2016 and 2017

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THE HOWL A LITERARY & ART REVIEW 2016 AND 2017

Editor

Phil Ferguson Assistant Professor of English/Creative Writing Virginia Highlands Community College

Cover Art: “Withering” by Pam Conley. The Howl logo created by Lori Ferguson. Printed by Virginia Correctional Enterprises, Richmond, Virginia.

*All rights to individual works are retained by the authors or artists.

DEDICATION To a man who lived life to its boundaries with a hearty laugh, an infectious smile, and a wit and wisdom sharper than any sword. To the “Bard of Abingdon,” I dedicate this edition. Thank you for thirty years of impact on art and literature in this community.

JOHN “SEAN” O’SULLIVAN (1921-2017)

FERGUSON’S NOTE: A longtime friend, a cornerstone of the Abingdon Arts Depot, and a dedicated member of the Virginia Highlands Festival’s Creative Writing Committee, Sean will carry on in our hearts for lifetimes. (And I will carry the hand-written poems that he mailed to me over the years). PF

EDITOR’S NOTE My precious friend, Sean lived ninety-six years on this earth. With my note this year, I want to take this time to speak about…well, Time. As writers and artists, we get lost in time. We battle it with deadlines. We relish in the escape of creation, oblivious to the minutes and hours that pass during that wondrous process. And when the time is right, we share our work with the world. The nature of “Timing” has never been more apparent to me. As I have shared throughout the previous editions of this collection, my personal battle with cancer covered many years, many procedures, and ultimately led to a stem cell transplant in March 2016. After a slow cell-building process, my body began to reject the transplant in early 2017. Then, I suddenly got the flu. Fear is a prime catalyst for writing/art, and one day I will take down all of the layers of true fear that this experience caused. However, when my body attempted to fight the flu, unsuccessfully, my donated stem cells shot up to 100% (the goal all along) to fend off the illness. Suddenly, the cancer was gone. My donated immune system was now in charge, and the timing of it all seemed both scientific and divine, at once. So yes, I want us to think about Time and Timing this year. In addition to the “Sean” dedication, I also need to dedicate this edition to folks who gave so much of their time to this college. To the 2017 VHCC Retirees: Debbie Barrett Pam Conley Tom Fleckenstein Charlene Eastridge Debbie Gobble Virginia Pippin Pat Sauve Dava Sweeney 3

Many of you have been in the pages of this publication, and so much of your energy carried this project (and this professor) through the “birth and raising” of this dear child. You can never be replaced, and as long as this edition of The Howl lingers around our dear world, your passion and investment to this college will never be forgotten. With love, Phil.

As always, a colossal “THANK YOU” to all the administrators of VHCC, all of the authors/artists who submitted work, the priceless efforts of the Business Office, all of the faculty and staff of our college, members of our surrounding communities, and everyone who supports the arts in this area. Let’s get to the “howling,” my friends. - Phil Ferguson The apology about structure: I edit this publication by fixing the misspellings and typos that occur in submissions and align the paragraph structure of prose pieces. I, however, do not touch neither the format nor punctuation of poetry due to the creative freedoms granted the minds that structure the piece. All artwork and photography were submitted as black and white to insure the best original quality. I do not touch original ideas in this journal. For the love of art. If a piece of literature is submitted without a title, I use the Shakespearean first line rule. If a piece of artwork lacks a title, I provide a one-word title based on my first reaction. That’s fun.

CONTENTS

Poetry: “Cheese” by Louis Gallo 7 “The Limits of Allegory” by Warren Harris 20 “Thomas Crofts and I Tell…” by Thomas Alan Holmes 30 “Whitetop Glass & Grocery” by Bunny Medeiros 31 “Every Changing” by Glenda Quillen 42 “Jordan” by Lilly Huskett 44 “Failure?” by Langley Shazor 54 “Think about Death” by Colby Hinchey 55 “Thankful” by Linda Hudson Hoagland 61 “Wings of Fire” by Bethany Lortz 64 “The Two of Us” by Sonya Daniels 71 “Mêlée for Acquiescence” by Jodie Bryant 74 “The Invitation” by Corry the Psychic Artist 76 “Lover of the Woods” by Sherre Sullivan 80 “Return to Sender” by Christina Bolte 86 “The Golden Calf: A Question” by Warren Harris 89 “Mourning Song” by Louis Gallo 109 “As the Music Plays” by Brandi Helton 111

Prose (Fiction/Memoir): “Joe at the Circus…” by Levi Wallace 9 “A Long Way to Chillicothe” by Linda Hudson Hoagland 22 “Teeth on the Edge of Vegas” by Keaton Mullins 33 “The Ten Dollar Dog” by Stewart Minnick 47 “Learning to Drive” by Glenda Quillen 57 “The Call” by Bethany Lortz 66 “The Cherokee in Me” by Sherry Sutherland 82 “Maria’s Education…” by Carla Dolce 92 “Plight of Humanity” by Langley Shazor 112 “Jack and the Cat” by Phil Ferguson 114

Art/Photography “Withering” by Pam Conley Cover “Stories” by Samantha N. Cutshall 8 “Invitation” by Kiana Jade 19 “Out of Use” by Sarah Jane 29 “Outlook by Mark P. Stewart 32 “Bicyclist” by Langley Shazor 43 “Repurpose” by Sarah Jane 46 “Alive” by Samantha N. Cutshall 53 “Main Street” by Langley Shazor 56 “Reflection” by Pam Conley 60 “Moral Lassitude” by Kiana Jade 63 “Edge” by Samantha N. Cutshall 65 “Priority” by Mark P. Stewart 70 “The Gift” by Sherry Sutherland 73 “Facing” by Mark P. Stewart 75 “Anubis” by Sherre Sullivan 79 “The Root of All Evil” by Sherry Sutherland 81 “Two Stars” by Pam Conley 85 “Cove” by Samantha N. Cutshall 88 “The Bond of Fuzzy Hugs” by Brandi Helton 91 “Steel Fence” by Langley Shazor 108 “Intricacy” by Kiana Jade 110 “Lost to the Elements” by Sarah Jane 113 “Two Cats” by Lori Ferguson 119

Cheese By Louis Gallo

Just as you think your mind has had it the word “cheese” comes to mind and you note that it rhymes with “ease” and “Belize” and if you put a “y” at the end of it the cheese transmutes into a Hallmark valentine and you pop that valentine with an awl and thousands of bubbles explode into the room and you note that “bubble” rhymes with “rubble” and suddenly you’re stranded in the ruins but in that rubble you yank a hunk of cheese from under a stone and you taste it and, oh man, what good cheese! So you write an ode to cheese while eating both the cheese and the ode which rhymes with commode.

Stories By Samantha N. Cutshall

Joe at the Circus (or The Day Indigo Died)

By Levi Wallace

It was raining that afternoon. It was one of those rains that starts in the early morning, so early that it’s night, and continues for the rest of the day. Grey skies had turned the Blackum Brothers’ Family Circus into a ghost town of multicolored tents and wagons. No one wants to go to the circus in the rain. At the back of the circus where the small acts stayed, musicians, magicians, and side show freaks stayed in their tents watching the rain. A musician named Joe sat at the front of his tent, looking out into the downpour, idly rubbing his guitar pick in his hands. His friend and fellow band member Mulligan Shorty dozed on the cot behind him, oblivious to the world. Eventually the shower let up enough for the guitar player to see across to the other row of tents. A fire eater called Black Devil John was also staring into the rain, but his hands and feet were moving to some inaudible rhythm. Joe watched closely, trying to catch the beat in this silent melody. Finally it came to him, he grabbed his guitar, and began to pick out notes. The sound of his six strings reached across the alley. Black Devil John pricked his ears back, searching for the origin of this music. It didn’t take but a second for him to spot Joe, and when he did he went into the beat with earnest, getting as much sound as he could out of the box he was sitting on. Mulligan Shorty awoke from his nap. Still shaking the sleep from his eyes, he joined in on his fiddle. Someone in a nearby tent picked up a jar of beads so they could join in on the rhythm. In a short time, the song took on a life of its own. People all up and down the row of tents joined in. Everyone with an

instrument started to play. Anyone without an instrument made one up from junk lying around. Dozens were clapping their hands and stomping their feet in time with the beat. Joe was playing strong. Doing more than his part to add strength to the music. But he heard something that made him stop short. Cutting through the symphony of box beating and foot stomping was a clear soft voice, barely audible over the din. Others had been lending verse to the song, but this voice made a path strait for his ears. All at once, the guitar player felt that same tug that had brought him to the band he was currently in, and to this circus. He just had to get up and follow it. He set his guitar back down on his cot. Clamping his hat down tight, he started off into the rain. The music continued without him. He may have founded it, but it would not go out by his silence. He followed that soft voice down the alley, straining to catch every word. Sometimes the surrounding music would become almost deafening, and Joe would be thrown into a sort of panic at not being able to hear the voice. Standing at the side of a locust tree, the gangly Virginian found what he had been searching for. About twenty feet away stood a circus wagon that would be the envy of any gypsy. Red and blue, Middle Eastern script painted down the side in gold. It was extra-long because of the porch built onto the back. A tall fellow sat on the porch, eyes closed, playing a flute. Joe hadn’t been with the circus very long, but he was able to recognize this man as Hercules the Turk. Sitting beside Hercules was the voice. Her name was Esmerelda. It took Joe a moment to remember that she ran the fortune telling booth. For a while, all he did was stand by that tree and listen to Esmerelda sing. He didn’t understand the words, but he knew it was a beautiful song.

The rain poured down, and the music he had started died a natural death. Fading, a few box drums lastly went away. Esmerelda kept singing for a few minutes afterwards, just her and the rain. Her song ended, and so did the memories of Chesapeake sunsets playing in Joe’s head. She looked out and up into the grey, cloudy sky. Slowly, her line of sight lowered, and she was looking right at Joe. Red faced, he realized that he had been gawking. He tipped his hat to the lady and walked back to his own tent. Immediately after he sat down it stopped raining. In fifteen minutes the clouds were all gone, but it would be a while before things had dried out. Mulligan Shorty rolled himself a cigarette. “Hey Joe. Want one?” Joe shook his head no. The little Irishman peered into the sunlight. “Y’know, I think it might turn out to be a very fine day after all. D’ye think so?” The guitar player idly rubbed his guitar pick between his fingers. “Ya know,” he said. “It’s already a fine day.” That next day was the hottest on record. Hot Texas sun beating down on wilting Texans and circus folks. Curiosity seekers of all classes milled around in the fairway of the Blackum Brothers Family Circus. The smell of cheap cigarettes and hot grease gained strength from the unrelenting sun. A breeze would occasionally run by. But it was uncomfortable do to its warmth and an unfortunate placement of the animal cages. Joe sat cross-legged around to the side of one of the tents. He used his Confederate grey cowboy hat to push the wind in the opposite direction, while he pined for the Virginia shade he left behind. Decades ago, Joe’s Uncle Cephas had worn this same hat 11

when he had rescued President Jefferson Davis from Yankee cannon fire. But that’s another story. The tent in question was modestly called the Tent of Titanic Terrors. Inside was a collection of objects of occult origin. Shrunken heads, voodoo dolls, mummies, and an assortment of animals with the wrong number of appendages. Children about six or seven years old walked in without hesitation. The older ones, ten or eleven, poked and ribbed each other. Daring each other to go in. Joe stuck his tobacco pipe in his mouth and started vainly in a search for matches. Lucius P. Blackum, the Blackum brother with the black walrus moustache, marched up to Joe with something on his mind. “Beat it Joe. You’re scaring people away from the tent.” This caused Joe to crane his head around, just to be sure of where he was sitting. Once his curiosity was satisfied he looked back at Mr. Blackum in mild disbelief. “You know what I mean. Now get lost.” Mr. Blackum hooked a thumb in his oversized belt buckle. He stood up slowly, brushing hot Texas dust off of his pants. He looked at Mr. Blackum’s moustache and blinked a couple of times. Then in the slow drawl of a man with no hurries, Joe asked, “Got any matches?” Mr. Blackum reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a box of blue head matches. “Take the whole box, Joe.” Joe thanked the man and lit his pipe, blinked a couple of more times, then he strolled down the fairway at a leisurely pace. Mr. Blackum just stood there, fist on hips, shaking his head. No matter how many times they spoke to each other, Lucius P. Blackum couldn’t figure Joe out. Joe walked along grinning and shaking his head. He liked Mr. Blackum, but just couldn’t figure him out.

He mulled over in his mind finding another place to shade himself, but he decided not to. He didn’t care for another encounter with Mr. Blackum over the same circumstances. Finally, Joe decided to visit the animal pens. At least this way he might be able to get upwind from the uncomfortable breeze. Any animal not on display was kept in the pens, or at least near the pens. When Joe got there, the circus elephants were bathing themselves in the waters of the Rio Grande. Joe’s thoughts were interrupted by a welcome voice. “Good morning, Joseph.” It was Esmerelda. Joe hastily pulled off his hat. Too quickly, and too close to his face as well, because he accidently knocked the pipe from between his teeth. Joe went into an odd sort of dance where he tried to stand and talk to Esmerelda and pick up his pipe at the same time. “Good mornin’,” he said. “Hot morning though. Real hot. Not like back home. Though there was this one summer when Georgie, that’s my brother, when Georgie went off to join the navy. It was hot that summer. Real hot. Like today, I guess.” Joe decided that it would be better if Esmerelda did the talking from now on. He swiftly grabbed his pipe off the ground and stuck it back in his mouth, getting a taste of the hot Texas dirt as he did. “Look out there, Joseph. That elephant is different from the rest. Can you tell?” While she talked, Esmerelda pointed at an elephant standing in the shallows of the river, showering her calf with water. Joe looked, and at first he couldn’t see any difference. One elephant looked the same as another to him. Then he saw, her ears were smaller than the others. “She’s an Indian. All the other elephants are from Africa, but she’s the only Indian here.” Esmerelda continued, “My brother

bought her when we still lived in Turkey. Father was furious, but we kept her anyways.” Joe tried to imagine one of his brothers bringing home an elephant, but he couldn’t do it. “And where is your home, Joseph?” Esmerelda was the only person in the circus who called him Joseph. Up to this point he’d only ever been plain old Joe. Before he could answer, Flynn Ramsey walked up in full Cherokee regalia. Flynn was one sixteenth Cherokee on his mother’s side, and this was enough for the Blackum brothers to market him as Injun Flynn Ramsey. His Irish brogue didn’t match his buckskins and tomahawk. “Come on now Joe, noonday show is primed to begin. Good day miss Esmerelda.” Flynn grabbed Joe by the elbow. Looking over, Joe saw that Hercules was gathering the herd for the big top. As Flynn dragged Joe away, he was trying to answer her question. “Virginia. Up in the Chesapeake Bay, near Washin’ton. I’ll tell you all about it, after the show.” Warm breezes came across to Texas from Mexico. Joe and Flynn stepped into the red, white, and blue, star spangled big top. Show time. The gargantuan tent was packed. Constant chatter was coming from the stands, but somehow the heat had found a way to silence the usual hecklers. Joe, Mulligan Shorty, Flynn, and bass player Thompson Bradstreet made up the Flynn Ramsey Travelling Band. They alternated with the clown troupe in entertaining between the big acts. First up was a parade of sorts. Six dogs pulling a sled, a trio of horse men riding standing up, Hercules riding atop an elephant, and finally a long legged clown on a Jerusalem donkey.

It would be a few minutes before they had to perform, so the band was standing out of sight by the entrance. Joe was going through his ritual of repeating all the songs they’d play in his head. He was midway through the piece Mr. Blackum had written especially for the group, it was called An Irish Devil’s Lullaby, when Esmerelda found Joe for the second time that day. He nodded in Hercules’ general direction. “That’s the same elephant you pointed out?” She nodded. “Yes. Her name is Indigo.” The procession was coming close. Thompson Bradstreet was standing too near. When Indigo the elephant passed by she playfully knocked his cap off. The audience howled with laughter, and when Bradstreet lost his balance, they howled all the more. The big man’s face went red with anger and embarrassment. Several children would later snicker at the foulmouthed remarks he uttered in those moments. When he picked himself up, Joe caught the flash of a glass bottle in his vest pocket. This was a bad sign. A Bradstreet drinking meant a Bradstreet drunken. “Would you excuse me a moment?” Joe said to Esmerelda. He walked over to the wobbling bass player. “Are you feelin’ well?” Joe asked. The two didn’t particularly like each other very well, but he was still concerned. “Buzz off Joe boy.” The big man said. Growled is more the word. “Leave me alone. Let me concentrate.” It was no use talking to him now, so Joe rejoined Esmerelda. A moment later it was time for the band to play. Everything was going as well as it ever had, until Bradstreet started to play. Each time he would begin a new song, Indigo would answer with a trumpet blast.

The audience laughed and hollered, and Bradstreet got angrier each time. The fifth time it happened, he was so mad that he started drinking in front of the band, both Blackum brothers, the audience, everybody. Five times the band came out to play. Thirteen times Indigo responded to Bradstreet’s bass playing. Finally the show ended. All the band members breathed a sigh of relief. In just a moment, Bradstreet would be able to go sleep it off. Just one more act. It was a parade, similar to the first, except this time all the big acts were in it. Hercules had all his elephants lined in a row, Indigo at the head. And like the first parade, Bradstreet was close to the action. Strangely close. He was still red in the face, still shaky. But now he seemed nervous. Joe was too busy taking in the show to notice what was happening with Bradstreet, but what Thompson Bradstreet did, that he noticed. In an instant all of his shake was gone. Steadily, with unsettling deliberateness, the big bass player reached behind his back. It must have been hidden under his shirt, because he had in his hands a serviceman’s revolver. Rusted barrel, tarnished grips. And with the casualness as if he were walking down the street, BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! He shot Indigo the elephant three times in the forehead. The grey behemoth fell down on her front knees, then on her back knees, and finally on her side. She made no noise. Didn’t wail. Didn’t even breathe heavily. She just laid down and died in her own blood and tears. For a whole five seconds you could have heard a pin drop. And that’s when the flood gates opened. The whole herd of elephants stampeded. Hercules jumped on Bradstreet and started beating him to death. The stampeding herd knocked down one of the supports, a section of the big top collapsed. Bradstreet’s eyes became swollen shut. Fried food

vendors abandoned the carts, a grease fire started and was spreading fast. The Turk relented from pounding on the broken Irishman. Bradstreet hadn’t been killed as a result of his beating, but he would die in that fire. Outside was a place of similar pandemonium. The charging elephants were scaring people up and down every alley way. More people were still running out of the burning big top. Joe tried to find a safe place for both himself and Esmerelda, but there was no safe place. A cry went up from the witnesses, “A musician shot the elephant!” Soon every acrobat, every clown, every fire eater, every animal wrangler, every freak and magician was on the hunt for Flynn Ramsey’s Travelling Band. Mulligan Shorty got cornered by a pack of contortionist. He was beaten so badly that, when Flynn managed to rescue him, Shorty was unable to walk. He had to be carried away. Joe became trapped between the House of Snakes and the lion cages by throng of knife throwers and jugglers. Barely, he got away by the skin of his teeth. The three band members rejoined and started a beeline for the river. On the way they passed Mr. Blackum and Mr. Blackum standing in front of the burning tent. A wide column of black smoke reaching up as high as the eye could see. The two of them stood there, just watching. The elephant herd was standing by the water’s edge. Whatever madness had befallen them was now gone. They were nearly the same as before. Joe, Flynn, and Mulligan Shorty hit the water at full speed, a cavalcade of violent circus folk on their heels. The water was cold and swift. Yesterday’s rain had seen to that. With a great deal of difficulty, the two managed to drag Mulligan Shorty across, reaching the other side gasping for air. They couldn’t rest though. The mob was not far behind. 17

They stood up to start running again and came face to face with a full grown bull elephant. Joe closed his eyes, waiting for the worst. All the bull did was reach out with his trunk, sniffing each of them in turn. The bull made a sideways look at Joe, then took the hat off his head and placed it in his hands. The bull elephant then stepped around the trio, between them and the oncoming mass. He lifted his trunk in the air, and made the loudest noise that could ever be heard. All the circus folk stopped dead in their tracks. The elephant stomped, snorted, trumpeted for all his worth until the last one of the crowd crossed back over the river, they were afraid to come any farther. Then he followed after them himself. Not a single one of the men left standing on that side of the shore was able to process what had just happened. It was all too much to take in at once. Looking back over the river, they could see the circus already starting to pack up. Joe searched in vain, trying to spot the red and blue wagon with the gold lettering.

Individualism By Kiana Jade

The Limits of Allegory Musing on Marc Chagall’s Painting The Song of Songs II

By Warren Harris

What does it mean, this night sky hung on a curving wire? Creation from chaos.

A white horse, ghostly on the horizon? A messenger from the Lord.

A floating green hand with up-raised fingers? The Promised Land.

A flesh-colored throne with a high back? The honor and the weakness of David.

A red horse's head with pricked-up ears? The joy and the vigor of Solomon.

An angel fingering a golden harp? The lover's enticement.

A lush tree with Indio orange leaves? The harvest of Paradise.

* * * Pigment and oil prefigure a royal realm where past meets present. But now, stop. Not everything signifies something else.

Consider the comely woman, gowned in nothing but cloudy gauze, one arm arched above her head 20

as she stretches on her couch of leaves, dark, wakeful, sure of her lover's approach. What does she mean? (insert stanza break)

She means only herself, already in her going forth and in her waiting, as much a mystery as the scent of cinnamon.

A Long Way to Chillicothe By Linda Hudson Hoagland

It was a long way to Chillicothe and, if anyone asked, Jennifer couldn’t really explain why she was going there. All she knew was that she had to make the trip. Jennifer needed answers and she had determined Chillicothe was the only place that held those explanations. She had never lived in Chillicothe but she had traveled through it many times on her way to Cleveland where she was residing at the time. Traveling from the mountains of Virginia back to Ohio was a trip she didn’t make very often. As a matter of fact, after she disconnected from the friends she thought she had in Cleveland, she didn’t have the desire to return. She had made the discovery that friendships were fleeting and that absence did not make the heart grow fonder. Even though she had tried to stay in touch, the effort was not made on the Cleveland end so her calls and letters were left unanswered. “It’s their loss,” she mumbled when she thought about losing her connections to Cleveland. It wasn’t Cleveland that she was checking on during this five hour drive to Chillicothe. Cleveland could and did get along without her taking up an space in that enormous city, Jennifer wanted some answers about her missing sister-in- law, Nancy. She had talked to her brother on several occasions but he had no answers that satisfied her. “Where did Nancy disappear to?” Jennifer asked her hapless brother, Lee Hudson.

“I don’t know. As far as I can figure, she took off for parts unknown,” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “Don’t you even care that she is gone?” Jennifer asked as she probed for answers. “No, not much. It was her choice to leave me. I didn’t make her go,” he said showing signs of irritation because Jennifer was questioning him. “I thought you loved Nancy,” Jennifer said in a shrill tone. Lee shrugged again. “Well, brother dear, don’t you think we ought to try to find her?” Jennifer asked as she tried to inspire him to join her. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” he said solemnly. “Maybe so. But, I think we ought to try.” “What do you think we can do?” he said sullenly. “Have you called all of her friends?” Jennifer asked. “Anyone I knew about was called but I’m sure I didn’t call everyone that might be her friend,” he said with a tinge of sarcasm. Jennifer looked at him with a desire to criticize for the sarcastic tone, but she held off because she thought that might be his way of coping with her disappearance. “What about the people she works with? Did you talk with them?” she asked as politely as she could manage. “Yes, I went to the place to talk with anyone that would talk to me. It’s a steel company, you know; a cut throat business, at best. They were not friendly, at all, but I did speak with her boss. He had no clue where she went,” explained Lee. “How about your phone bills? Did you check them for new numbers that you didn’t know?”

“No, I never thought of that,” he said. “That’s a good idea. I just received the monthly bill yesterday. We can look at it.” “You have a computer, don’t you?” she asked. “Yes.” “Check the emails and look to see if she has some special files stored whose name you don’t recognize,” Jennifer said as she kept her mind focused on possible search areas. “Thanks, Sis, I never thought of doing that either. Maybe you are good to have around,” Lee said with a weak smile. “Have you heard about all of those missing women from Chillicothe? I’ve even heard about it in Virginia,” Jennifer said. “Yeah, but those women were all druggies or prostitutes. Nancy doesn’t do anything like that,” he said emphatically. “Maybe the killer changed his victim preference, Lee. I’m not saying Nancy is either one of those bad things,” Jennifer said as she tried to calm his ruffled feathers. “Jennifer, I think she just needed a new life. She was tired of this one,” he said sadly. “Nancy loves you, Lee. I know she does,” Jennifer said. “Where do you want to start?” he asked as he tried to show a little more interest, “What car was she driving? Where was she going when she disappeared?” Jennifer asked excitedly. “I know she was driving her old Chevy Cavalier because it has been gone since she left. I guess she was headed to work but I really don’t know because I had already left for work.” “Did you report her missing to the police?” she probed.

“I tried to but they weren’t interested. They told me I had to wait another day before they would take the information. They told me that sometimes adults don’t want to be found. I didn’t go back,” he said sheepishly. “That’s our first step. We need to take the problem to the police. You need to take a recent photograph of her, the names and phone numbers for friends and family; along with anything else you think might be of interest to them.” “How would I know what would interest them?” he snapped. “Everything I just asked you is what they would need to know,” Jennifer said with exasperation. “Will you go with me?” he asked. “Sure,” she answered. He reminded that moment of the little boy with whom she grew up. This trip to the police station was better than his first attempt at reporting Nancy as a missing person. They took all of the information and said they would start looking for her as soon as they could get the description out to the others who would be involved in the search. Jennifer didn’t know how useful the police involvement would be but she felt it was necessary. When they returned home, Jennifer asked Lee to find his phone bills for the last couple of months. She turned on the computer and went poking around into Nancy’s Internet life. She found nothing out of the ordinary in her phone bills or on her computer. The phone rang and Lee grabbed it hoping and praying it was Nancy on the other end of the conversation. “Hello,” Lee said excitedly. 25

“Mr. Hudson?” asked a professional sounding male voice. “Yeah,” answered Lee. “This is Detective Johnstone with the Chillicothe Police. Would you be able to return to the station? We have some more questions we need to ask you.” “What about? Did you find her?” asked Lee. “I don’t want to discuss this over the phone, Mr. Hudson. Do you want me to send a car to pick you up?” asked the detective. “No, I will come to the station. My sister will be with me,” he said as he replaced the receiver. “Jennifer, they wouldn’t tell me anything. We need to go back to the police station,” he said as he shook his head in disbelief. “That must mean that he has bad news for me.” “Don’t speculate, Lee. We have no idea what they want. They may need you to fill in the blanks on some missing information.” “I hope so. Let’s go,” said Lee as he grabbed his car keys from the table where he had tossed them earlier. Neither one of them spoke during the trip to the police station. Jennifer’s mind was reviewing the possibilities of what the detective would have to say and none of them that were uppermost in her thoughts were good. She was sure Lee was thinking about the same possibilities. When they arrived at the police station they were politely escorted to an empty interrogation room. Jennifer didn’t think that was a good sign, but she didn’t say anything to Lee. She didn’t have to. She thought he was guessing the same thing.

“Mr. Hudson, please have a seat,” said the solemn detective. “What’s going on?” asked Lee. “We have located your wife’s Chevy Cavalier,” explained the detective. “Where did you find it?” an astonished Lee asked. “On Route 16 at the bottom of one of the mountains,” said the detective. “Was she in the car?” asked Lee. “We think so but we need your help in identifying her,” said the detective. “You have her photo. Can’t you identify her?” asked a shaking Lee. “No sir. There was a fire,” continued the detective. “Oh my God,” said Lee as he covered his face with his large calloused hands. “How can he identify her if she was in a fire?” Jennifer asked because she knew Lee wasn’t able to do that. “She was wearing a ring. It didn’t burn in the fire,” the detective explained. “Let me see the ring,” said Lee. The detective left the room and returned with an evidence bag in his hand. “If you hadn’t filed a missing person for her, we might not have ever discovered who she was,” said the detective as he handed the ring to Lee. Lee looked at it and held it close to see what was engraved inside.

“It’s Nancy ring,” Lee said as he burst into sobs. After Lee handed the ring back to the detective, the detective read the engraving aloud. “Love till death do us part.”

Out of Use By Sarah Jane

Thomas Crofts and I Tell Fortunes to Underclassmen of Months to Come By Thomas Alan Holmes

We found persimmons growing, Thomas Crofts, medievalist, and I, along the soccer fields and brought some windfall with us, took a bench outside administration offices, and split the seeds to read the roots, the spoon for snow, the knife for ice, the fork for mild, wet winter. Some who knew us stood nearby as we explained the wooly worms, the birds, the portents we had learned from family, and how we might discern the truth from mere coincidence, and I, intent to split more seeds, remembered how my father took my brother, Lynn, and me, across some fields an older uncle squandered, to some trees that he remembered from his boyhood, pulled persimmons from their limbs, and split the seeds, revealing only knives that day. The ice was punishing that year, no snow to speak of, brutal cold and brokedown trees. I sighed, and Thomas drew his collar up; his years spent in Wisconsin called for warmth, as mine in Alabama celebrated cold like air conditioning for summertime, a dare folks made so we were not afraid when power lines came down and left us dark and huddled in small rooms, where candles roused whatever magic we could conjure up.

Whitetop Glass & Grocery By Bunny Medeiros

Negotiating curve upon curve I descend the mountain road. Cottony clouds follow me like floating cushions against a curtain of clear blue sky. Deep into my Danica fantasy a sign boasting low-priced fuel lures me to fill my tank. I step inside the quaint country store catching snippets of community news shared by locals lining the porch platform.

Outlook By Mark P. Stewart

Teeth on the Edge of Vegas

By Keaton Mullins

The wind cut like a frozen knife through the worn coat on Dean Casey's back. He thought it was a bit too early to be heading home, even though the sun had long dipped below the city. He decided to call it a night though, since luck and its dealers had been good to him, as he managed to slink away from the casino with a hefty wad of cash jammed in his pockets. At this point, though, luck was hardly involved, as Casey was a well known regular with a talent for targeting and intimidating newer dealers. He took a hard right down a narrow alley shadowed by the blinding neons of the strip, and paced thoughtlessly until he reached a small building with a shoddy sign reading ‘Paranormal Investigation Services’. With a low sigh, he turned the key and entered the building. As early as it was, he certainly wasn’t tired, so he lit the small neon ‘open’ sign that sat in the window. He didn’t get too many visitors, and those who did come by were usually curious drunkards who thought it was an elaborate joke. However, those who were actually in need of his services were desperate and did not care what the hour was. After taking a moment to stretch his sore back and adjust his hat, Casey went upstairs to his living quarters to deposit the day’s winnings into a suitcase kept beneath the bed. Beyond the bed itself, there was little more to the room, except for a desk that held only a lamp and various bottles of alcohol. A grimy window allowed the city to shed some light on the room, but Casey was quick to squint and close the blinds. He swiped a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the desk before going back downstairs and sitting down to watch the television in the back of the room. The day’s news flashed before him as he took a steady swig from his bottle. Casey was not a local, so he didn’t consider the news to be anything more than vapid drivel with no relevance to him.

However, it did make good background noise as he let his mind wander. That wandering was soon cut short as the small bell at the door jingled. Casey set his bottle down and turned to get a look at his customer. He was a lanky young man, likely no older than thirty. He was certainly no giddy drunkard, in fact he seemed far too sober as his anxious expression indicated. Casey was quick to notice the heavy aura of fear coming from the man. “Come in, and have a seat,” said Casey, keeping his expression neutral as he offered the customer a chair across from the desk. The man looked pleadingly to Casey, “I know it’s late but I’m desperate for your help, I’ve just moved into a house that, I’m pretty damn sure, is haunted, and it’s not like I can afford to move all of a sudden.” Casey remained silent, glaring from beneath the brim of his hat as the customer continued babbling. “Nobody else around here is legit, but I’ve heard you actually get shit done, and I’m terrified, you know. I’m starting to fear for my life!” He continued, “I swear to God, I’m willing to pay any fancy price, I just need--” “Stop right there. I understand, and I’ll help you,” Casey assured. “It won’t cost much, but before we even discuss that aspect, I need to see the location of the haunting.” At this point, Casey glanced at the time, and considered how many people would be out. He chose his next words carefully: “We can even go tonight if you feel it is urgent.” The customer was immediately relieved and thanked Casey profusely. “What’s your name?” Casey asked as he rose from his chair.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry I’ve forgotten to introduce myself,” said the customer as he stood along with Casey. “My name’s Kyle Edwards!” At this moment in time, Kyle reached out to shake the hand of his saviour in a display of casual etiquette. In that same moment, Kyle noticed that Casey’s hand was too clammy, his grip unnervingly strong. Kyle glanced up and noticed the flash of too- sharp teeth in Casey’s crooked smile. But that moment passed, and Kyle quickly disregarded the strange sensations as symptoms of his overactive, paranoid mind. He followed Casey out the door, and into the chilly, unforgiving Las Vegas night. Dean Casey trailed like a shadow behind Kyle Edwards as he lost himself in the younger man’s anxious monologue. “After I lost my job, I got sick of living so close to the strip, you know. The constant noise and everyone running around everywhere gets exhausting!” Kyle wrung his hands and rambled on, “So I figured, since I’m not obliged to stay in the middle of the damn city anymore, I’d get an apartment farther out away from all this mess. And, well, you’ll see how that turned out!” He ended his monologue with a rather pained chuckle. Though they had taken a cab beforehand, Kyle ran out of money, leaving a small walk between the pair and their destination. Casey counted his blessings as he realized the apartment was indeed on the fringes of the city. Before long, they reached a small, but relatively clean apartment building. They climbed the first, second, and third set of stairs before reaching an unassuming door labelled 322. Kyle turned the key with shaking hands, and Casey followed him inside. He was immediately stifled by an overwhelming sense of restlessness. Kyle’s rambling resumed, and became background noise as Casey began to poke around the apartment. It was an average little place. The carpet was old, and had some questionable stains. Dishes were piled in the sink. To the untrained eye, there 35

was nothing out of the ordinary, but he had connections that gave him a thoroughly trained eye. It didn’t take him long to follow that restless sensation as a bloodhound follows a scent. It was with some disgust that Casey’s suspicions were confirmed. He flung open the door to the bedroom, revealing a fleshy, grub-like creature, about the size of his hand, that writhed on the floor in a laughable attempt to escape him. With a grimace, Casey crushed the creature under his heel. “What are you doing?” Kyle asked, confusion apparent on his face. Casey was not one to withhold information. “Exterminating,” he said. “What you have here are some low-level demonic pests. Even though you can’t see them, they’re as common as any street rat. Usually they’re not a bother, but when you get lots of them in one place, they become a lot more noticeable,” as he spoke, he began slipping on a pair of thick rubber gloves that he carried in his pockets. “You’ve probably got a nest of the bastards. That’d explain why the apartment feels haunted to you.” Kyle now had a billion questions bouncing around the back of his nervous mind, but he settled on a simpler one. “Why are they nesting in my apartment?” “Some tragedy probably occurred here,” said Casey, tying a bandana around his nose and mouth. “They feed on tragedy, human sorrow. It was probably a suicide, those are the most common, but they’re not picky.” Kyle watched on, dumbfounded by the whole situation. “How are you going to get rid of them?” “A bit of holy water usually does it pretty quick,” mumbled Casey. “Got to use it on the Queen though, or they’ll just keep on.” With this, Casey produced a small vial of what was assumed to be holy water, alongside a pocket knife, from deep in

his coat. He then followed the restless feeling to the door of the connected bathroom. He threw it open, and was greeted by a huge, wriggling mass that threatened to spill out onto the bedroom floor. Thousands of the fleshy grub creatures were piled nearly to the ceiling. They covered the sink, the shower, and the toilet. Casey tried not to retch. “They in there?” asked a trembling Kyle, who had at this point backed himself out of the bedroom as his anxiety became unbearable. “Yeah, they’re all in here,” said Casey with a sigh. “This is probably where the suicide actually happened.” “I have to admit, I haven’t showered in the week I’ve been here. Going in the bathroom terrified me for some reason,” said Kyle, with the same pained chuckle as before, “At least now I know I’m not too crazy.” Once more, Casey put Kyle in the background as he focused on the grisly scene before him. The mass was gluttonous and overwhelming, and individuals flopped over each other almost comically in an attempt to get away from Casey, before they were assimilated back into the throbbing pile. Casey dug through the filthy mass as though it were thick mud. He tried his best to ignore the feeling of soft bodies being squished beneath his shoes as he struggled towards the shower. Just as he suspected, the Queen had settled itself back in corner of the shower. It was easy to spot, being considerably larger and fatter than the others. Casey quickly rolled the thrashing Queen onto its belly. It took all of his weight to hold it on its back, with one arm restraining it under its small, pustule-like head. With the other arm, Casey flicked open the pocket knife and sliced the creature in one quick line down its center, exposing viscera that threatened to burst under the pressure of his restraint. As it thrashed ever harder, Casey opened the vial of holy water and poured the substance into the wound, taking care not to splash any on himself. The Queen's exposed innards fizzed and bubbled as their owner beat itself against the tile in a fiery agony. A few moments passed, and the Queen convulsed, dying, as 37

Casey turned and left the bathroom at a brisk pace. Kyle stood outside the bedroom, still shaking. “Is it done?” “Yeah, it’s finished,” said Casey. “Without the Queen to support them, they’ll all die off within about twenty-four hours.” Once more, Kyle thanked him profusely. Then Casey turned towards Kyle as he removed his gloves and bandana. “Now,” he said, looking Kyle over carefully, “Let’s discuss your payment.” “In all honesty, sir, I am willing to pay the highest price I possibly can,” replied Kyle, in all his lowly gratitude. Casey strode out to the living room where Kyle waited as he contemplated the service he had just performed. Rather than meeting Kyle’s eyes, he opted to gaze out the grimy window that overlooked this more sparsely populated edge of the city. He didn’t have to look far to see the civilization give way into the vast, ragged emptiness of the desert. The stars were nearly visible out here, despite the incredible light pollution still emanating from the denser city. A thick knot of tension formed in Casey’s throat as he faced Kyle once more, but he was quick to swallow it down. “Well,” he began, feigning nonchalance, “this is one of the easier services I’ve performed in a long time, so you shouldn’t worry too hard over money. My services are always needed, and I don't like to charge people too much, even for the more difficult cases.” Kyle released a sigh of relief, before curiosity got the better of him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are some of the tougher cases you’ve taken on? I’m surprised the paranormal is so prevalent…” Kyle trailed off as he judged Casey’s expression. “I really don’t mind,” replied Casey. He welcomed the distraction of casual banter. “One of the most memorable cases I believe I’ve ever had involved a particularly nasty spirit tied to a 38

home over some old familial grudge. It behaved like a sort of poltergeist for a long time, and the family was able to deal with the petty mischief it caused. After a while, though, the grudge resurfaced, and the spirit’s anger returned full force. It got to the point where the kids were endangered, and the family couldn’t find any help…” Casey recounted the fabricated tale like a well- programmed machine. He made relaxed conversation with Kyle along the way, and watched as the anxiety eased out of his client’s shoulders. “You did an exorcism? I had no idea you were a priest!” Kyle said with the first genuine laugh Casey had heard all evening. “What’s so funny?” Casey asked with mock offense. “I don’t look like the godly type to you?” “No, no! I didn’t mean that!” Kyle backpedaled with another laugh. At this point the mood became more relaxed and Casey began to pace a circle around Kyle, disguising the rather predatory movement with animated gesturing and a gentle smile. “You could call it an exorcism, but it’s honestly more like a therapy session with the offending spirit. Usually it just needs a good talking to, sometimes a bit of levelling with the family that somehow pissed it off. After enough sessions, the spirit is content to move on and leave the poor family at peace.” “Really?” said Kyle, akin to a curious dog as he tilted his head to follow Casey’s voice. “That’s fascinating!” “Certainly!” replied Casey, fiddling with a length of rope in his coat pockets. “You’d be surprised how much sympathy can do for a restless soul.” Suddenly, Casey found himself at Kyle’s back once more. He had grown tired of waiting, and impulse shot through him like hot lightning. As Kyle turned to ask another question, Casey moved like a cornered rattlesnake. He struck out to hook one arm

around Kyle’s skinny neck from behind, effectively turning his client’s gasp into a strangled cough. Casey tightened the crook of his arm and pressed Kyle’s head forward, compressing the windpipe in a movement that was nearly automatic to him by now. Kyle thrashed, but the whole affair was over in seconds. Casey only relaxed when the struggling body went limp. Casey’s shaking hands tied his bandana tightly in the limp mouth of his victim, in order to prevent him from screaming on awakening. He then tied the man’s legs together to prevent any escape. With the first filthy deed of the night done, Casey hoisted the much smaller man over his shoulders with ease. He exited the apartment building as cautiously as he could, despite the relative emptiness of the place. This corner of Vegas managed to sleep at this unholy hour, and Casey only needed to skirt the alleys to avoid being seen. After a few minutes, the buildings trailed off and the pavement beneath his dress shoes turned to rocky earth. He began his hike through the desert, and watched the sky as the light pollution faded, trying not to think about the weight on his back. A few hours worth of walking passed like a fever dream, with Casey only stopping when he noticed that the heavens above him were brighter than he had ever seen them, and the light of the city was long behind him. He laid Kyle’s unconscious body on the dusty earth below him, and realized he had walked into a dry lake bed. The flat ground and the universe above seemed to combine to stretch into twisting infinity around him, and Casey felt small and worthless by comparison. He dropped to his knees beside Kyle, took a deep breath, and began to speak in an ancient tongue that came far too naturally to him. His mouth stretched and contorted around words that no human could begin to comprehend, and he gazed into the vast universe as he spoke, calling out to the forces within it. After some time, said forces answered. The sky twisted, and split like the opening of a long-closed mouth. This was accompanied by an incomprehensible noise, along with the bursting forth of thousands of twitching eyes, all focused on Casey.

Despite his position, he did not flinch. Rather, he met the endless gaze with the defiance of a rebellious schoolboy. During this exchange, Kyle’s worn body stirred, then thrashed as the owner of the body remembered what had earlier occurred. Casey broke his staring contest to drive a knee into the spine of the writhing body below him. Kyle was then struck with an overwhelming sense of what could simply be described as wrongness, his nerves and muscles alight with a desire to run as far and fast as possible, but from what, he could not comprehend. He shrieked behind his gag, sore throat cracking with the effort. Casey glanced back up at the vast being above him, a silent exchange passing between the two. A million mouths twisted down from the sky like grotesque tornados, and Casey stepped very far back as they directed their attention towards Kyle. He tried to crawl, but his legs were tied, and his arms weak. Casey forced himself to watch, the lump of tension in his throat choking him as his sacrifice struggled in the grips of infinite teeth. There was hardly any carnage to speak of, for the hunger so overwhelmed this vast being that Kyle’s body had been consumed in the blink of an eye. Apparently satisfied, the mouths receded and reformed into the one massive set of jaws that sat amidst the eyes. Casey moved away to vomit in hopes that he could dislodge that lump in his throat. When he turned back, the heavens had returned to normal, and Casey’s mind swam. The guilt that had been lurking in the pit of his stomach suddenly drowned him, and he screamed into the empty desert. He laid in the lake bed like a wounded animal, only moving to walk back to Vegas when the sun began to peek over distant mountains. It was noon when he reached his shop, and despite the oppressive heat he had clutched his coat around him as though it were the only thing keeping him alive. He opened the door with shaking hands, and immediately downed a bottle of liquor as fast as he could. After he was sufficiently numb, he grabbed a wad of cash out of the suitcase beneath his bed, and left for the casinos once more. Rinse and repeat, he thought to himself. Rinse and repeat. 41

Ever Changing By Glenda Quillen

Ever changing as one day moves to another time ageless but ever aging we move ahead but never catch up looking, seeking, ever vigilant what are we looking for will we know when we find it elusive, never good enough better we must seek and find we continue our search the rainbow never ending new hopes, old dreams hunger for something unknown racing ahead, lagging behind afraid of what we may encounter yesterday is gone tomorrow is yet to come today will we float on calm seas, soft billowy clouds overhead or struggle through the rapids, dashed against the rocks climb rugged mountains or bask on tropical sands our yesterdays, today’s, and tomorrows all different lives tempered to seek but not to find actions of long ago consequences our cross to bear we either slay our dragons or face the futility of flight no safe haven to be found endlessly searching

Bicyclist By Langley Shazor

Jordan By Lilly Huskett Stars shine, Heavens align, Gods create, Eternally immaculate design. Time flies, Divine skies, Insufferable earth, Never to realize. Exalting paradigm, Descending climb, Darkness creeping, Blue devours time. Wrong turns, Scaring burns, Mistaken fate, Lamenting scream adjourns. Angels cry, Stars die, Gods destroy, Never said goodbye.

Unfair sands, Wilted lands, Scorched earth, Empty begging hands. Enslaved pain, Screaming rain, Come back, The Gods refrain. Bleeding souls, Misery holes, Don’t leave, Lost angel stole. Universe tare, 44

Existence bare, Never forget, Tragically lonely stare. Guilty pleas, Blackened disease, Be free, Vast healing seas. Time sins, Heaven wins, Fallen angel, Life, alas begins.

Repurpose By Sarah Jane

The Ten Dollar Dog By Stewart Minnick I was driving along 11E from Johnson City to Bristol as I looked over at a wide spot in the road I saw the sign, English Setter pups for sale. In the fall of 1972 I was a college student at East Tennessee State University living from month to month on my VA benefits so another bird dog was far from something I needed. But any bird hunter will tell you that the old saying is true you do not stop to look at pups. You stop to buy a pup. As the old man got out of the truck it started to rain I looked at five baby setters huddled in one end of the cardboard box and one off by itself. “What do you want for the little white and brown spotted one in the back?” I asked the old man on that rainy October afternoon. “I will be honest with you. She has been a little shy around people more so than the other puppies. Give me ten dollars and pay the registration and we will call it a deal.” the old man said. I started to walk away, should have walked away, but something in the little setter’s eyes would not let me leave without her. So with money I did not need to spend I gave the owner ten dollars and the deal was done. I picked up the little ball of fur and walked away. As I pulled away from the old gentleman’s truck the little setter crawled into my lap and quickly went to sleep. My Irish setter now had a little sister. Her given name was Mustang Dixie, Mustang for the line of setters she came from and Dixie well Dixie just because. My hunting partner and friend Earl gave her the nick name Pooh Bear because being only eight weeks old she was so short and fat that her belly rubbed the ground when she walked. She had a way of waddling when she ran sort of like a tired old bear. He told me many times in the weeks leading up to bird season that little fat Pooh Bear would never be able to run and hunt with the other 47

dogs. I would just smile and tell him that Dixie did not have her legs yet and she would become a fine addition to our gun dog group, at least that is what I was hoping. Now you have to understand that in East Tennessee in the early seventies we would hunt and fish with the seasons. In the spring we would spend all our time at the local lakes fishing. We would pass the days trolling for crappie or casting Creek Chub Darters at the resident smallmouth bass in South Holston lake. In the summer when it was too hot to do anything during the day we would hit Holston at night jigging for bass and walleye. In late summer we would spend time with our young dogs training them with a dove wing to hold their point and to follow the few basic commands that we would use with all our dogs. In the Fall we would spend the September days chasing squirrels around the knobs and hollows of Cross Community in Sullivan county Tennessee. The late fall and early winter was devoted to bird hunting, small game hunting, and deer hunting. After the late bird season, we would spend the rest of the winter preparing to do it all over again. So that year a few weeks before the start of bird season I added Pooh Bear, a small awkward pup, to our group of bird dogs. On the weekend before the start of quail season in early November I talked with Earl about which dogs we were going to run together the following Monday. “Let’s take Ranger, Brandy, and Gypsy,” Earl suggested. “I really want to take the pup out for a little while during the morning hunt. She needs to be exposed to the other dogs in a hunting environment.” “She will just slow everything down; you know mom and dad want some quail meat to go with the turkey for Thanksgiving.”

Now Earl would complain no matter what time it was during the season for he was a meat hunter. Any dog that did not produce was not worth taking into the field. “Let’s hunt the Beacon covey,” I persisted. “If she gets tired or will not stay with the other dogs we can run her back to your dad’s kennel and we will not lose a lot of hunting time.” Earl begrudgingly agreed, so we decided to meet at his folks place on Monday morning at seven thirty. Anytime we were going to hunt the Beacon covey Earl and I would meet there. We always had to make time for breakfast also. Pat Smith, Earl’s mother, had country ham and eggs waiting on the stove as I drove into the driveway. Windy, Earl’s dad was out giving the dogs breakfast. He motioned me toward the house saying, “Pat has breakfast ready for you; go in the back Earl is already in the house.” As I walked into the back door the odor of fresh country ham and my growling stomach made me realize how hungry I was that morning. “Hello, Stu,” Pat said. “Breakfast will be ready as soon as I finish the gravy.” Earl and Windy appeared just as the table was set with more food then we all needed. “Did you bring the pup,” Earl asked. “Yes, she is in the dog box with Gypsy,’’ I said. “How are they getting along?” “I believe Gypsy thinks she is Pooh Bear’s mother.” “That is normal,” Windy said. “When you bring a baby into a new group of dogs one of the dogs decides to act as the mother.” 49

Windy reminded me not to let Earl push the dogs since it was the first day of bird season. Both Earl and the dogs had months of energy to hunt off that morning. After loading all the dogs into the old Jeep truck away we went to start the new bird season. The Beacon covey was just a short drive from Mr. Smith’s house, as we bounced down the dirt lane leading up to the Rock place where we always parked. Earl asked, “Are you going to fool with that pup today or are you serious about shooting some birds?” “Well, I am going to take her out and if she cannot keep up I will bring her back to the truck.” As I opened the tailgate of the truck three dogs came rolling out. I looked at the back of the truck and there sat Dixie wondering what was going on. “Come here Dixie girl.” The little setter’s whole rear end wiggled as I sat her on the ground. Now we had two experienced dogs and one baby and Gypsy in the field that morning. They all hunted in a different manner. Ranger was going on twelve years old and had been hard of hearing since I started hunting with Earl. As far as Ranger was concerned it did not matter how much Earl tried to get him to hunt close he was going to work the field his way. We called him the old man because he had more birds shot over him than the rest of our dogs combined. As Earl’s dad used to say give Ranger his head and watch him work, the old man knows what he is doing. Brandy was the apple of Earl’s eye. She would only hunt for one person and that was Earl. She truly loved Earl to the point that when we were hunting she would not get out of Earls sight. This made Brandy a very close working dog. Brandy was the best single’s dog I had ever seen. Brandy’s draw back was she had no interest to run big and hunt the coveys. If we did not have Ranger 50

with us it would take most of the morning just to find the one or two coveys that we knew was in the undergrowth behind the old Beacon Drive Inn. “Hunt the birds, Gypsy,” I said as she made a rare pass back to the gun. Now to say that Gypsy was a good bird dog was a stretch. A more beautiful dog I have never seen. She had a dark mahogany coat with a white star in the middle of her chest. Gypsy had the character of most Irish setters of that time footloose and carefree. Gypsy would point birds one minute and run the singles out of the county the next minute. The truth is I only hunted Gypsy with Ranger and Brandy just to hear Earl complain about that crazy Irish setter. That morning I encouraged little Dixie to hunt and keep up with the other dogs. I would like to say that she ran with the other dogs and pointed like an experienced dog, but that was not the case. Dixie had a hard time that morning just keeping up; she was too concerned with all the new smells hitting her nose. As the morning passed she ended up working so slow that I finally picked her up and carried her across the last fence back to the truck. She poked her head out of my hunting coat and started kicking and whining to let me know she wanted me to put her down. I dropped Dixie on the ground and encouraged her to work. “Hunt em up, Dixie girl,” I said hoping she would run with the other dogs. Dixie had other plans. She turned sharply and went into a rock solid point in the Lespedeza patch that the other dogs had already worked. “You know the other dogs did not miss any birds in that patch,” Earl said.

I could not get Dixie to break and move on with the other dogs or start back to the truck. Trying to keep my temper I walked back to her and said “Come on little girl lets go.” As I walked up to her I kicked up a covey of at least fifteen birds from the brush under Dixie’s nose. Earl turned around and said,” I cannot believe you did not fire a shot!” All I could say was “Did you see my baby point those birds?” Smiling, Earl said, “I guess with that covey Dixie showed she is worth more than ten dollars.” As that first hunting season progressed, Dixie’s legs became larger and her belly no longer rubbed the ground. She was a natural, when we hunted the coveys she had the ability to run big even with the master covey dog Ranger. She also sensed when to shorten up her cast and hunt close when we had flushed the coveys and needed the dogs to hunt close. I was blessed to hunt with Dixie for many great seasons. I never had to raise my voice to her in any way. Dixie loved to hunt and that joy would drive us to the next field or the next covey. Many days when it was too cold or wet for anyone to be out, it was her drive that caused us to hunt just one more covey. Yes, Dixie girl you and I were meant for each other. There have been many dogs since Dixie, some good hunters and some great hunters, and some that had no hunting ability at all but Dixie stole my heart the first time I looked into her eyes.

Alive By Samantha N. Cutshall

Failure? By Langley Shazor To fail is to succeed. But not in the way we see success This is deep, underlying Life altering success. The kind that screams "I can do anything!" And I can do all things through him... You know the rest. For true strength is found inside Inside disappointment Inside dissatisfaction Inside mistakes Inside...failure Beyond a reasonable doubt. Isn't that what they say? So look at that error And find your way. For it sits there glaring. On the witness stand pleading its case. But it has hasn't proven itself. So dig deeper Dig for that truth Look past the superficial The surface Buried underneath death and decay Is your road map Your lives' stories Of each reincarnation Gained knowledge and wisdom. Experience For we are human So err with joy Knowing this time Better awaits. 54

Think About Death By Colby Hinchey

If I die I want to die drowning Because if I die drowning I’ll be facing fear And If I live I want to live happy Because If I live happy Then I’ll die free And if I die It’ll be within the week And if I don’t I’ll turn into a creek And if I turn into a creek Then all my life will flow downstream And if it flows Then they won't see All the life That was inside of me

Main Street By Langley Shazor

Learning to Drive

By Glenda Quillen

Jack and I met and got married in Charlottesville, Virginia and I had not yet learned to drive. Jack decided he would teach me. We would go to McIntyre Park late in the evening and I would drive through the park. either it was always deserted at that time or else everyone saw me coming and decided to get out of the way. After a few excursions and a lot of yelling back and forth between us. He found it necessary to take a pint of Jack Daniels along to steady his nerves. I decided to give it up. We soon moved from our apartment to a small cottage in the country. On the drive home one afternoon Jack suggested that I drive from the highway home. When we turned off the highway we switched places. It was a narrow one lane gravel road. I don't remember ever seeing another vehicle on the road until that day, and it was a large truck. One of us would have to pull over in order for the other to pass. We decided that since I was the inexperienced driver it should be me. I pulled over as far as I could and drove onto a large rock. The truck passed and I got the car off the rock by myself. It sounded much worse that it looked. The tear of metal makes an ugly sound. I insisted on continuing the drive home even though crossing the even more narrow bridge that lay ahead was intimidating. Luckily we had no other casualties that day, but I again gave up.

After we moved to Bristol I enrolled in the Adult Driver training evening classes at Virginia High School. I paid my fee and went to DMV, got my learners permit and started the classes. One evening Jack suggested I practice backing and parking. We live on the last block of a dead end street so it sounded safe enough. The backing and parking went well. Then he got the bright idea that I should try turning around in the neighbors drive way. I backed into the driveway, no problem, but when I pulled out I cut it to soon and smacked the rear fender into a utility pole. It didn't hurt the pole but did put a wrinkle in the fender. It was one of those over sized Chevy station wagons that was popular back then. The winkle wasn't to bad, I told him it just added a little character. An elderly couple, the owners of the driveway lived across the street. Their son Bobby lived in North Carolina, but came in every weekend to check on them . He knocked on our door the next evening. When I opened the door he handed me his car keys. He had bought a new car and was leaving the older one at his parents. I told him about my encounter with the utility pole. He said that he heard it and had looked out the window to make sure no one was hurt, but that he wasn't worried, it was just a car and it was insured and that I should drive it when ever I wanted to. There should be more men like him in the world, his wife had trained him well. The instructor and I finally started on the road training. We had only gone a few blocks when he asked if my husband had tried to teach me to drive. I said yes. He said “I though so you are holding the steering wheel so tight that your knuckles have already turned white, just forget everything he has told you and relax. That was very good advice, I have followed it often through the years.

Especially the part about forgetting everything he has told me. Never let a husband teach you to drive, he can't. I finished the course and got a drivers license on the first try and was good to go. I just needed a car in order to go. We found a used Plymouth Grand Fury. Jack said it was built like a tank and I would be safer in it. He must have thought I would have an accident but I didn't. Although if it had run better I might have just to get rid of it. I also learned that husbands are not good at choosing cars.

Reflection By Pam Conley

Thankful By Linda Hudson Hoagland The radio blared and jerked me into reality as it signaled time to start a new day without the pain of loss.

I woke up this morning with a smile on my face. That’s not hard to accept but in my case the thought of living through one more Thanksgiving without him was more than I wanted to bear for the past seven long holiday seasons.

Today, November 3rd, is the eighth year of his death and my loneliness. I am not depressed. I’m not crying. I’m smiling because I’ve discovered my reason for giving thanks and telling the world about it, at least, my world as encompassed by the readers of this refreshing survival tale.

I am thankful for the twenty-five years he shared his life and love with me. The twinkle in his clear, bright, blue eyes, the shock of dark blonde hair that would fall onto his forehead to be flicked out of the way, adorned a face filled with a sincere smile and crinkles of joy.

I am thankful for the ability to look upon his memory with an everlasting, meaningful smile. The tears have finally ceased. I can mention his name without the forlorn sadness that overtook me in the past. 61

Thank you, Sonny, for your support, love, and allowing me to remember you without sadness and tears of loss.

Thank you, God, for blessing me with twenty-five years with my love, Sonny, and for giving me the needed strength to be the strong woman that I am.

Moral Lassitude By Kiana Jade

Wings of Fire By Bethany Lortz

A volcano grumbles with fiery spit Deep within the lava filled pit the burning substance wells up quick Down beneath the hotter surface burns a bird like a candle wick His wings the color of red, yellow, gold Certainly is a flier to behold With strength and brilliance he bursts forth of fire With his beak he looses a cry to be heard far and wider Graceful footing he perches high on the volcanoes side Volcano fires forth more flame of mirth to exalt its child of feather and fire The bird looks back with beady eyes to its home and mother Then he turns his head to the waning sun A blessing from volcano is said to feathered one Who cocks his head in return Then with final farewell in birthing right he sets his wings for flight Basking in the glory of his mother's light The bird sets his wings alight, then vanishes into the night Mourning over her departing son the volcano spews out tears of steam After he is out of sight she returns her eyes to incubating the new life That lie in the nest of light

Edge By Samantha N. Cutshall

The Call By Bethany Lortz

“Carth,” whispered a voice in Carth's subconscious. Carth mumbled in his sleep ignoring the cry. “Carth, awaken!” came the voice again, but sharply. Carth opened his eyes to see a ghostly spirit standing at the foot of the couch. The Tyke jolted upright not sure what to think of this intruder. “Don't be afraid,” it said. “You know me.” “You're the one I saw in the fire,” Carth stammered “Indeed,” it said taking a seat on the second chair adjacent to the couch. “I have fulfilled my promise by coming to you.” “What do you want from me?” Carth questioned as a bead of sweat ran down his face. “Only you, Carth.” A strike of lighting bolted across the sky while thunder rattled the house. A window blew open allowing in the cold breeze and the fresh rain. Carth got to his feet to shut the window. It was now that the Tyke realized that that storm was unlike anything he had seen. No storm this strong had ever come to Braen. It was pouring water from the heavens. The wind was blowing furiously throwing trees side to side violently. Carth shut and bolted the window then peered out of the corner of his eye. The spirit's blue eyes started holes through his entire being. Carth turned back to him. “What do you want?” “You, whose name means defiance,” he replied again.

“Why would you want me?” Carth sat down on the edge of the couch. “I live on this corrupted rock where the Dark Flower does as she pleases. I am alone.” “You are never alone,” the stranger corrected. Carth perked up to meet his eyes. “You have been chosen, Carth,” he continued Carth's heart skipped a beat inside his chest. “Chosen for what?” “Chosen as Paladin to protect this island,” he answered calmly. Carth jumped to his feet. “Paladin! Are you crazy? They are illegal!” “Quiet yourself. I'd hate for you wake your brother,” the stranger glanced down the hall where Zaho slept. Carth ran his hand over his head. “Paladin are evil.” “Is that what you believe? Or is it what you've been told?” Carth looked back at the stranger mulling over his questions in his mind. “Is that the Helmer's truth? Or is it a lie whispered to them by the Dark Flower, who is trying to pull strings in the shadows to blot out the light,” he rose from his chair. “The light that you search for.” Carth's eyes widened wondering how he could have been so blind to who this stranger was. “Warrior,” Carth breathed falling to his knees. “Forgive me.” He placed his hands on the Tyke's shoulders. Carth met his gaze.

“This place is corrupted. Dying. Being strangled by the roots of the Dark Flower.” The Warrior pulled Carth to his feet. “You will not be alone in this generation of bold Paladin. However, it's not outside the realm of firsts. You, Carth, will be the first jungle dweller to lead them.” Carth gasped in shock. Not only was the Tyke now burdened with this awesome duty that was illegal, but he was to lead it. Carth stepped back. It was no secret that fire spitters, fire Tykes, were the only ones to lead Paladin since the beginning. Yet now, here was he, a complete stranger, bring brought in to lead. Carth turned and looked out the window at the lonely hill where his mother rested. “You mother loved this land, didn't she?” said the Warrior Some tears stung at Carth's eyes. “I never understood the beauty she saw. She tried so hard to see it, but even now I can't.” “Then heal the land,” the Warrior said simply. Carth peered over his shoulder at him. “Carry out your duty. Protect your people from the tyranny that you have experienced. Free them from the death grip of the Dark Flower. This is the burden of the Paladin. Believe me, Carth, this will restore you and this land.” Carth paused before looking back at the hill then sighed. “I'll do it.” When the Tyke turned back around the Warrior was already gone. Carth's vision quickly went from a dream come true to a horrific nightmare. The storm worsened and the Dark Flower attacked his home. They dug up his mother's corpse and burned her remains all while making Zaho and he watch with tears in their eyes. Then the Kiraat forced Zaho into the fire alongside his mother while Carth screamed for mercy. Carth awoke startled by a clap of thunder. A streak of lighting followed afterward. The same

window that had blown open in his dream opened again. Carth rose and crossed the room to close it again. He leaned on the window sweat running down this neck. What have I done? Carth thought to himself. He allowed himself to slide down the wall. Paladin. I am Paladin. Carth's mind raced with questions. What was he supposed to do? What were the Paladin supposed to do? Calming his mind Carth thought back to all the stories his mother had told them about the past generations of Paladin. “What am I to do?” Carth asked aloud to the empty room. Then he noticed a shred of paper laying on the table. Lighting flashed across the sky furthering the display of the paper. Carth leaned closer and plucked it from the table. Its words chilled my bones. You've been called. You have accepted. The time is now to begin. Go to the place where all Paladin meet. Prepare to meet your fate. Carth sucked in a breath. Paladin Temple. This was the answer to 'where all Paladin meet'. The one built on Braen had been abandoned for years and guarded by Kiraat Elite around the clock. Or at least that was the rumor. Carth thought glumly. Was it just another lie to keep us from the truth? It doesn’t matter. Carth knew he had to travel there and fully accept his responsibility as Paladin. He had no choice now. Carth wandered to the back of the house where Zaho slept. Cautiously he opened the door and gazed at his younger brother one last time. I'm sorry, Zaho, but the Great Warrior has called me. One day I'll return to you. Carth promised in his heart, upon his death, to the Warrior, and on his mother's grave this sincere promise to his brother. Closing the door again he returned to the front of the house where he donned a cloak then headed out into the rain.

Priority By Mark P. Stewart

The Two of Us By Sonya Daniels

Have you ever sat down and just cried? I want more out of life! I just want a chance to show everyone who I am, what I am made of and all that I could do given the chance.

Then after a time being down on yourself and the world around you all those thoughts are just wiped away, covered up in life’s daily rustle.

Life brings us back to our safe place to where we are used to being weather we are happy or not we are safe and that’s where we stay far too often.

This is the two different sides of yourself. This is our ego that just says well it always been this way I can’t change it. While our inner self is fighting to be set free. We are screaming this is not me, Let me FREE!!! I am more than you are allowing me to be!! Our inner self knows this. It knows all our hopes and dreams and what we could accomplish if our ego would just release us. Our ego started gathering information the moment we were born and even with the best of parents it

also started gathering baggage that trapped our inner self from shinning. The times you felt alone, when you sat and listened to yet another argument, when another child pushed you called you names. When you failed a test school, when you had your heart broke for the first time or times that were even worse you may have been mentally, physically or sexually abused. All this negativity in your life filled your ego with pain, unhappiness’s, disloyalty and mistrust forming and hard shell of stone over your inner self. We do not build this shell in hopes of one day just settling. We don’t even know we are doing it! This is just away we learn to protect ourselves. Without even realizing it we have now split ourselves into two different people. The negative self or ego and the positive self or inner self. We must learn than to release all that negativity that formed that hard shell surrounding your ego. Allowing the negativity to be chipped away and replacing it with positivity will allow your inner self to come to the for front and you to become whole again as one. Each and every one of you sitting here today reading this have picked up your hammers and chisels. You have begun chipping away at all the negativity your ego has been carrying around all your life as excess baggage that has divided your heart and mind holding you down into your safe place no matter how unhappy you sometimes fell. Be proud of yourself, stand tall with your pride and keep chipping away.

The Gift By Sherry Sutherland

Mêlée for Acquiescence By Jodie Bryant

Through adversity she strives Hated, refereed, shamed Her faith tested, her spirit slain Above the waves of revulsion she emerges Multitudes of gnashing daggers Herds of stomping bases pound upon her soul Permeating her with grief and affliction She talons through perdition whole-heartedly Disregarding their slander Immeasurable anguish bleeds over her hopeful rapture Drowning aspirations of truth and sentiment Her inner courage bellows from deep within Belligerent cries boil to the surface She will be heard If only they could gaze through her appreciations and behold euphoria Will they never understand? Inevitable acceptance for misunderstood passion plagues their love She is besieged, aching, torn Yet wholly optimistic Pray God, humanity contests Lay to rest perplexity Bequeath dutiful adoration Their love eternal, withstanding, impenetrable Be damned divergence

Facing By Mark P. Stewart

The Invitation By Corry the Psychic Artist

Taking threads from the past spinning them as our own. Weaving webs of pictures from our minds no gyre has ever known.

Blood of Alice and Circe a chasm your natures span. Woman, child, soulmate I am of Faust and Peter Pan.

A passion for life, my madness I offer to share with you, a trip beyond the bounds of what we ever knew.

We will play outside the walls of patterns where time is but a sound and ages crash on breaking beaches as we sing and dance a round.

Commentary from the Poet: Here are some words and references used in the poem “The Invitation.” The first unusual word is "Gyre.” It is a word used importantly by the poet W.B. Yeats in his works. Poets and writers like to use each others special terms to link with their works as well. Reading Yeat’s the "Second Coming" the term gyre is an important image of the turning wheels of time. Gyre in its simplest form means "Circles." The term Gyre is also used in oceanography to describe the flowing of currents in the oceans of the world as they move in a 76

circular motion along the shores of the continents "chasing their own tails." Gyre simply put is a large measure of time, and in Yeat's poetry he tells of many "Gyres" or many long measures of time where Christ Will Return. The "Second Coming" can be an important influence on you. The second allusion I use is speaking of her nature being like "Alice" and this is the Alice in the story "Alice in Wonderland." She is a young innocent girl, not yet close to being a woman and full of a child's innocent curiosity about life. She is the little girl so pure and untouched by the world. In the same line where I mention Alice I also mention "Circe." Circe is just the extreme opposite of Alice. Circe is Greek Goddess that turned men into animals if she wanted. She is a witch and uses potions. In the Greek Poem the "Odyssey" she turns the men that serve their master Odysseus into pigs. Circe in my poem represents the most dangerous of women...the enchantress. So in my poem I state "Blood of Alice and Circe a chasm your natures span." She is both the little girl and the enchantress turning men into an animals. The following lines describe me. First I call myself “Faust.” an old professor who sold his soul to the devil for eternal life of youth and having all of his wishes granted. Faust wanted "Marguerite" a lovely young woman and the devil gives her to Faust. In the end God redeems Faust because his love for Marguerite is pure and the devil loses and Faust goes to heaven. However, even now Faust is one of the world’s symbols of evil anyway. The version of “Faust” I refer to is by the German writer Goethe and it is a story and a play retold by many writers, but in Goethe's version Faust is saved. I say in my poem "I am of Faust and Peter Pan. Peter Pan is of course the story about never growing up and living in "Never

Never Land," being pure and innocent. So, Faust is like Circe and Peter Pan is like Alice. The last obscure reference is later in the poem where I say, "We will dance on breaking beaches, where time is but a sound," an allusion to Physics and a theory of "Quantum Mechanics" that holds the opinion that in another dimension, another universe... time is not as we know it and it may even be something like music rather than the timetable or the ticking of a clock. "Where Time Is But A Sound" is a place of forever where time does not matter. Time is usually seen as a string of beads, bit after bit, but here it is one of many bowls of pearls all at times interconnected. In this Quantum matter I also use the words “a round” as the dance goes on and on.

And, the poem is an invitation to join me in "Life, My Madness."

Anubis By Sherre Sullivan

Lover of the Woods By Sherre Sullivan

Lover of the Woods And teller of tall tales Weaving a web of spoken metaphors Like fabric wrapped ‘round rich hay bales.

Lover of the leaves and sweet cones of pine. Bedding down until they are crisp no more, Like feathers and fur, stones and stars Holding her strong above the splashing shore.

I am the Raven in the woods In the woods, in the woods, Listening to the teller of tall tales As she lays among the rich warm hay bales.

Love is in the woods In the woods, in the woods, Sweet as amber honey Pure as a white seashell.

You are the Lover of the Woods. And I am the Raven watching over you there.

The Root of All Evil By Sherry Sutherland

The Cherokee in Me By Sherry Sutherland

As I laid in bed late one night I happened to glance up at the dream catcher my artist friend, Sherre, had painted for me. She and I had become good friends about two years ago when we met at a dinner hosted by mutual friends. I loved to hunt, fish, ride horses, and be outside under the great blue sky. A stream wound down the edge of my property in the hollow below my house like a snake crawling off in the distance. Just above it was an old wagon road. So, one day when Sherre came to visit we decided to go into the hundred acre woods that surrounded my home to look for “dryland fish.” This “fish” is a Morrell mushroom that grows wild there in the spring. These mushrooms spring from the ground overnight and only last for a short time. They vary in size and color. When fried, they taste similar to a fish. We began our search on the old wagon road. As we walked while searching the ground, we began to talk. “I’ve often wondered,” she asked, “since you are a lady, how you learned so many things about the land?” I smiled and began telling her about my ancestors, the great Cherokee Indians. I had Cherokee blood from both my father’s and my mother’s side of the family racing through my veins. “Well, that may just explain a lot about you,” she said. By this time I had found about half a dozen mushrooms and Sherre was beginning to find them too. When she found her first one I could tell it excited her. She began to photograph the “fish.” This was the first “dryland fish” she had ever found growing in the wild. To an artist they seemed unusual and mystical. She always carried a small camera just in case something captured her interest and these mushrooms did, along with two black snakes coiled together in several rings.

The sun was shining overhead with golden rays of light streaming down through the trees casting great shadows. The trees were filled with fresh new leaves that came with Spring. A blanket of fallen leaves from the previous Autumn had covered the dark rich soil beneath them. Deep purple wild flowers were springing up all around us. The mushrooms were camouflaged on the forest floor and their coloring blended with the blanket of fallen leaves. The sun had started crossing over the mountains and evening was fast approaching. So, we gathered the mushrooms in a small pouch I had brought along and started home. We had walked deep into the forest, a forgotten land, I thought to myself. There was no sign of mans’ presence here - only nature. We talked about many things on the way home. As a child I was taught if you take it from the land it’s a gift and you use it. The mushrooms would be washed in salt water (to remove small bugs or dust they sometimes attract), sliced, dipped in a raw egg, rolled in meal, and fried in oil - a wonderful addition to the evening meal. After supper Sherre thanked me for the wonderful day. Talking earlier about my Cherokee ancestors made me proud and I could envision myself in another time when my spirit was wild and free. I often wondered what it would be like living as a young Cherokee Indian girl running as one with nature. That night as I drifted off to sleep the dream catcher above my head began to dance in the wind. I saw the painted feathers beginning to turn into the wings of the Great Eagle. The wings lifted me to soar above the earth, high in the clouds. As the adrenaline rushed through my body, my heart began to pound. Out of the corner of my eye I looked down to see a wolf running through the trees after a young fawn and on a branch of an oak tree sat an old owl. If only I had the owl’s wisdom. Then, I saw a grizzly taking her cubs off to a honey tree on the other side of a small stream. The eagle’s wings then carried me to the ground and I felt I was again a young Indian girl with the cool damp earth beneath my

feet. I started to run like a sly fox until I found my way back to my den where I felt warm and safe. Night had started to fade and as I began to waken, a single tear ran down my cheek for I knew it was only a dream. Since that night my dream catcher has brought many visions to me, but the young Cherokee Indian girl will live in my heart forever.

Two Stars By Pam Conley

Return to Sender

By Christina Bolte

Dear John: Don’t you wish your name was Jim or Jeremy? Better yet, Orville. I’m sure letters for Orville never sit idle at post offices scribbled with long lost APO’s or travel to distant soils red with conflict only to be stamped “Return to Sender” and arrive after you do, weeks even, after the uniformed house call, the letter from the president accompanying the medal you wore when we buried you, the salute still ringing in my ears.

So I sit on our porch, as I have every day since you left, my coffee in hand, on the right side of the wicker sofa (because you prefer the left), and watch the mailman slowly approach in full regalia. My stomach churns at the prospect

of reading your words, then turns to a dull ache as I remember.

He stops at our mailbox pauses when he sees me, hesitates as he deposits the rubber banded bundle into its armored cage. But before he advances he glances up at me and I see in his eyes that today he wishes your name was Orville too.

Cove By Samantha N. Cutshall

The Golden Calf: A Question

By Warren Harris

*Suggested by Marc Chagall's drawing The Golden Calf (Exodus 32:1-6), 1960

Gentle artist, where is your zeal for the second stone command? Here in your drawing I see no blame of these jolly revelers, no raw antics that some have pictured, no crazy-eyed faces blood-engorged before a lusty bull, metal-hard, garish. Your softly rounded calf stands calm, smiling, his cheery eye flirting with the dancers.

A bearded one waves his arms high, entranced by the chanters' throaty tremolos that echo, like those offered to ancestors in fire-lit caves, a song too deep for law.

Putting off her cares, a woman sways with mellow companions, cradling her babe. And a delicate virgin wakens her cymbals to shiver desert-bound bodies into ecstasies.

Near Aaron's charming beast, an athlete with curly hair (not unlike yours!) leaps his grand jeté, legs out-winged, spectacular, carnivalesque in the face of a bitter land.

Moysey Shagal, have you abandoned the long-told tribal story of divine decree that the joyful doubters among the Chosen must be chopped to pieces with a priestly axe?

The Bond of Fuzzy Hugs By Brandi Helton

Maria’s Education: Apartment Hunting

By Carla Dolce

Who would have known that looking for an apartment could be so difficult – and dangerous. Maria hadn't even found the apartment she was scheduled to see when reality became unreal. No, NOOOO, this isn't real! It can't be! The words ricocheted through Maria's brain as she struggled to comprehend what was happening. Her legs felt like hostages in the battle between the instinct to run like hell and the paralysis of terror. Trying to force her legs to move faster proved useless. Words spit and sputtered instinctively and silently out of her mouth, Jesus! Christ! Shit! She knew she needed to yell and yell loudly. She struggled to get enough breath. “Help! Help!” Her second yell was cut short as his arm flung around her neck. His body slammed into her back. Maria's face hit the cool grass and slid forward, the weight of his body pinning her to the ground. She wriggled frantically with arms flailing wildly. She was upright and almost escaped from his grasp when he grabbed a fistful of her long dark hair and yanked her toward him. Suddenly, he was in front of her and his shoulder shoved into her gut. Her feet left the ground. His right arm firmly pressed her thighs against his chest. With her petite five-foot-two frame, he had no trouble carrying her. Her face bounced on his back as he walked rapidly toward his car. The high-altitude sun bore down relentlessly through a cloudless cerulean sky. It was noon. It was Sunday. The square- block neighborhood park where Maria had stopped to eat her peanut butter sandwich was surrounded by tidy bungalows with perfectly mowed, dandelion-free front yards, every blade of grass at the same height. A tan-colored, upside-down stone bungalow bobbed out of sight as Maria was thrown into the back of a 1950's- model, blue station wagon. The door slammed shut. The car jerked forward and picked up speed.

For a brief moment, Maria was paralyzed with a flurry of disconnected thoughts short- circuiting her brain. Where? What? Cop car? No! Jump. No! Can't be real. Can't! No! Then, instinctively, she collected herself, got on her hands and knees and looked out the windows. Nothing was familiar. The fast-paced traffic was so impersonal it was surreal. A car full of teenagers passed on the left and she strained to make eye contact. A red-haired boy mocked her with his eyes bulging wide and his jaw dropped leaving a cave between his lips. As Maria mouthed the word “Help,” the boy turned to his friends and laughed. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Just three days earlier on another sun-drenched day, Thursday, August 19, 1971, Maria drove her Volkswagen Bug off of Interstate 25 and onto Highway 36 toward Boulder, Colorado, an affluent university town nestled in the Rocky Mountain foothills. It was a little after 1:00 p.m. when Boulder's “Flatirons” filled her view with majestic vertical rock slabs. Her large dark eyes sparkled with excitement. She was finally out of Trinidad – not the exotic Caribbean island but the small, coal-mining town nestled in poverty at the southern end of Colorado's share of Interstate 25. As she turned onto Broadway, Maria rejoiced. Finally, I'm out of that rat hole! It hasn't changed since Bat Masterson was sheriff: drunken idiots stabbing each other in bars and saintly old ladies ranting about the evils of getting high. I'm finally out! Out and never to return! Like a freshly minted coin – smooth, unscratched and naive to the rough-and-tumble reality that lay ahead – Maria was ready to circulate and see the world. Having spent hours studying the Boulder city map the previous night, Maria drove directly down Broadway to the University of Colorado campus. It was a five-hour drive from Trinidad and she was anxious to park, stretch her legs and, most importantly, find a place to live. She planned to be settled into her

new place in time for registration the following Monday and, of course, to celebrate her twentieth birthday at the end of next week. Maria had transferred to CU from Trinidad State Jr. College. She had read about CU in Time and Newsweek magazines. Bands like the Grateful Dead played right on campus. She tingled with excitement knowing she would soon be living on the cutting edge with sit-ins, war protests, bomb threats, strikes, love-ins, smoke-ins, walk-outs and LSD circulating like candy. Wow! Too cool! Study hard, party hard, and protest against that capitalist war! As Maria drove through a residential neighborhood near campus, she gawked at the lively activity while carefully steering her little Bug around bicyclists and illegally-parked cars. All the stately, two-story, old houses were obviously occupied by students. Students were plucking guitars on porches, lounging with books in front of their faces, zipping around on bicycles, congregating on sidewalks, laughing, and probably smoking weed in back yards. Maria took note of the cars that lined the streets. Wow! Florida, New Jersey, Oklahoma, Louisiana. Jeez! Kids from all over the country. And, what nice cars! Not a lot of Sherman tanks and bombs like you see in Trinidad. She finally found a space just long enough for her Bug near the corner of Eighth and Euclid, about ten blocks from campus. She got out of her scratched-but- well-waxed, yellow VW and stretched as she looked around with a mixture of wonder and anxiety. With map in hand, she headed for the student center. Dressed in her multi-colored, tie-dyed t-shirt and bell- bottom blue jeans, Maria anxiously hoped she would fit in with the hip crowd. What she read in magazines and newspapers, however, did little to prepare her for the spider-web of faceless and anonymous encounters of a university town with a student population more than twice the population of her home town. The social rules were completely different. She reflexively smiled and said, “Hi,” to a couple of students walking toward her. Instead of reciprocating her greeting, she got confused looks.

One hippie, who looked like he hadn't bathed since Eisenhower left office, took her friendly habitual greeting to be an invitation to hit her up for “spare change.” This was a new experience. Desiring to be cool and not look like a poor hick from Trinidad, Maria poked around in her front pocket and fished out a wad of five neatly-folded one-dollar bills thinking she could get by with one less dollar. Before she could separate one bill out of the small bundle, a dirt-crusted claw reached out, grabbed the entire wad of five ones, smiled, said “thanks” and sprinted away. “What the . . .” Maria was stupefied. Not wanting to make a scene or to look as stupid as she felt, Maria shook her head and continued toward campus knowing that the sunken feeling in her gut would get worse since she just lost her food money for the coming week. Before leaving Trinidad, Maria had methodically calculated down to the penny how much money she could spend for rent within the constraints of the grant, work-study and student loans she would get thanks to the Kennedy-Johnson era anti- poverty programs. As she looked through the lists of available housing in the student center, she quickly realized she could not afford an apartment. Dorms were also out of the question. Aside from being too expensive, she would feel like a cat chained with a dog to a doghouse. She didn't belong and she was accustomed to more freedom. She found what she could afford in the notebook for “Rooms, Roommates and House Sharing.” Her excitement rose as she read ads like, “Relaxed, open minded male or female wanted to share large house four blocks from campus, call 423-1675.” Her excitement waned after what felt like the first hundred calls. If it wasn't too expensive, it was already rented. Knowing it might take a few days to find a place, she was prepared. The twenty-dollar bill her mother slipped into her hand when she left Trinidad would not be wasted on a hotel or motel. As the light on her first day in Boulder began fading, Maria drove west toward the mountains on the road following Canyon Creek. She rolled down her window and turned her face to the cool evening air to refresh her spirits, as she watched the sun settle itself 95

lower behind the mountains. The rushing creek and melodic chirps of birds calmed her mind. She drove about a dozen miles out of town, made a u-turn and backtracked to a convenient parking area with a cove of trees for privacy. She made supper from the loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter and bag of raisins that, thanks to the dirty little bastard hippy thief, would have to last her for the next week. With everything she owned in the back seat, she nestled between the two front seats with her pillow padding the area between them. She was exhausted. Despite the discomfort, she slept soundly till day break Days two and three were much like day one. Although Maria's enthusiasm was waning, her Pollyanna belief that everything works out the way you plan was still in high gear. She knew she would find a place to live. It just wouldn't be as easy as she thought. As the sun sank behind the mountains on Saturday night, Maria evaluated her options as she prepared yet another peanut butter and raisin sandwich. She had exhausted all possibilities within her budget – except one. It was a bedroom in a house about a mile from campus. She would have to share a single bathroom with two other women It was five dollars a month more than she wanted to spend. But, far worse, it had ridiculous rules. Crap, I've never had a curfew in my life. No way I'm going to be home by midnight every night. And, no guys allowed in the house!? I might as well live in a convent! No wonder the place isn't rented. Who would want to live in a girls-only place where they lock the door after midnight? I'll live in Denver if I have to. With this thought, she organized her notes for “Roommates Wanted” in Denver and studied her Denver map until the creeping darkness erased the road lines. She had never driven around Denver alone and wasn't looking forward to the big-city traffic. Just as consciousness was beginning to seep out of her brain, Maria was startled by the glare of a flashlight beam penetrating the car window and finding her face. She popped up 96

and rolled down the window to see who was rudely interrupting her sleep. “I'm Officer Harris. Can I see your drivers license? It looks like you're camping.” Maria pulled her torso out of the sleeping bag and dug into her backpack for her license and responded, “I'm a student and I haven't found a place to live, yet.” “I'll have to ask you to find another place to camp. It's illegal to camp on the creek. And, it's dangerous. In the past few months we've had several abductions right here in this area. And, two of those girls are still missing. I can't stop you from camping in the national forest but if you have any sense, you'll go into town and find a safe place to stay.” He took her drivers license, shone his light on it and handed it back with one last admonition, “You'll need to be out of here when I come back through on my next round.” She rolled up her window and wriggled out of her sleeping bag grumbling to herself, “Yeah, right. I'll just stay at the Boulder Hilton or maybe the Boulderado for a few days. Crap! It's public land! She wiggled out of her sleeping bag and drove farther west where she remembered seeing a national forest service road on her first reconnaissance drive. Straining to find the road in the dark, she was relieved when it came into view. She drove onto the dirt road into the dark forest, found a wide spot in the road and settled back into her sleeping bag. She locked the doors and cracked the window less than half an inch for fresh air. It was a black, moonless night. Maria didn't drop into sleep as easily as she had the previous two nights. Her belief that nothing bad could ever happen to her was so much a part of her psyche that, up until this night, it seemed to be genetically- encoded. Now, in the blackness of the night, it began to waiver.

The weight on her mind squeezed out stray thoughts before she was blessed with the peace of sleep. What if that cop was telling the truth. I doubt it. I'll look at the newspaper tomorrow. I'm not sleeping out here another night. I'll find a place tomorrow – for sure. Didn't take Mamma long to remarry after we found daddy's stone-dead, alcohol-soaked body. I'm kind of glad she married Thomas. I guess there's really no 'home' to go back to even if I wanted to. It's Thomas's tiny little one-bedroom house, not Mamma's. Have to sleep. Get up, check the housing board on campus, study the map and head to Big D. Have to find a place tomorrow – no matter what. It was noon by the time Maria found the general neighborhood in Denver where the advertised room was located. She was scheduled to look at the place at one o'clock, and she was hungry. She stopped when she came upon a small, square-block park. Near the center were two tall pine trees with thick bushes at their base. It was a perfect place to have lunch, review the map and get her bearings. She had had only a couple of bites from her peanut butter sandwich when the beat-up blue station wagon pulled up behind her car and a young man got out and walked toward her. She sized him up and guessed he was about her age, maybe younger. Her first thought was that he probably knew the area and could help her find a place to rent. The young man smiled as he got closer to her and greeted her, “Hey, what's happening?” “Not much,” she returned as he sat down close enough for his knee to touch hers. Only a slight sense of discomfort wormed into her brain and she wiggled enough to break the contact. They engaged in small talk. No, she didn't go to the Jimmy Hendrix concert. Of course, he knew several places for rent including the one she was scheduled to see. It was run down and had roaches.

He knew a better place. Some cool chicks were looking for a roommate just a few blocks away. “Come on with me, I'll take you to their place.” He said as he got up. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. She didn't get up. He sat back down. “Come on, you don't have anything to worry about.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him like he was going to kiss her. She resisted. He tightened his grip around her neck and began pushing her into the bushes at the base of the trees. Shocked, Maria instinctively thrashed and wiggled furiously. She escaped his grasp, sprang up and ran toward her car. She got about twenty feet before he tackled her. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Maria's unplanned tour of Denver, seen through the back windows of the ratty 1950's station wagon, dwarfed the previous days' discouragements. After being mocked by the teenage kid in the passing car, Maria rolled into a seating position and then was jostled around as the car made a series of turns in rapid succession. Maria completely lost track of where she was in relation to that painfully quiet and pitifully empty neighborhood park. Out of his grasp in the relative safety of the back of the station wagon, Maria's terror began to subside. Her mind began operating in emergency mode. She accepted that she couldn't find her car without help, and her mind moved on to escape. He has to stop. There has to be a red light someplace. I have to get out. Her eyes scanned the back doors. The passenger-side back door handle was broken off. The rear had no interior handle. The driver's-side back door handle was connected by a thick wrapping of silver- colored tape to a piece of metal in the frame of the door. That door had no interior cover over the frame. None of the doors in the back of the car could be opened, at least not without a knife to cut the tape. As far as Maria could tell, the only way out was from the front passenger seat. 99

As she collected her thoughts, she continued surveying her surroundings. The back seat was replaced by an old mattress covered with a couple of crumpled green Army blankets. She could smell cigarette and marijuana smoke, patchouli oil, stale beer and something else sour and rank that she couldn't identify. An empty, quart-sized beer bottle and some food wrappers were stuffed behind the driver's seat. The car slowed down. Maria strained to look out the front window to see if there was a stop sign or a red light. Her mind instantly formed a picture of the car stopped at a red light and her jumping into the front seat and out the door. A traffic light came into her view just as it turned green. The car accelerated. Maria turned her attention to her abductor. She looked at the back of his head. Other than thick, blue-black hair, there was not much to see. She slithered quietly on the mattress to the passenger side to get a better view. His face was slightly olive colored, smooth and blemish-free. He looked small behind the wheel of the station wagon, but his blue t-shirt bulged tightly around his muscular biceps. As she stared at him, his eyes moved to the rear view mirror and caught hers. She looked away quickly but something in her brain clicked. He reminded her of Tony Herrera. Maria's brain instantly processed a segment from her past in discombobulated images and words. Tony. Chicano. First weak-kneed, tongue kisses. Cousins. Toni found out we were cousins. Broken heart. My poor broken heart. Mamma preaching to brother Nick: “A man never kisses a girl he's related to – NEVER. A man always sticks up for his sisters and cousins. A real man never hits a girl – NEVER.” This processing took place in a matter of seconds and left Maria infused with a sense that she knew her abductor. Not that she knew him personally, but she knew him. Yes! He looks like Tony and he probably acts like Tony. If he sees me like a sister or a cousin, he'll treat me like one. It's all about tribes! I may only be half-Chicano, but his skin is no darker than mine. I gotta belong to his tribe. Like Kenny said when he 100

got back from Nam, “I didn't kill people, I killed gooks. They're not like us; they're not people.” This bad ass Chicano won't hurt me. We're part of the same tribe. He just doesn't know it. With these thoughts, Maria's terror broke and allowed another fully-loaded thought to come to her. There's a reason they call guys “cats” and girls “chicks.” Her shallow breathing deepened and her pulse slowed to nearly normal. In one swift move, feet first, Maria slithered over the backrest and into the front passenger seat. Pushing aside several empty beer bottles, Maria settled her feet on the floorboard. She pulled her grass-stained shirt down snug over her shoulders and wiggled into a comfortable position. Her abductor jerked his head toward her. She turned, looked him in the eyes and smiled. After a couple of seconds of eye contact, he turned his eyes back to the road. He slapped the turn signal, accelerated, stretched his neck to look to the side and passed the car in front. Maria thought the action was as contrived as the stone cold look on his face. She really didn't think he would hurt her. But she wasn't one-hundred percent sure. Still operating in high alert, Maria's brain instinctively gathered information. From her new vantage point she could see the street signs more clearly. They were headed away from the mountains on Colfax Ave. Down the road, less than a minute away was a traffic signal. She stole a quick glance at the door and window handles. Both looked like they should work. She glanced at the speedometer. It's needle was hovering around 50 MPH. The road was a blur as it zipped past. In the distance, she saw the traffic light turn red. The car began to slow down – slowly, slow down. Jumbled and confused thoughts darted around her brain. Even if the car stopped and she jumped out, how would she ever get back to her car? She couldn't remember the street she parked on or the cross street she was looking for when she saw the park and stopped to eat lunch. Her map, her notes and her peanut butter sandwich were under the tree at that deserted park. Where are the f-ing cops when you need them?

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She could feel sweat beginning to form at her hairline above her temples. Her abductor looked at her. She glanced at him and then again at the speedometer: around 25 mph. She looked at the pavement. No way. The car was slowing even more and the tail lights of the car in front were no more than 200 feet away. Then, the light turned green. The car coasted while the cars in front accelerated. Maria watched the street sign for Kipling Ave. come into and out of her view. The car accelerated. The hot sun burned into her right arm and she became aware of the stifling heat in the car. Sweat tickled her forehead. The heat magnified the odors of stale beer, cigarettes and marijuana. The faint odor of patchouli did little to mask the other odors. The passenger window was closed. The driver's side window was open only slightly letting in a hissing sound and a modicum of much-needed fresh air. She dismissed the temptation to roll down her window. He won't hear me with the noise, and I have to talk, and he has to hear me. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly and silently as she turned her head to look at him. He looked at her, a slight smirk on his face. His hands that had been tightly grasping the steering wheel loosened slightly. His forehead glistened with sweat. She held his gaze and stretched her lips across her face opening her mouth into the whole-face smile that made her recognizable to everyone who knew her. Slowly he turned his head back and stared straight ahead at the road. Maria wasn't sure if he broke the stare for fear of wrecking or if he didn't know what to do with her smile and apparent lack of fear. She spent no more than a second on the thought and returned her focus to her mission. With her eyes still on her abductor, Maria took in another deep breath and as she exhaled she said slowly and with no visible fear or apprehension, “You know, you're a nice looking guy.” His arms stiffened slightly and his hands, still gripping the steering wheel, alternately tightened and loosened. For a split second, Maria wasn't sure how to continue. While she had few qualms about doing something illegal that in her mind was not

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wrong, she had major qualms about doing something legal but that in her mind was wrong – like lying. But, this was a different game. Just have to keep track of the story and remember my name. Maria continued still smiling, “By the way, I'm Josie Gallegos. What's your name?” Silence. She continued, “You know, you look a lot like my brother Raymond and even more like my cousin Tony Herrera. Heck, we might even be related.” Once again, he turned his head and caught Maria's eyes. Maria detected a relaxing of the muscles around his eyes and mouth. After a few seconds, he turned to face the road. Undeterred, Maria continued, “I'm going to call you Tony because you look so much like my cousin. You know, Tony, you look like you're a decent kind of guy. I bet you wouldn't like it if something bad happened to one of your sisters. How many sisters do you have?” His eyebrows moved slightly inward and down. His chest expanded and contracted visibly as he took a couple of deep breaths. His shoulders dropped just a little. He said nothing and moved his head and gaze only in response to traffic. After a short silence, Maria began again, this time with a different idea. “You know, Tony, I have some dynamite weed back at my aunt's house. We could go out dancing later, have a few beers, smoke a joint. We could relax and have a really good time.” His hands that had been firmly clutching the steering wheel relaxed visibly, his elbows and shoulders dropped as he sank down in his seat. His left hand ran through his hair above his ear. He shook his head slowly from side to side as he took a deep breath exhaling with a sigh.

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He looked at Maria with a slight smile on his face and responded, “So, how much weed do you have, Josie? Got any on you?” “I have two fat full lids of Panama Red and it's really good weed. It's at my aunt's house with my other stuff. I'm staying with her till I find my own place.” Maria responded with her smile even broader than before. This time something closer to a real smile graced his face and his eyes thawed completely as he met Maria's gaze. “I'm Carlos. And, you know what, Josie? You look a little, just a little, like my cousin Sarah.” As he said this, he took his right hand off the steering wheel and illustrated “a little” with his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. They both laughed, reached for their window cranks, rolled down their windows several inches and relaxed into their seats. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ It was about 1:20 p.m. that same Sunday when Maria pulled her VW into the Texaco gas station between Denver and Boulder. The gas station attendant, whom she smiled at as she asked for the key to the bathroom, glanced briefly at the grass stains on her hippie tie-dyed t-shirt. When she handed him the key on her way out, however, she looked like any other hippie college kid in her clean, bell-bottomed, blue jeans and her clean, yellow-flowered, button-down blouse. She parked her car on Euclid Ave. in about the same place she parked it on her first day in Boulder. With the awe of her first day gone, she walked briskly to the student center to use the phone. The urge to smile and say “Hi” to passing strangers was gone. It was about 2:30 p.m. when Maria pulled up to the curb in front of a large two story house near the edge of town where the road ended and the Boulder foothills began their stretch toward the

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ruggedly majestic Rocky Mountains. She felt like she aged five years in the past two hours. Maybe she did. Maria, got out of her car and looked at the house. It was on a corner lot with grass- covered front, side and back yards. The bright August sun dappled the grass with bits of soft sunshine as it filtered through a tall maple tree in the front yard close to the sidewalk that extended around the house. As Maria opened the gate into the front yard and walked up the concrete walkway to the front door, numbers danced in her head. I'll bet they'll give me five dollars off the rent for raking the leaves, maybe five off for shoveling snow. Somehow, it'll work. I can do $55 a month. She walked up to the front door. Without noticing the doorbell, a modern wonder considered a luxury in Trinidad, she knocked loudly. A woman came to the door. Clean, slender, younger looking than Maria's mother, at least four inches taller than Maria, light medium-length hair, straight- legged tan slacks with an iron crease and an ironed button-down blouse with small purple flowers. She looked so different from Maria's mother and her friends' mothers that Maria thought she looked like she might have walked out of someone's TV screen. “Mrs. Johnson?” “Yes.” “Hi. I'm Maria Fiori. I just spoke with you about a room for rent, and you said it would be okay for me to come over now to see it.” As she spoke, Maria spread her smile across her face. Ms. Johnson, put her hand to her chest, smiled and laughed. “Heavens, I couldn't imagine who would be banging on the door. You must have missed the doorbell. Come in, Maria!” Maria immediately felt stupid for not seeing the doorbell. There was a lot she needed to learn, and so far it looked like most of it wasn't in the classroom. The house was immaculate as was the room. Much cleaner than anyplace Maria had ever lived. The room had a desk, 105

a double bed, matching dresser and night stand. The hall between Maria's room and the other two rooms was crowded. There was a small refrigerator and two shelves on one side of the refrigerator with canned and boxed foods that could be prepared on the dual burner electric hot plate or the toaster oven both of which sat on a long narrow table on the other side of the refrigerator. That night, after her clothes were neatly stacked in the dresser drawers and her books stacked on the desk next to her school supplies, Maria went into the bathroom to prepare for bed even though it was only 8:00 p.m. She had never lived in a house with a shower. After figuring out that she had to pull the little knob up to make the water come out of the shower head, Maria luxuriated in the hot water. She felt lighter as the grim from the past several days swirled in circles and fled down the drain. The only thing left for her to do to be completely prepared for school was to clean out and re-pack her backpack. She pulled out pens, a couple of paperback books, a notebook, Denver, Boulder and campus maps, and numerous scraps of paper. One scrap of paper grabbed her attention. She held it between her hands staring at it: “Carlos, 209-5479.” Maria shook her head and grinned. I wonder if that's his real name and phone number or if he thinks I gave him my real name and phone number. I'd be crazy to go dancing and smoking pot with that little bastard. I wonder if he'll call the number I gave him. Be funny if there was really someone at that number named Josie. Maria shook her head, crumpled the paper and tossed it into the little circular trash can next to the desk. She fell gently onto the bed exhausted. She pulled the light-weight sheet and bed spread over her body and stretched her legs moving them around just to enjoy the feel of clean sheets on the clean skin of her tired feet and legs. She turned off the light and marveled at the quiet, peaceful and safe comfort. With the weight of anxiety lifted, her thoughts danced about freely.

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Jeez! What a day! Sure glad this place was still available – even if it is like a convent. So what if I have to be home by midnight. More time to study. What did that little bastard think he was going to do with me? If you let someone scare you, you're really in for it. Just like a baby chick running from a cat. If the chick screams and runs away terrified, the cat gets even more excited and the chick becomes dinner. If the chick plays dead, the cat gets bored. If the chick flies into the cat's face, the cat runs like hell. Whew! Guys are just like cats. But, if you ignore the cat and chick costumes and treat people like human beings – no better and no lesser than you – they act more like humans. Christ, I'm just glad he drove me back to my car. Funny how he kissed me on the cheek. I…

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Steel Fence By Langley Shazor

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Mourning Song By Louis Gallo

Some spend lifetimes mourning themselves, others, others-- either way the short end of the stick winds up in your clenched fist as you squeeze between those mourning and those mourned. Hell, you’re trying to get to Louisiana for the Strawberry Fest so you can bite into that red flesh and savor its juice dripping down your chin. Somebody’s got to do it, somebody’s got to forget about the cruelty of time, space and what’s that other thing?

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Intricacy By Kiana Jade

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As The Music Plays By Brandi Helton

When the music plays I feel it in my bones The need to sway and move urgent as a drowning man seeking air

Stolen Moments in a darkened hallway or hidden in an empty room I dance until all my worries fade away

My radio sings to me as I join its song

I ride beside my dearest love as he joins our unconventional chorus

At times I thirst for songs of my own imagination so I write I pour out my deepest self in every lyric

I stand in front of my church baring my naked soul They watch me intently as I drift into my musical vision of myself

I sing acapella but I can hear the melody in my mind and I sing on as the music plays

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Plight of Humanity By Langley Shazor

Have we learned nothing from history? Have the scores of people crippled, nay, murdered by discrimination, bigotry, hatred, etc. been for nothing? History is cyclical, yet some things bear no repeating. But we stand on the cusp of returning to some of the darkest times in our history. The precipice of destruction, we have precariously perched ourselves. Do we dare to climb back down? Or have we danced too close to the edge, falling our only recourse? If to err is human, we have personified our nature to perfection. It is baffling to witness our inability and/or flat out refusal to think objectively. As though free thinking and enlightenment be punishable by death. Though perceived and regarded as truth; perpetuated by those seeking to keep us enslaved to subjectivity and ignorance, the above is hardly the case. Is this the legacy we will leave on this earth? Will the generations to come look back shamefully? Will they be proud? Will they be encouraged? Will there be future generations? If we are indeed masters of our fates and captains of our souls, where are we sailing? Off the edge of the earth; to oblivion? To Zion? To what promised land have we directed our rudder, if any at all? Is the plight of humanity inevitable? Not so. The status quo can be upset, traditions exposed, truths revealed. We have the capability to conceive thought greater than that of current comprehension. The ability innately sewn in us, woven into the very construct of our being. Though we share many an attribute with more primitive organisms: tenacity, will, power to overcome, problem solving, it is our intellectual autonomy which garners humanity's greatest achievements. Let us use this, among all gifts to deliver ourselves from peril.

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Lost to the Elements By Sarah Jane

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Jack and the Cat Excerpt from the novel, The End: Act I, A Good Man By Phil Ferguson BAYOU L’OURSE, Louisiana, 2019 A monster chased me through the jungles. The blood dripping from its teeth wet my neck. The hot air that blew from its nose parted my greasy hair in the back. When it ran, I ran until my calves burned like hot coals. When it stopped, I continued to run. But it always found me before too long. It chased me past Lake Salvador and further into the swamps. It found me when I crawled through the Bayou Blue on hands and knees, searching for a cool place to sleep in the fires of the sweltering night. And when I finally turned back to see the beast, just outside of Bayou L’ourse, the monster smiled at me. Leaning inside the big roots of a lowland tree trunk, I took off my shirt to let my skin breathe. I ran my fingers down the protruding ribs that encircled my caved stomach. My fingers tucked under the ribs with room to spare. A warm gust of wind teased my pores with just enough relief from the late summer heat, just enough calming that I laid my head against the trunk and watched a small rabbit chase a butterfly through the moss. If my muscles allowed, I would have jumped to my feet and chased that bunny to a corner, cornering him long enough to get my hands around his neck. A quick snap and he’d fill the gasping cavity in my gut and give me enough protein for another day or two.

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But my body sat in neutral, entranced by the breeze and paralyzed by the softness of the marsh underneath my dwindling backside. The rabbit leapt a foot off the moss when the butterfly fluttered higher. They danced together in the fiery sun, in and out of the brush. When the hare had his prey trapped on a low branch of a bush, he readied his back legs for lift-off, took to the air, just in time for a large ball of orange fur to snatch it from the attack. They rustled out of sight, under the weeds, until the rustling stopped. As I watched from my seat, the predator, a long-haired cat crept from the overgrowth, dragging the body of the kill from its mouth. Moving slowly and with calculation, the cat made a straight line towards me. I thought about killing it and doubling my feast, but who would eat a cat? Lost in that jungle, I would have eaten every bit of meat off his bones and picked my teeth with his ribs, saving the rabbit in my duffle for later. But the closer the cat came in its approach, the more I realized its intent. I could see its offering in the big, round blue eyes that glowed neon in all of the yellow and green of the woods around it. Stopping a few feet from where I sat, it laid the kill before me, then curled up against a piece of root to my side. “For me, boy?” I asked, moving my hand towards the rabbit. The cat hissed and snapped a claw at me, just as I closed in on the offering. “Sorry, sorry. I mean, is that ours?” The orange cat stood, stretched the labor out of its length, and moved closer to me, this time curling directly against my leg. “Great, now I’m talking to a cat. This is the end, Jackie. This is the end.” I pulled my duffle to me and took out a bottle of water that I’d found around the lake and refilled at every fresh water spot I found 115

on my route. Flipping over the lid of my rusted cookie tin of keepsakes, I poured it full of water and placed the offering in front of my hunter. It lapped up every drop, then returned to its bed against my thigh. When the sun fell behind the monstrous trees, I built a fire, then skinned and gutted the rabbit, using my fingers as a knife. The two of us sat anxiously in wait, watching the meat lighten, then darken again. When finished, I picked it off the flame, tore it in half, and devoured my ration, the ration I earned by cooking not killing the game. The killer snatched its share up in its teeth and moved to the far side of the trunk, where it meticulously stripped the over half, one calm bite at a time. “You’re alright, ain’t ya?” I said, tossing our leftover bones in the duffle, before hanging the bag from the tallest branch I could reach. “Don’t want Winnie the Pooh stealing us in the night,” I laughed before spreading out on my back with my head propped on a low-lying root. The cat walked by the fire, the orange of its fur brightened by the colors in the flame. Its blue eyes watched me with each stride of its paws. It stopped, cleaned its feet with a thorough tongue bath, then hopped on my chest, curled up, and went to sleep. “You’re almost too big to be a lap cat, boy,” I said, running my hand over its coarse, matted fur. We drifted off to a dream together. They say you have a different vision every nine minutes in your sleep, and the only ones you remember are the ones that break through your curiosities, like a sperm to an egg, and penetrate your brain. That first night with the cat, I had vivid visions in my dreams, visions that will follow me all my life.

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I remember the sun most of all. I’d seen the sun in so many of my dreams lately. A shrink might say that’s my way of dealing with my own lost son. No matter the meaning, this sun always belched and bubbled pastel colors on its surface, and on this night, the oranges and peaches spread all across the horizon of my mind. Then the singing began. “Farther along we’ll know more about it. Farther along we’ll understand why.” Under the sun, a blurred bed of faces covered every inch of ground. Thousands, if not millions, of brown, worn faces. Faces that all looked the same, and faces that sang. “Cheer up my brother. Live in the sunshine. We’ll understand it all by and by.” My vision panned out and the sea of people grew larger and larger. A sudden blackness, then I found myself sitting on a subway train, surrounded by beings in black hoods. Their fingers seemed too long, too skinny, like a skeleton, and the hunch in their lower back gave them a twisted, evil demeanor, even more so than the ominous black of the robes. Frightened, I stood up and ran to the door. It wouldn’t open. The train moved fast, too fast to pry the door and jump onto the dark tracks. Behind me, a presence moved closer. My breath strangled like a heavy weight pressed on my lungs. A skeleton hand landed on my shoulder and spun me around. Deep in the blackness of the being’s hood, I saw a face, a man’s face, but it was painted up like a skull with dark eyes and a black jawline. I slowly reached my hand up, to pull back the hood, when the train door slid open and the dark figure shoved me backwards out of the car.

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I remember screaming but without sound and my body floated to its fall. The sound of the silence hung in the air with a stench of piss and rotten trash. Then I landed and found myself lying on the concrete of the depot station. I was alone, but someone, some others had been there. Recently. As I lifted my hands, a wet, cold red covered my palms. I tasted it. Paint, not the salt of blood. When I looked around, words covered the subway walls. The same phrase over and over, everywhere, in both directions. Written in red, it prophesized, THIS IS NOT THE END My eyes flew open, and the cat startled me, sitting on its back legs beside me with its face tickling my ear. “Get on. What are you doing?” I shouted in shock. Overhead, the sun blazed too high in the sky, telling me that I slept past noon. The cat, angry at my reaction, trotted away, towards the walking path that led deeper into the thickest part of the bayou. He stopped, looked back, and waited for me to gather my things and follow.

…to be cont’d. (This is not the end)

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Two Cats By Lori Ferguson

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ABOUT THE EDITOR Phil Ferguson teaches a “student-centered” style of composition, literature, and creative writing courses at Virginia Highlands Community College. In addition to his teaching, he is the editor of The Howl and coordinator of the Arts Array film series. Originally from Lebanon, Virginia, he and his wife, Lori recently returned “home” after personally rebuilding his grandparent’s house. At one time, he was a professional folk singer-songwriter (once sharing the stage with Mumford and Sons, “playing my songs” as he too often boasts). However, in recent years he has retired from music to focus on family, healing, and his own creative writing project, The End: The Ballad of Jack Shakespeare, a five novel series about professional wrestling and the end of the world. Take his wife’s advice and don’t ask him about “the book,” unless you have a few hours to kill. CONTACT The Howl is a publication of the English department of Virginia Highlands Community College. For more information on publication opportunities and English coursework at VHCC, please contact Phil Ferguson at [email protected].

Course Opportunity: Each Spring and Fall semester, Phil Ferguson offers ENG 211, an online course in fiction-writing workshops. Please contact him or VHCC Admissions for more information on this class.

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SUBMISSIONS

New submissions for the upcoming edition are collected from July 1 until January 31 of the following year. The Howl accepts submissions from students, faculty, staff, and alumni of VHCC, as well as current or former residents of Southwest Virginia and Northeast Tennessee. The following genres and mediums are currently being accepted: Poetry Short Fiction Nonfiction (Memoir or Essay) Black and White Photography/Artwork Submission Guidelines:

• Please limit poetry to 50 lines and prose to 4000 words or less. Max of three submissions (of any genre combination) per entrant. • All content must be submitted as an attachment via email to [email protected]. • Text should be saved in Microsoft Word format or in Rich Text Format • In the subject line of the email, simply write, “Howl.” • In the message section of the email, include: o Your name o Your e-mail and current mailing address with zip code (also include former address if you no longer live in the specified regions) o The genre of the submission (i.e. “short fiction,” so that we can distinguish between non-fiction and fiction). • Non-digital photography and physical artwork should be submitted to OTC 108 on the VHCC campus for scanning. However, artists must also e-mail the supplemental information (name, addresses, and genres) by the deadline. No paper literary submissions will be accepted.

*Submissions that fail to include the required information will be discarded. 121

ENROLL TODAY AT VHCC Virginia Highlands Community College is Now Enrolling for Summer and Fall 2017.

For more information on class options and enrollment, visit www.vhcc.edu/schedule or Contact Admissions 276-739-2400.

Thank You.

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