is a small porcelain toilet. The door slides open, and a tall dark skinned man in a set of green scrubs, walks in. “Hello, Patient One,” he says. “My name is Ana,” I announce, my cheeks getting hot. “Anger, that’s a good sign. Do you know why you’re here, Ana?” “Because I can feel again,” I say. “Exactly!” he exclaimed, “Your body has restored its’ brain cells, allowing you the capability to have true emotions again. You see, the people living now, are like animals, living on instinct and habit: they perform actions that seem like emotions but are not emotions, they group up in packs for social interaction and to work for something they might need, and they raise children because that is what a natural instinct tells them to do. The Broken do not think; they behave. They learn to do certain actions to aid there survival because they are taught by others, or even their selves in their memories,” he takes a deep breath, “Excuse me, the science behind this really excites me.” “What do you need from me?” I ask. “While you were out cold, we took a blood sample from you. As we speak, my lab is mapping your genome to see if you have a particular gene located on Chromosome 21 for neuron rejuvenation,” He replied. “And if I have it?” “We will use your genetic material to create a drug of our own to reverse the effects of the Patch,” He said proudly. “Will I survive your experiments?” I ask boldly. There was a tangible silence in the air and the light in his eyes seemed to fade. “You must understand,” he says in a calming tone, “One death in exchange for revival of the human race is a small price to pay when you look at the problem as a whole.” A high pitch buzz comes from the ceiling, and female voice speaks, “Doctor, Patient One has the gene.” “Yes!” He says, “Now, come with me Ana.” Continued on page 31

30 | Explorations Continued - We Are Primal by Matthew Henson

He grabs me by my arm and pulls me to my feet, dragging me out the door, while he rambles to himself about victory and fame. He pulls me down a long white hall way, and out of my peripheral vision I see down another nar- row hallway. At the end of the hallway, I see a promising faint orange glow of an exit sign. This is my only chance. I feel my heart begin to race and adrenaline sizzling through my veins. I bite down with extreme force on his arm; the metallic taste of blood instantly fills my mouth. The moment he lets go of my arm, I sprint towards the exit. “Ana! Stop now!” he screams, following close behind. I reach the door and push it with all my might; it flies open. I am momentarily blinded by the bright sun in the sky. I sprint out the door, running as fast my legs will go, keeping my eyes straight ahead. “Ana! You have to stop!” he bellows, but it is too late. The earth runs out from beneath my feet and I begin to fall into a giant, gaping hole. My body hits the ground with an audible thud. My torso burns like the souls in Hell, a giant rock protruding from my stomach. I tilt my head to see what is around me and I am horrified. Bodies. Bodies everywhere. Men, women, children, all shapes a sizes, dissected and broken. I turn my head to sky, gazing up at the clouds in wonder, so much opportunity, but no fear of what lies beyond.

Set in a world similar to but different from ours (one whose dystopian future feels all too possible), human emotions have been tampered with to the point that most people are numb. Our narrator recovers her emotions, only to be thrown into a cat-and-mouse game when scientists believe that her ability to feel might be the cure for others’ numb- ness. The ending is as bleak as such a high concept requires. - Brooke Wonders, Explorations Short Story Judge

Spring 2014 | 31 Explorations First Place 2014 - Painting The Wonder of Life Taylin Valentin

32 | Explorations Explorations Second Place 2014 - Painting Girl With a Saxophone Jessica Hall

Spring 2014 | 33 Explorations Third Place 2014 - Painting Reflections Crystal Willcuts Cole

34 | Explorations Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Painting

Camouflage Crystal Willcuts Cole

Aglow Melinda Church

Banjo Shermin Merriam Little Bottles Still Life Jessica Hall

Spring 2014 | 35 Explorations Honorable Mention 2014 - Painting

Lantern The Pleasure of Life Melinda Church Taylin Valentin

Let’s Turn This Boat Around Alice Ann Heather Culbertson Heather Culbertson

36 | Explorations Mountain Empire Community College 3441 Mountain Empire Road Big Stone Gap, VA 24279

276-523-2400

www.mecc.edu/explorations