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volume 1, issue 3, 2011/2012 volume 1, issue 3, 2011/2012 Editor: Justin Greer Fiction Editors: Lorraine Maynard, Dusty Cooper Poetry Editors: Anna Cooper, Ashley Williams Art Editor: Jennifer Rodriguez Web Developer: Casey White Graphic Designer: Hillary Lowry Production Assistant: Austin Payne Print Production Advisor: Alison Pelegrin Online Production Editor: Joel Fredell Faculty Committee: Richard Louth, Ziba Rashidian, Leigh Rourks Manchac Review is Southeastern Louisiana University’s creative journal, updated continuously online as Manchac Review Online and published annually in print format. Manchac Review Online is an interactive experience including fiction, poetry, drama, art, music/lyrics, and video. Submissions are accepted all year. Submissions accepted when an edition is in press will be held for the next edition. All submissions published online are considered for publication in the selective print format at the end of each spring semester. The responsibility for the selection and editing of all content, including grammatical and mechanical emendations, is assumed by the editors. All editors are students of Southeastern Louisiana University. Editorial advice, financial management, and assistance are provided by the Southeastern Louisiana University Department of English; Department Head, Dr. David C. Hanson; and the Southeastern Writing Center. Views and opinions expressed in Manchac Review are those of the individual authors and are not intended to represent the official views of Southeastern Louisiana University’s administration, faculty, staff, or students; the faculty committee; or the Southeastern Writing Center. All depictions of events and characters in published works are fictional, and any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidental. Some pieces contain explicit language and content depicting adult themes and situations. Cover image: Oil Spill, by Shalon Depriest. © 2012 by Southeastern Louisiana University. It’s been an exciting year for Manchac Review. From a renaming to a redesign of the website and journal, our publication has undergone drastic change. Since we’ve transitioned to a focus on online publishing, many the works in this print edition will be familiar. We wanted to increase the value of our print journal by submitting the already fantastic works of poetry and prose to another round of judging. This time, however, we handed the reins over to the faculty at Southeastern Louisiana University. Richard Louth, Ziba Rashidian, Leigh Comacho Rourks and our Print Production Advisor, Alison Pelegrin, were all gracious enough to lend their eyes as readers. From the online submissions, they chose what they think are the best representations of the writing taking place at our University over the past two semesters. We supplemented their selections with a few selections that they did not vet. I would like to acknowledge the hard work of the people who have made this journal possible. First and foremost, I thank our contributors. Without their hard work and creativity, we wouldn’t have anything to publish. Southeastern’s Creative Writing program is extraordinarily nurturing and has produced many fine writers of both prose and poetry over the years. For that, I would like to thank the many teachers who diligently work day and night to help their students become spectacular writers. Specifically, I would like to thank Jack Bedell, Richard Louth, Beverly Marshall, Alison Pelegrin, and Jayetta Slawson, all of whom have encouraged their students over the past academic year to submit to our journal. I would also like to thank the hard work of the Southeastern Writing Center, through which Manchac Review is produced. The staff’s help with public relations and the use of facilities have been indispensable. Dr. Jason Landrum, the Coordinator of the Writing Center, has been more than helpful in temrs of consultanting about the journal and planning events such as our open-mic nights. Along the same lines, Dr. David Hanson, the English Department Head, has been extremely instrumental in finding Production Advisors, and we are grateful for his constant encouragement. Dr. Fredell and Ms. Pelegrin have been exemplary advisors. When asked to guide the publication, they truly stepped up to the call. Without their dedication, the journal would not be what it is today. For that matter, I couldn’t have done anything without my editorial team. The two Fiction Editors, Lorraine Maynard and Dusty Cooper, read through many, many submissions. The same can be said for our Poetry Editors, Ashley Williams and Anna Cooper. Since our publication is comprised mainly of prose and poetry, their work is more than important. Our Art Editor Jennifer Rodriguez, who has been with the journal the longest, remains a vital part of our team, and her connection with the Art Department is essential. Two people, in particular, have helped in the move From Gambit to Manchac Review immensely. The Web and Graphic Design team of Hillary Lowry and Casey White has, apart from creating a beautifully constructed website, designed our new logo and helped us to create a new label for the journal. There are many instrumental people in the production of this student-run publication. They are all volunteers and have taken on the task with gusto and a happy disposition. Much of this year has been devoted to learning and creating new ways for running the journal. They’ve all had patience with the transition and with me. For that, I am ever thankful. I leave Southeastern at the end of the Spring semester 2012 with confidence in the journal. The new identity of Manchac Review is strong and well founded. We draw from more than forty years worth of experience and tradition. I also leave hopeful for the future of both this print edition and the online edition, and hopeful for the community of writers they represent. Manchac Review can be instrumental in the further development of this community, a pat, I hope, we have already started down. I pass the pen to the next editor with a book of notes, and ideas, and guidance in the creation of the journal. I know it will be in good hands. So, thank you, reader, for picking up our journal and for taking a moment to help me recognize the extraordinary people who’ve made this all possible. Justin Greer Editor Letter from the Editor ZACHARY NELSON Paint It, Black 1 SARAH DRAGO The Truth of the Matter 7 SEAN KEOGH Ode to Emily Dickinson 8 CHAD FORET War Spirits 9 ANN ST. MICHEAL Humpback Whales Represent Order 16 Protection 17 TERRI ILGEN The Dawn of Hope 18 DUSTY COOPER Chapped Lips 22 Beneath You 23 CHAD CORKEN Crossroads 24 MARLEY STUART Ekphrastic 32 AARON DUPLANTIER (ALUMNUS) A Real Schmuck 34 ASHLEY WILLIAMS Evolve, Nigger 39 CHAD FORET Tenement Bard 40 Before You Crush the Spiders 42 LESLEY SEKULICH Ephemeral 43 MICHAEL GAUTREAUX We Say Our Souls, Not Ourselves 44 Contributors Submission Guidelines Paint It, Black Z ACHARY N ELSO N I crossed the river road with the hot, cracked pavement burning the soles of my bare feet, the .22 hanging loosely in one hand. Jackson followed behind at some distance, crying quietly, quite reluctant, the skinny puppy held to his chest. He was murmuring to it, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. “Come on, Jack,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.” I didn’t look back when he didn’t answer, but I could hear the patter of his small feet on the road behind me. The yellow-green grass I entered came to my mid- thigh and I crossed the shallow ditch to the barbed-wire fence and turned and waited. The grass came to Jackson’s waist. He ignored me, still talking to the mutt. I put a foot carefully on the middle wire of the fence and held up the top wire with my free hand, and he went over and waited while I stepped gingerly through. I had the legs of my overalls rolled above the ankle, but a barb snagged, and I lost my balance, falling to one knee and dropping the .22. I got up, sweeping the grass, and brought up the rifle, noticing where the filthy lower leg of my overalls had yet another tear. I led the way up the levee, glancing back often. Jackson had to use one hand to half crawl on the steep grade, holding the puppy with great care to his chest. He refused any help. At the top, we looked on a forest of black willow and cypress. A live 1 oak or two. Dense marsh undergrowth. The branches seemed to sag with the wisdom they bore. It always smelled of honeysuckle and trees on this side of the levee, and usually I loved it. I looked at Jackson, the tears on his pale face, but he wouldn’t look at me. “Let’s go,” I said. We descended into the familiar woods where we’d played a hundred days past, camped out, run wild through the trees with makeshift rifles, shooting imaginary gooks as though they were no more than hordes of storybook creatures that haunted Daddy’s sleep. A place where I now sought to teach Jackson a thing or two about growing up. Being a big boy. No, a man. I was ten years old when we found that dog in the dumpster that changed us both, when we grew up too fast and parted on the bank of the Mississippi, our paths headlong, like the antlers of the buck Daddy shot that very day, stuck hard and sharp into something like adulthood. I lifted my head from my forearm where it lay across the wooden step to the front door of our trailer and looked about. “Ready or not, here I come,” I shouted, my hands cupped around my mouth.

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