Aura literary arts revtew•

Issue 1 Ill Birmingham $6.00

Aura literary arts review

VOLUME 30, ISSUE 1

SPRING/SUMMER 2004

The University of Alabama at Birmingham Office of Student Publications HUC 135 1530 3rd Ave. South Birmingham, Al35294-1150 Phone- 205.934.3216 Fax- 205.934.8050 Email - [email protected] Copyright © 1974-2004 Aura Literary Arts Review. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any way, shape or form without the express written consent of the artist in question. All rights revert to each respective artist after publica­ tion in this journal. For information on reaching an artist in regard to republica­ tion of work, feel free to contact the magazine.

ISSN 0889-74 33 Aura literary arts review

Editor-in-Chief Carl Chang

Assistant Editor-in-Chief Boyce Nash

Art and Design Editor Sharon Casady

Production Advisor Christopher Giganti

Editorial Assistant Krystal Kimble

Faculty Advisor Tony Crunk

Student Publications Advisor Amy Kilpatrick

Aura Literary Arts Review is a semi-annual publication funded through the Board of Student Publications at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, as well as contributors to the magazine. Aura Literary Arts Review is staffed entirely by graduate and undergraduate students of the university. All proceeds from advertis­ ing and the sale of the magazine go to help fund both Aura and the other student publications of the University of Alabama at Birmingham. Submission Guidelines All submissions should be accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Without such, no response will be offered in regard to publication, nor will the submission be retumed. Please do not send previously published work or simul­ taneous submissions. Both will be automatically rejected. All submissions of relatively great length (short stories, essays, plays, etc.) should include a copy of the work in electronic format (preferably on floppy diskette). Submissions of poetry should not include more than five poems and should not total more than ten (10) typed, double-spaced pages. Visual artwork of all forms is accepted; slides are preferred, but not required. Please include a copy of the artist's name on each page of written work or on the back of each piece of visual artwork (if this is possible). Contact information for the artist should also be easily accessible. No submissions are accepted through e-mail. Any submissions of this fashion will be automatically deleted without consideration.

Advertisin" Information 1 issue 2 issues full page $100 $175 half-page $50 $80 Please contact the staff to discuss advertising possibilities within the magazine.

Sponsorship/Subscription Information Please consider supporting the magazine through patronage. We offer the follow­ ing subscription packages:

Supporting Subscriber $25.00 - includes: a one-year subscription to the magazine, recognition within the magazine, and an Aura Literary Arts Review coffee mug

Patron $50.00 - includes: a one-year subscription to the magazine, as well as one extra copy of each issue, recognition within the magazine, an Aura Literary Arts Review coffee mug, and a half-page ad for either the patron's business/organization or a busine organization of the patron's choice.

Contact Information Aura Literary Arts Review University of Alabama at Birmingham HUC 135 1530 3m Ave. So. Birmingham, Alabama 35294 phone - (205) 934-3216 fax - (205) 934-8050 e-mail - [email protected] Table of Contents

Barksdale-Maynard Prize Winners Poetry Tina Harris Cold-Eye Church 1 the juke joint spirit 2 Mozelle's Shoes 3 Fiction Catherine Roth like trees walking 4 Poems

James Fahy Cyclist. 16 Chart. 17

Josh Goldman Reflection on Francis Bacon's 19 "Blood on the Floor" Tractor Shed 20

Kristi Houk 6:30A.M. 21 This Summer 22

Regan Huff Noche de los Muertos 42 For The Royal Museum 43 Darwin's Observations on 44 the Genus Homo The Third Beetle 45

Ashley Hulsey Looking for Wild Edibles 39 Camp Baptism 40 That Girl 41

Clifton D. Kelly God Will Build From the Ruins 71 Infatuation 72 After the Darkness 74

Stan Kempton A flower with no name 75 Who denied us our cultural heritage? 76

Bryan Martin radiot 77 Untitled 78

Susie Paul The Dime-Store Girl 79 Miranda Wade Estelle's Azaleas 103

Quinn White Untitled 104

Brandy Yates Of The World 105 Tendency 106

Memoir

Cathy Ledbetter The Knight Watchman 46

Short Fiction

M.J. Kuehner Chair man of the Board 81 Marcus Allison A Cry In The Country 107

Visual Art

Carissa Andrews dice 24 Jesus 25

Brittany Armistead untitled 26 self portrait as an empty room 27

Sharon Casady untitled 23 empty 28 alone 29 untitled 70

Erin Childress untitled 30 untitled 31

Dustin Creech untitled 32 untitled 33

Christopher Dang messanger 34 waiting 35 vision 55

Ashley Freeman untitled 36 untitled 37

Stephen M. Frost untitled 87

April Garzarek The Eyes Have It 58 The Eyes Have It 59 Cheryl Gordon The Stare 56 seekers 57

Truman Grayson untitled 60 untitled 61

Beth Harding untitled 62

Brendan Helmuth Four Trunks 64 Cactus 65

Emily Hunter Flight 38

Lynn Ledbetter untitled 66 untitled 67

Nicole Marshall symbols 2 68 symbols 3 69

Lindsay Mouyal untitled 63 untitled 100 untitled 101

Ryan Murphy antiques 88 architecture studio 89

Anne Puckett Portrait of the Future Mrs. 90 stitches detail 91

Ryan Russell HASTE 92 SKATE 93 Thursday 102

Kimetha T. Schmidt Pop Alone 94 Baby with Hose 95

Stephanie R. Sides Southern Saturday 96

Amy Soverow Jeannevert 97

Marla Stone untitled 98 untitled 99

Notes on Contributors 127

Cover Design by Sharon Casady Colophon

Aura Literary Arts Review is printed by Alabama Web Press in quantity of 400 copies per - rue. Paper used for text is 70# Exact Text, NaturaL Paper used for 16-page visual art inserts is 70# Cougar Opaque Text, White. The cover is printed on 80# Dull Cover, White. This issue is 144 pages in length.

The editorial process is performed with QuarkXPress Passport 4.1 running on an Apple Aacintosh G4 with MacOS 9.1 operating system. All visual artwork is transferred to elec­ tronic format and toned using Adobe Photoshop 6.0.

Fonts used are: Magazine Title, Barksdale-Maynard Announcement-Garamond arrow; Issue Information on Title Page-Capitals; Table of Contents Heading, Page Headers-Tribune Bold; Table of Contents text, Titles of Works, Attributions, Poem/Story Text, Colophon, Etc.-New Century Schoolbook.

Images of the light bulb illuminates individuality and creativity. Recipients of the Barksdale-Maynard Awards

POETRY Tina Harris

FICTION Catherine Roth Barksdale-Maynard Award • 1 Tina Harris

COLD-EYE CHURCH

The whirl of a fan, a windy boat ride, home-made Popsicles, and wearing my bathing suit all day long cooled me during Alabama summers.

But on the Sabbath I'd sit the hour my flesh chilling till my arms felt like a mannequin's or my mother's. Cold-they weren't mine.

Mraid she'd burn up in the sweat of dance, in the heat of whiskey, Mom froze in church, rebuilding an icicle­ barred cage to keep her in the cool, preserving her for another week.

After, outside, the sun smoothed my goose bumps, but my eyes stayed cold, ice cubes in their tray. Tina Harris

THE JUKE-JOINT SPIRIT

dancing to the goat-butting frenzy music siphoned from the sweat of sunset roses and the blood of dragon belly clouds we're on fire finding a new jump to our waddle while we cross the dance floor knuckle to knuckle handing around the snake that rattles our lungs in swishing smoke while our feet stomp amen again and again the bottle bottoms lifting in praise Barksdale-Maynard Award • 3 Tina Harris

MOZELLE'S SHOES

When I say my feet won't fill her shoes, I mean her snake-skin pumps, her patent leather loafers, her suede boots. I'm not using a metaphor to show you how I'm unable to follow my grandmother's footsteps. I'd never pretend I could stand to go deaf from scarlet fever, to go blind from a husband's slap; I couldn't make my way out of the quiet, the dark to recover sound and sight like she did. I can wear her silk blouses, her belts and rings, yet my feet aren't big enough to sport one pair of the splendid shoes that line her closet. But when you call me by her name, a name that sounds like the bounding of a gazelle, my feet feel moccasined in their own skin, and I know I can leap any fence, run any distance. 4 • Barksdale-Maynard Award

Catherine Roth

LIKE TREES WALKING

For some people it's the moon or the sweet cool air after a summer storm. For some people it may be a child's bare feet sinking into wet sand at the water's edge. But for Vana, it is, and forever will be, Quercus Falcata, the Southern Red Oak. She didn't know it then, though. She couldn't have known it at the beginning of that week. The week when Lark came down with a cold and Mrs. Delhorn went to the Robert Redford Internet Super-Fans Convention in Utah. When Blackbird ran away, crushing Eddie's chances of being the $5,000 grand-prize winner on TV's Funniest Home Videos. The week when she, Vana, began and ended her study of dendrology, all thanks to a stack of used books, a gift from her mother-in-law. "Something to occupy your mind, dear," Mrs. Delhorn thrust the worn paperbacks at Vana in two very tan and very manicured hands. "It's the only thing that keeps me sane day after day, with only Lark to keep me company." Vana had two thoughts, accepting the books from Mrs. Delhorn and putting them on the kitchen counter beside the un-opened mail: first was that Mrs. Delhorn's fingernails were painted the same color as the inside of a spoiled cantaloupe; second was that that was the most un­ grandmotherly thing she had ever heard. Even from Mrs. Delhorn. With only Lark to keep me company. Vana frowned. She had never thought of her daughter as only Lark. "What are you early-birds doing up at this hour on a Sunday morning?" Eddie came down the hallway scratching the side of his face. He was wearing the striped pajamas his mother had given him for Christmas. Vana thought he looked like an overgrown eight-year-old. "Eddie," Vana said, looking at the ceiling instead of at him. She knew he was about to kiss her on the cheek like he did every morning, and that she would lose her chance to scold him about this. He did. Barksdale-Maynard Award • 5

Mrs. Delhorn, not having been the first one kissed good morning, had no problem taking over with the scolding. "Edward Delhorn!" She steered him into a chair at the kitchen table. "We are here to discuss details, details, and you don't even remember what week it is. One week a year I try to take a vacation. One week." "Mama-" Eddie started in lazily, knowing he would be cut off. "With Lark sick, maybe I shouldn't even go. Maybe I shouldn't take this one week out of the entire year to try and enjoy myself. Robert Redford himself couldn't lure me away from the call of my one and only grandchild and so what if he, Robert Redford, is rumored to be making an appearance this week? It is a sacrifice I am willing to make." "Lark is sick?" Eddie, two steps behind, ruined Mrs. Delhorn's dramatic effect. "It's just a cold." Vana sat down at the table and handed Eddie a cup of coffee. "Nothing major, but she won't be able to go to day care this week like we planned. They won't risk getting the regulars sick." "I'll stay." Mrs. Delhorn joined them at the table, dabbing at her eyes with a rumpled Kleenex. "I will not abandon my only grand-" "No," said Vana, too quickly. "It's really not necessary. We already agreed that I'll just take the week off without pay and stay home with Lark." She realized the agreement they had made earlier didn't count now that Eddie was awake. She could also see this wasn't the way to convince Mrs. Delhorn. "I just can't stand the thought of you missing out on Robert Redford himself." She nudged Eddie's foot under the table. ''Yeah, that's really once-in-a-lifetime, Mama. Robert Redford in the flesh." At her son's words, the mass of lines on Mrs. Delhorn's forehead went smooth. She straightened her back and patted at her mass of stiffly sprayed curls. "I have had these reservations for months." "Well," Vana tried to hold the muscles in her face still, but she couldn't keep from smiling, "I better go get Lark up so she can say goodbye. Your flight leaves in two hours." 6 • Barksdale-Maynard Award

Vana found Lark awake in her crib, staring up at a mobile of moons and stars, moving her tiny fingers in an expression of some secret mystery. Vana approached her slowly, aware that she was entering another world. "Morning Lark," she whispered. "Ba." Lark raised her arms to her mother. "Guess what, baby," Vana laid Lark down on the changing table, "Mommy's going to stay with you all week. No work, no grandma. Just me and you." "Badaaa." "That's right. And we're going to have the best week "Robert Redford himself ever. Just me and couldn't lure me away you." from the call of my one "Come on Vana," Eddie called and only grandchild" from the hallway, "Mama's getting ready to leave." Vana fumbled with the sticky tabs on the deandiaper and dal::hed at Lark's runny nose with a wet wipe. She couldn't believe it was actually going to happen. Mrs. Delhorn stood on the front porch, a suitcase on either side of her, Kleenex in hand. Vana thought it looked like a pose she must have seen in a movie once. Rehearsed. "Let me kiss that baby goodbye," Mrs. Delhorn started to tear up again." Just look, her nose is running like a faucet and I'm running off and leaving-" "She'll be fine, I promise." Vana played her part. "Don't forget to say goodbye to Blackbird!" The screen door snapped shut behind Eddie as he walked out onto the porch carrying an enormously fat black cat. "Blackbird, you do your trick for Eddie this week, just once, and you'll be the richest cat in Alabama." Mrs. Delhorn kissed both Blackbird and Eddie repeatedly. Vana felt her jaw tighten and she looked away. She couldn't stand Blackbird-a big lazy animal that sat around and ate all day while Eddie spent half of his free time trying to get it to do a flying leap off of the refrigerator so he could video it and win $5000 on TV's Funniest Home Videos. Vana was pretty sure that Funniest Home Videos Barksdale-Maynard Award • 7

had been cancelled 4 or 5 years ago. That Eddie had been watching re-runs all along. **** By late that afternoon, things were quiet. Quiet in a way that Vana loved, in a way that she thought a family should be quiet. As soon as Eddie had driven off that morning to take Mrs. Delhorn to the airport, Vana had started cleaning. She had taken the ashtray from the front porch and put it in the far corner of the garage. She had picked up the empty packs ofVirginia Slims from under the porch swing and gone through the house collecting celebrity gossip magazines and diet coke cans. She even unplugged the computer, ignoring the screen full of mes­ sages that had popped up for hotgranny56. For one week, Mrs. Delhorn was gone. And now in the quiet afternoon, Lark was napping. Eddie was asleep on the couch in front of the TV and Vana rested on the porch swing. She pulled her legs up Indian-style and sat very still, letting the swing slow down to almost nothing. She was happy. When she could feel no more movement at all in the swing, Vana got up. She let the screen door snap shut behind her and latched it, remembering how Eddie always worried about Blackbird escaping. Walking through the living room, Vana stopped to look at Eddie, asleep there on the couch. A police chase show was blaring on the TV and for a moment, Vana thought Eddie was everything that the screeching tires and sirens weren't. He was all silence and sleep, and in the low sun coming in through the window behind the couch, his hair was completely golden. Mter a moment though, Eddie snorted and Vana noticed an empty diet coke can under the coffee table. She picked it up and went into the kitchen, leaving him there. Sundays were Eddie's only night off from tending bar, and Vana decided to cook a nice family dinner. Normally Mrs. Delhorn treated everyone to a dinner at the Cowhand's Coral Steakhouse on Sundays, but Vana felt a change was in order. She felt it was time for a change.

**** 8 • Barksdale-Maynard Award

Monday was different than any other Monday Vana could remember. Instead of waking up to the obnoxious beeping of her alarm clock at 7:00a.m. and having Eddie drop her off at Allen, Arden, and Ernest, C.P.A.'s, where she was a receptionist, she just woke up. She woke up and just stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, wondering what to do. The decision made itself when she heard Lark starting to cry. Looking at the hall clock on her way to Lark's room, she saw that it was 7:45 and realized this must be what Mrs. Delhorn did every morning. She had never thought about it before. She didn't want to think about it now. Vana knew something was wrong when she got to Lark's doorway. Lark was lying in her crib with her fists balled up, fussing. Picking her up out of the crib, Vana tried to comfort Lark, but was distressed by the warmth of her baby's body. Her nose, Vana noticed while she changed the dirty diaper, was running like a faucet. "Don't freak out, Vana," Eddie said in the kitchen a few minutes later, "just get her to the doctor." Vana wondered begrudgingly if this was his idea of comforting her. But then, looking at him holding Lark, swaying back and forth, she realized she wasn't the one who needed comforting just now. Mter dropping Eddie off at the department store where he worked part-time, Vana and Lark went to the pediatrician's office to sit and wait. And wait. And wait. In the "sick child" waiting room, Vana watched an eight­ year-old with long pigtails and her mother. The pigtailed girl, all red-cheeked from fever, laid her head in her mother's lap, her mother softly stroking her hair. Just the movement of the mother's hand on the child's head was soothing to Vana, across the waiting room. For a second she was eight-years-old again and the sleeping baby in her lap was her favorite doll. She was almost surprised when Lark squirmed. This was a real baby. She was a real mother. "Delhorn," the nurse finally called, "Lake Delhorn?" "Lark," Vana said, following the nurse down the hallway. The nurse gave her a look of amusement that Vana figured was supposed to come across as a warm smile. The on-call doctor was a woman in her early forties. Vana wondered, watching her hands and eyes move over Barksdale-Maynard Award • 9

Lark's body, if she was a mother. She studied with interest and envy the lines in the doctor's face. The softness. They seemed to convey a wisdom that Vana didn't know if she'd ever have. **** By the time they got home from the doctor's office and the drugstore, the sun was high and beamed off the hood of the car as Vana pulled into the driveway. She pulled Lark out of her car-seat and hurried inside to give her the first dose of medicine the doctor had prescribed for her sinus infection. Lark wrinkled her nose at the medicine and drifted almost immediately back into the nap she'd begun in the car. Vana put her to bed and, walking back into the living room, stubbed her toe on the coffee table. Hard. She sat down on the sofa and cried. A sinus infection, Vana knew, was not such a big deal. But this medicine Lark had been prescribed was supposed to make her sleep all the time for several days. Vana was crushed. The one week she had to spend with her daughter was now to be spent basically alone. Vana sunk into a self-pity-themed daydream and remained there until she heard the VCR click on. Mrs. Delhorn had set it to record her soaps. Vana toyed with the idea of turning the television on and watching just a little bit of her mother-in-law's favorite daytime drama, but she thought better of it and went into the kitchen. Eddie's breakfast dishes were in the sink and pamphlets from the pediatrician's office and pharmacy in too-small-to-read print littered the counter tops. Vana cleared everything away and sat down at the kitchen table with the stack of paperbacks Mrs. Delhorn had left her. Slowly, she looked at each one, holding them in her hands and feeling their worn, smoothed covers and pages. She wanted to believe they would be her salvation for the week. Then she began to read the backs. One was a romance. A British ballerina and an American archaeologist end up in the same lifeboat after a cruise ship sinks. Ick. Next was Year of the Goat: What the Chinese Zodiac Can Mean for YOU. Vana couldn't remember, but thought she was a rabbit or something and 10 • Barksdale-Maynard Award that if she were a goat, she wouldn't want to read a book about it anyway. Two more romances and a book about the cabbage soup diet later, Vana got to the last book. A plain white cover with green block letters: Trees and Shrubs of the South. Mter looking over the options one more time, Vana decided that it would be trees. Trees would be her topic of interest for the week while Lark slept, and Eddie worked, and Mrs. Delhorn and the Internet Super-Fans played pin the tail on a Robert Redford paper cutout in a hotel conference room. Vana read the introduction and found that what she would be learning would be dendrology-the naming of trees. She began that afternoon.

**** By mid-morning the next day, Vana was thoroughly engrossed in her study of tree-naming. She hooked up the baby monitor out on the porch and sat on the front steps reading page after page of picture and name. Every once in awhile, a noise, most often Eddie's cat Blackbird clawing at the screen door, would distract her, and she'd start to think about something else. About the way Eddie had looked at her when, in the wee hours of the morning, Lark had cried. Vana, in her half-waking state had sighed and turned over to ignore the sound, and in doing so, had met Eddie's eyes. He had looked so disappointed, Vana thought. No, disgusted. And why shouldn't he be, she thought, a mother ignoring her child? Trains of thought like this, ones that couldn't go on without significant pain or possible self-realization, led Vana right back into her dendrology book. Right back into this world of naming she was quickly becoming infatuated with. She found the name for a vine she was particularly fond of, one that curled and gripped about one corner of the front porch. It was called Bittersweet, celeastracease. Vana thought the name beautiful and fitting. And powerful. It occurred to her, looking at the bittersweet, its leaves moving slightly in the soft breeze, that you could never really love a thing without naming it. She thought of Lark, her naming. It had become official in the hospital, but Vana had known for months. Barksdale-Maynard Award • 11 She had felt so trapped under the circumstances she was in, her every bit of energy and every dream she ever had to be redirected when she had become pregnant. Without her parents' support, she had moved in with Eddie and his mother, had grown this baby inside of her, and she was determined that this child would have wings. She had kept quiet about the name she had chosen and about most other things during her pregnancy. It was strange living with Eddie and especially with Mrs. Delhorn, who was constantly comparing her to Mary. Just pondering things quietly in her heart, she had said, too bad she messed up on the virgin part. When it came down to the name, Eddie didn't care, seeing as how a girl couldn't be named after him. Mrs. Delhorn was set on Angelica Marie, but for all her efforts, there was no changing Vana's mind. Never mind how small she felt in the hospital bed, how cold under the fluorescent lights, she was certain about the name. Lark it was. Putting her book down and going inside to answer Lark's cries, Vana was gladder than ever that she had named her daughter. A name, she assured herself, is one of the most important things about a person. Lifting Lark out of her crib, Vana wished there were more of her in Lark than the name she'd given her and her water blue eyes, the only physical attribute they had in common. She sometimes felt such a distance from this person, this child, who looked exactly like Eddie and his mother, all blonde and curls, minus their brown eyes. It was as if the family formed a puzzle that Vana didn't fit into. **** By the fourth day of Mrs. Delhorn's absence, Lark was almost completely over her illness. She was back to being her normal, sweet, demanding self. Things between Vana and Eddie though, weren't normal at all. "Could you put that damn book down and change her diaper?" Eddie yelled through the screen door. He was in the kitchen with the video camera in one hand and a can of tuna in the other, trying to coax the cat off the top of the refrigerator. 12 • Barksdale-Maynard Award

"Why don't you put the damn cat down and do it yourself?" she countered. "Well you're not going to win five thousand dollars reading about trees, are you?" Vana groaned and went inside, giving Eddie the sourest look she could muster. ''You know, if Mama were here-" Vana stopped in her tracks. She had known this would happen at some point. Through her actions, she had almost challenged Eddie to say it. Now that he had, though, she wasn't quite sure how to react. So she just turned to face him and glared. He glared back. Mter a long silence, she turned and walked over to the playpen and picked up Lark, who babbled happily all the way to the changing table. Lark was still in a good mood that night while Eddie was at work. She was happy and sweet, as long as she was being held. Vana kept trying to slyly put Lark down on the couch with some toys, but Lark screamed more loudly with each attempt. And Vana grew more frustrated with each scream. She had an intense desire for her own space, her own body, just for herself. She felt now like a vessel, an object for use by her daughter. For her daughter's comfort, her daughter's happiness. It was an overwhelming pressure, this dependent being needing from her all the time. Eventually they both tired from their efforts and fell asleep together on the couch. With her daughter's head curled softly in the curve of her neck, Vana dreamed of trees. **** The next few days went by in a sort of haze for Vana. She was reading more and more, memorizing now the names of trees. Eddie, she noticed, had started to help out more with Lark. Rather than being thankful, she resented his efforts as an insult to her mothering skills. One morning when Eddie didn't have to work, Vana got up early to read her book on the front porch. She stopped in the kitchen to start some coffee and found the video camera on the counter next to an open can of sardines. So that's what he had been up late doing. She impulsively began to walk to the bedroom, planning to wake him up, scold him Barksdale-Maynard Award • 13 harshly, just for caring so much about the ridiculous cat video. But when she reached the doorway, she stopped. Eddie's long, lean body stretched diagonally across the bed, his wild yellow curls spread on the white pillowcase. And in an instant she saw him as Yellow Poplar, Magnoliaceae liriodendron tulipifera. Tall, straight trunk, golden foliage. Eddie as a tree. Vana turned and walked slowly outside. There was a hush over the rest of the day. Eddie made sandwiches for lunch; he wanted to have a picnic on "looking at the bittersweet, the front lawn. its leaves moving slightly in Vana agreed; any the soft breeze, that you anger she had could never really love a toward him had fallen away, but thing without naming it" there was a strange quietness about her that didn't go unnoticed. "What's going on, Vana? Hungry?" Eddie dangled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of her face. She was staring down at Lark, who sat propped between them on the grass. She had been unable to name it and then she realized, Great Rhododendron, Ericaceae rhododendron maximum. She whispered the words with great relish. This was Lark, all sweetness, round and plump in her pink dress. Then Lark began to cry. She looked at Vana, her pale blue eyes seeming to flow out with her tears. Eddie, looking confused, picked up the paper plates and napkins and went inside. "Come in when you're ready," he said quietly. ****

The next day Mrs. Delhorn returned. Her flight came in at noon, and Eddie took Lark with him to pick her up. Vana stayed behind, ostensibly to tidy up the house. And she did try to clean. She stood in the middle of the living room, but she couldn't bring herself to think, or even move, other than to take Trees and Shrubs of the South, and go out on the front porch. She hadn't been there long, repeating the names in her head, when Blackbird started scratching on the screen 14 • Barksdale-Maynard Award and yowling mournfully. She could reach the door from where she was. She leaned back and opened it. Blackbird stepped out tentatively. "Go," Vana said, "go away." Blackbird went. Vana watched the cat disappear into the next door neighbor's shrubs. She wanted to think of a tree name for him, but she couldn't. She couldn't think of anything at all and a lump formed in her throat. Before she knew it she was crying openly. There on the front steps, the front porch, she cried. She bent over and put her face on her knees, her back heaving with sobs. Mter a long while she ran out of energy, and her tears subsided to a whimper. As she lifted her head to rest it on her hands, a car drove slowly by. It was a station wagon, probably looking for a kid's birthday party or some­ thing, and in the back seat was a little girl. Vana saw the girl's head turn as she passed. Saw herself being seen there, her face wet and strained from crying. Barefoot. A paperback book at her feet. And Vana wondered at the look on the girl's face. It may as well have been Vana, her child-self. The mixture of empathy and curiosity that would have washed over her own face for a moment, had she passed a similar scene. She'd have felt sorry for the woman, crying on her porch on a Saturday morning, maybe even said a prayer for her, before forgetting her altogether as the car drove on. Tears began to form again in Vana's eyes and she stared through them vacantly at the spot where the car had been. But in its place, she saw across the street to the tree standing in the vacant lot. A mighty, tall trunk, all strength and grace, spreading out into full green leaves. The Southern Red Oak, Quercus falcata. Through her tears and the jerking of her body as she sobbed, it looked to Vana as if the tree were moving. She imagined it picking up roots and walking. And then she took a deep breath, thinking that trees can't walk, after all. She was very still for a moment before a smile came over her face. The hard laughter that followed lasted several minutes and mingled with the remainder of her tears. There she was, crying and laughing on the front porch. About Lark and Eddie. About Mrs. Delhorn and Barksdale-Maynard Award • 15 the little girl and about trees walking. About the things that life required of her, Vana. And she realized, straight­ ening her spine and wiping her palms on the sleeves of her T-shirt, that she wasn't equipped for any of these things that her life called for. For being a mother, a partner. For unselfishly meeting the needs of others. No, she wasn't equipped at all. She couldn't be. Any more than Eddie could be. Any more than Mrs. Delhorn could be or anyone in the state of Alabama or the world could be. And there on the front porch, the front steps, barefoot and bleary­ eyed, she did what anyone would do. What everyone does. Like a tree picking up roots and walking, Vana stood. 16 • Aura poetry James Fahy

CYCLIST.

I could have been a Cyclist With deep pockets Stinking with release And fleshy parts Flaking off.

A poison to metal Perhaps A treatment That hardens Before it Extracts below.

A poisonous blue blur An ester Still But quick To react And desquamate. Leaving Rife A crisp trail Of potential turns For collection And regret. Aura poetry• 17 James Fahy

CHART.

I feel a new feeling in my throat. Dry Like my eyes are dry But unlike the seat of my pants Which were soaking from an accident That I had earlier that day The one that set me off The one that has left me crippled Or should I say The one that wants me to cripple The one that wants to make sure that I will never be the same way again The one that will put my foot in front of my foot The one that will ensure that this dance will end before it begins Clumsy but surreptitiously Rending those maps with the numbered feet Moving in a pattern that makes as much sense to me Now As baby talk And that's how they'll find me Mter I've done it Mter I have finally broken through They will find my walls As charts And they will see my foot prints a combination of Mud and force and a pattern of retention (or lack thereof) From the sole of my shoe And they will trace My clumsy dance over Before it began Step by step As it went from the back door From those wet steps 18 • Aura poetry

To my desk To a pane of glass To a wall Down the hallway Into the bathroom Where I could take a good long look And could again Ask myself the same questions That will be asked soon By those choreographers Well versed in how naturally things fall Who looking One foot behind the other Until they find that first number Or letter Or however they might exhibit That last dance Those choreographers Will find the beginning And make there way Back and forth Through my last dance As an example of how I left things In the bathroom Unfinished. Aura poetry • 19 Josh Goldman

REFLEcnON ON FRANCIS BACON'S ''BLooD ON THE FLooR''

I. all lost all lost. where is he? the face that broke my hand, the eyes wide with empathy. drop. pool. trail. river. sea and ocean of red then, and now turning to rust. here. he is not here. here in the fire orange sun space. on the way out he turned on the light, praying his blood to stay. come and get me he said. come and get me I ask.

II. There is no sheet to absorb the blood and to be later thrown crumpled and crusted in the corner behind the bed to be flaked off and carried away by small beings with six and eight legs.

III. desolation demands blame. blame the floor. 20 • Aura poetry

Josh Goldman

TRACTOR SHED

Mamaw said that when she was healthier she went to the tractor shed to find kittens before their eyes could open and chop off their heads with an old butchering knife.

But before it got that far, before no one would take the cats anymore, Mamaw would go out with plates of scraps to lure them from behind stacks of readers digests and other leavings so that some woman from the humane society, burlap sack in hand, could snatch them up and carry them off.

Now, when she's allowed to stay at home for two weekends out of each month, Mamaw cooks pots of roast, butter beans, and greens; and after she and whichever son 'has her this weekend' have finished eating, Mamaw carries out the rest­ four or five plates with equal servings from each pot-and lays it outside the back door.

And from a couple hundred feet away, stepping out from behind the reason for the shed-an old Ford 800-a young kitten, eyes just opened, catches the scent of roast and sides wafting through a field in need of bush hoggin' and gingerly picks her way through fifty years of scraps as she heads toward the house. Aura poetry• 21

Kristi Houk

6:30A.M.

6:30A.M. Bed head and blurry eyed, We travel east and watch morning break As brown buildings mix with Easter egg blue Sky. Thursday- This is when the week feels long and I keep determined babies waiting for You to bring lunch. Standing at the front door And listening for your car (bad muffler), I am distracted by winter sun as it Lands on faraway trees making them Glisten in daylight. Color oozes from the porch, Two cornflower swing back chairs beg to Be used by a couple sipping tea- Making plans among the crisp, mid-morning Shadows. Beads align a star made of window Screen by a child's hand. Crystal buttons of gold and florescent Green dangle in tune with the pewter wind chimes. 22 • Aura poetry Kristi Houk

THis SUMMER

This Summer, Days are carving themselves out of rainclouds. Monday, Picked blackberries Squeezed into a peanut butter jar. A gift For breaking his heart Into a million burnished Black-Eyed Susans. Dried roses flay from a vase. A gift, For a fake smile Crushing expected promises. July is a wash, A clean slate. A room, With two white chairs, A guitar and a saved message Slurred on an answering machine. Aura art • 23

untitled

Sharon Casady 24 • Aura art

dice

Carissa Andrews Aura art • 25

Jesus

Andrews 26 • Aura art

untitled

Brittany Annistead Aura art • 27

self portrait as an empty room

Armistead 28 • Aura art

empty

Sharon Casady Aura art • 29

alone

Casady 30 • Aura art

untitled

Erin Chlldress Aura art • 31

untitled

Childress 32 • Aura art

untitled Dustin Creech Aura art • 33

untitled

Creech 34 • Aura art

messanger

Christopher Dang Aura art • 35

waiting

Dang 36 • Aura art

untitled Aura art • 37

untitled

Freeman 38 • Aura art

Flight

Emlly Hunter Aura poetry • 39

Ashley Hulsey

LOOKING FOR WILD EDffiLES

We stop first in the front yard. There are things we can't talk about. I wake up white as the ceiling and that blank. The sunlight draws little streaks on your face and I don't think it's pretty. Green is a color for all the things we're looking for. And those things roll across yards and vacant lots. Green is not my body opening in tightly rolled leaves unfurling. It's henbit with purple horns and sticky cleavers which pull easily. A small field of red clover. Spiky dandelion greens. Prickly lettuce. Clumps of drooping violets we pluck the heads of. I am not a flower, I want to tell you, though secretly I'm afraid I might be. I am a massive tower, a loblolly, a pick. In the center are the new leaves, the most pale and tender. They are wet. They glow. 40 • Aura poetry Ashley Hulsey

CAMP BAPTISM

A series of waterfalls empties into this deep pool on Kelly Creek where Brother Rick's broad shoulders bend over me and I am praying hard: please let them think I'm pretty. There is a small audience, after all, here at Winnetaska, gangly on the banks in their short-shorts and tans. Jesus himself knew how to play the crowd. When John yanked him from immersion to emergence, he broke the sky open, let out a dove better than David Copperfield ever could. To top that off, God spoke out loud, put all doubts to rest. It will be years before I know who I am. If there is a clue under this water I come up without it, wondering if Kenny, youth group's teen idol with his tank top full of muscles, is watching, when I come back to the air from the water, teased rooster puff flattened on the forehead where it stood, mascara bruises pooling, smelling of Miss Clairol and creek. Aura poetry• 41

Ashley Hulsey

THAT GIRL

The girl on the strip with the full moon eyes asks twenty-four year old me if I've taken Christ as my personal Savior. Many times, I say, feeling drunk and witty, remembering my numb knees in the church that looked like a casino and the droning music that pulled me out of my seat almost every week, and up the royal red aisle where brides dragged their trains on Saturdays. I was sucked like a pea through a straw. If there is any sin in your heart, he always said from the clear glass podium, his dark hair a faraway gleam spot on the red stage. There always was, I figured, sin in my heart, or at least there might be and why take chances? How many times after all, was a girl given permission to cry? Especially considering how often a girl wants to. Into the act of contrition she could feed her crushes, her chewed on lip, her binges, and the hunger that dragged all night. The altar slept below her like a passive animal. She rubbed against its red fur, knowing it couldn't smell the puke on her breath or see the finger that brought it there. Who is that girl, I want to go back and ask the Christian girl on the strip, who is that puking, crying girl? 42 • Aura poetry

Regan Huff

NOCHE DE LOS MUERTOS

The island was a throb of people. I had hoped to blow a kiss to you in air, to put wind in your ethereal sails. But ten-gallon drums of burning gas marked the ascent, and crowded the night with smoke. Like bees of some marvelous green and red the launches were perfectly spaced, strung in an inexorable procession from shore. That's when I realized I could leave-not waiting for the marigolds or the candles in the graveyard or the fight over everything. Is this what it felt like for you? The flat boat skimming a wedge of foam out of black water, and utter glee as the island recedes, the voices give way to the stars, and only a cone oflights demands its title as a goal, a destination, a place of desire-

but less and less, more bearable from a distance and in the clean air-and the statue at the pinnacle with one arm raised says something like aloha, it says hello and goodbye in the same ceaseless gesture. Aura poetry• 43

Regan Huff

FoR THE RoYAL MusEUM

Curiosity killed the fox. Well, in fact, Darwin killed the fox, but curiosity led it to sit so still marveling at what men had washed up on its shores. 44 • Aura poetry Regan Huff

DARWIN'S OBSERVATIONS ON THE GENUS HOMO

These people have skills, and some a code of honor.

A naked man on a naked horse is a fine thing.

The natives can see farther than we can. Aura poetry- ~5

Regan Huff

THE THIRD BEETLE

Having pried off bark and found two rare beetles, he clasped one in each hand: then he saw a third trying to think fast he put the beetle from his right hand in his mouth and reached for the third beetle; just then the beetle in his mouth acted in its own defense, squirting a fluid that burned Darwin's tongue, causing him to spit out the beetle in his mouth as well as lose the third beetle but the beetle firmly clasped in the left hand he did take home 46 • Aura memoir

Cathy Ledbetter

THE KNIGHT WATCHMAN

"I went to the Dairy Mart and I never saw you there," my brother, Joe, said from his bedroom. Lying in the dark, in his black hole of a bedroom, his voice kept ringing out to contradict my lies and cause me to hang myself. My mother and I were having a serious question and answer contest. Earlier in the evening, a boy from -chool had called and asked me to go with him to the Dairy Mart. Johnny was a year older than me; he was in the same grade as my brother. They were both sophomores. After thinking it over, Mother said he could come to our ouse and visit. But when he arrived, he said, "Let's go over to the Dairy Mart." Mother didn't appreciate that change; she consented, but only after taking my arm and pulling me aside to my bedroom. There she strictly warned me not to go parking with him. That had never cro~-e d my mind. It had crossed his mind because he drove straight to e local parking spot, Self's Lake. We never went to the Dairy Mart. I was nervous and worrying about Mother finding out. I didn't even want to tlrink about Daddy knowing fd gone parking. It especially wasn't worth it, because I really didn't like Johnny that much. He started saying the tb--ual things boys said. I was na'ive, but I hadn't listened to two older sisters' talk for nothing. I could tell by his smug ace that he thought things were going to go pretty well. His smooth words were embarrassing to me but he seemed o get more impressed with himself as he went on. I could tell he had used these old lines before. Oh, my beauty, (I was fourteen years old) my wonderful body, (I weighed 83 pounds) my fascinating personality, (I had hardly spoken; I hadn"t had the chance) my perfume, (I wasn't wearing any.) I was miserable. I vaguely felt as if I was being set up for something, but my mind was dwelling on the fact that I would be eligible for Medicare when I would be allowed to date again. I wanted to go home, but I was nice. Too nice to just say, "I want to leave." Aura memoir • 47

The only thing he wanted to leave was his seat. He scooted over the console and continued his speech. His breath nearly singed my eyebrows. He had been eating salami, no doubt. I kept pushing him away and trying to avoid his lips. It took him waaaay too long, but he finally caught on that I was not interested. Knowing him, he probably consoled himself with the excuse that I was too young and inexperienced to know how to kiss. That much was true. My only experience with kissing was with a neighbor boy, when our whole family walked down to the Woodall's for a party where we lived in Meridian. I was thirteen years old and having fun until Kenneth Davis tackled me in the backyard and held me down in the dirty, wet leaves. Kenneth was six feet tall and had carrot red hair. The only thing attractive about him was the fact that he played guitar in a band. He eventually removed my fingernails from his eyeballs and kissed me hard. It was then that I noticed Joe's tennis shoes right beside my face. Joe told Kenneth to get up. He did and I thought Joe would kill him. Yes! No, he told Kenneth to pay him his fifty cents. Joe, a pimp? That was a mighty poor excuse for a first kiss. So I didn't know much about kisses, even if I had wanted to kiss Johnny. I admit to ignorance but wasn't I supposed to be involved somehow or at least be willing? I finally convinced Johnny that I was not supposed to stay out very long (always put the blame on the parents) and he drove us home. I quickly jumped out of his car and said good-bye. If my dad had been home, that would have been a serious breach of conduct for Johnny and me, because my dad was of the opinion that a boy should walk a girl to the door. That is when the interrogation with Mother started. ''Where did y'all go?" Mother quietly asked. "To the Dairy Mart." I lied much too quickly. "I went to the Dairy Mart and I never saw you there." Said the evil cretin from his abyss. ''Well, we also went up to the tennis courts." Whew, that sounded pretty good. I think she bought it. "I went to the tennis courts too and I never once saw you there," said the devil. Why was he doing this to me? How many times had I covered up for him or just kept quiet about what he did? 48 • Aura memoir "Well, we didn't actually play tennis, really, we just drove by there, and then we went to Teresa's house." I squeaked. "Teresa was at the Dairy Mart!" There was pure joy in his voice. I will get him back, I promised myself the very next time I see a pack of Marlboros fall down from his sun visor. "I, uh, that is, when we left, uh .... " She knew. Mother's dear face looked so disappointed. I could take anything but that. "Mother, I know you said not to go parking, but that is right where we went." I figured the best thing I could do was come clean. I could never lie very good; the guilt on my face gave me away. The look on her face made me feel even worse. Besides not minding her, I had tried to lie out of it. She was upset. I couldn't have a life for a month. I slinked to my bedroom. I undressed and fumed "It was a miracle that my as I put on my pajamas. lungs held up as I took Johnny sure wasn't screaming to a fine art" worth this. Joe was always trying to watch over me, to be some kind of watchdog. I secretly believed he was guilty of heinous crimes since he was so distrustful of boys who came around. What meanness was he guilty of? What about all the times he went swimming and I didn't tell on him? What about when I smelled beer on him, and tried to distract everybody to make sure he got through the kitchen and to his bedroom before he was found out? What about all the cigarettes he'd smoked and I never tattled about them? We were close in age: twenty months apart. Mother said when we were babies, he would take my bottle and put his hands over his eyes and suck my bottle. His thinking I suppose, was that since he couldn't see us, we couldn't see him. We played cars together but never dolls. He harassed me, pulled my dolls' heads off by the hair, threatened my cats, and would spray me in the face with the water hose. When I'd yell, "MAMA!" He would act as if he had called her, because while staring straight at me, he would yell with a smile in Aura memoir• 49 his voice, "Cathy won't leave me alone!" I'd start screaming again. It was a miracle that my lungs held up as I took screaming to a fine art. Because, later, as he learned to drive, or rather learned to hotrod, it was a carnival ride to go to school with him. He was a very quick, talented driver or we'd never have lived to graduate. On our way to school, he'd swerve and take turns on two wheels. His little black MG was so low on the ground that when we'd turn the comer to go up to the school, my door that would never latch properly, would swing open and I got a real close-up view of the road. By the last period of school, I would have calmed down enough to crawl back in the car with him. The only alternative was to ride the school bus. It's hard to look cool on the big cheese. So I would ride with him, wave to my friends and try to look cool as if I was riding with a normal driver for the sixty seconds it took us to get off campus. But once away from school, it was a trifle harder to look cool hanging onto Joe so I wouldn't fly out of his MG. As we neared our house, I 'd watch him discreetly, and see that determined leer make its way across his fair face and I would know we were heading up the bank. The bank was a small mountain of packed dirt on the right side of our road. As we neared it, I would scream that I wanted out, I'd walk the rest of the way. "I'm not going up that bank one more time! I want out! I'm telling Mother!" I'd scream as we drove so far up the bank I thought we'd turn over. Joe was plastered against his door, his blonde hair flying everywhere. I was trying to stay inside the car now, holding onto my door handle with both hands. My mother said for years my screaming was how she knew we were about to be home. I was strictly forbidden to scream when we rode his Yamaha 100 motorcycle. I was not allowed to scream if dogs chased us and nearly bit my legs, even if their slob­ bering fangs grazed my poor ankles. It took all my will power to refrain from screaming in his ear. I'd hold on tight, my arms around his waist, my eyes squeezed shut, then I'd press my nose between his shoulder blades and pray. When he leaned so close to the road to take a turn I would nearly faint. One day I leaned the opposite way to make sure we stayed upright. He nearly killed me then, 50 • Aura memoir and said I could never ride with him again. Well, thank God for small favors! He said I just didn't understand gravity and dynamics or something. But once when my leg accidentally rubbed against the muffler, I did scream hysterically right in his ear. My screams must have unnerved even the implacable Joe, because he slid in the gravel and we wrecked as we turned in our driveway, our bodies skidding all over the rocks. Small rocks were imbedded in our faces, palms, elbows, and knees. Bloody, he stood there considering finishing me off, I could tell. It wouldn't have taken much, between the rocks, blood loss, skinless face and arms, and now a huge blister forming on my calf. I still had the presence of mind left, for once to keep my mouth shut. I had to ride with him in his MG or Nova, though. He took me to cheerleader practice, the basketball and football games and to school every day. On one of our trips to school, before we got to the sharp turn, as we were riding down Highway 278, right in front of Scrugg's truck stop, a truck was pulling out in front of and toward us. There was nothing for Joe to do but swerve in the truck stop's parking lot, where we hit a parked truck. The trucks were illegally parked too close to the road. A few inches over and we'd have hit the gas tank, inches the other way, we'd have been decapitated, the police later said. I hit the dash and my head broke the windshield. My hair was hanging out of the cracks. I came to with Joe calling my name. Waiting on the police to arrive, Joe, so big and tough stood out by the road as all our friends drove by, holding my hand. He did care, and I knew it. He defended me and watched over me. If someone picked on me at school, he quickly put a stop to it. Once, I confided in Joe that it hurt my feelings when a friend told me that my hair was fine and not nearly so thick as hers was. As gruff as Joe could be, it startled me when he came to my defense with: "At least your hair doesn't look coarse like a horse's taillike hers." Sometimes it felt as though it was the two of us against our parents. Our father countenanced no disobedience. There was an unwritten rule within our family: No matter how despicable we were to each other, how low and sneaky Aura memoir• 51 the fight, never, ever tattle on each other to Daddy. We do not involve the dad. If we lived, we would regret it. We could tattle on each other to Mother all day long, but self­ preservation prevented us from including Daddy in our skirmishes. We have had many knock-down-drag-out fights in the back seat of a car and never made a sound. Joe and I both would be bleeding, teeth, hair, and eyeballs getting ripped out; all achieved in complete and unnatu­ ral silence. "It was difficult with With our strict my books to modestly parents, in order to join mount the back of his our friends for parties or motorcycle wearing a swimming, it took some pretty slick finagling on short skirt, stockings our parts. One afternoon and heels" after school, as I walked to the MG to roller-coaster home, Joe met me and asked me if I'd please ask a friend to take me home. He had this one chance to go swimming, and if he went home first, he wouldn't get to go. Did he say, please? This meek Joe wanted a favor? From me? Joe normally gave the orders, not requests. I liked this new Joe so I said I would find a way home. I quickly realized most of my friends had left already. I walked to the store and saw a boy I knew sitting on his motorcycle, beside the gas tanks. I was truly worried now about getting home so I asked him if he'd take me home, even though I barely knew him. He told me to jump on the back. It was difficult with my books to modestly mount the back of his motorcycle wearing a short skirt, stockings and heels. He missed the turn to my house; I tapped him on the shoulder then pointed to my left, and yelled that he should have turned. No answer. I punched him then and told him he had to turn around. He immediately swerved into the woods where he drove wild and fast. I did some screaming then that even Joe had never heard. He finally stopped and turned the motor off. He threw one big leg over the seat and stood beside me, looking me in the eyes; his unwavering stare ordering me to accept my fate. Fear kept me silent. He then told me to get off the motorcycle. I shook my head no. I wasn't going to go down without a fight. He told me again 52 • Aura memoir to get off the motorcycle and he would turn it around. I refused. My eyes darted down the long, wooded path and I wondered if I could outrun him in these heels. As I glanced back at him, his cruel eyes told me I'd never make it. He changed tactics then and whined for me to get off so we could go. He convinced me that I would have to get off before he could turn the motorcycle around in these woods. As soon as I had both feet on the ground, he pounced on me. While I was flat on my back, on the rocks and dirt clods, he shoved my skirt up nearly It was considerably harder to my neck. I bit him, punched his to scream now with his butt face with one fist pressing my ribs into my and tried to shove backbone, but these were his windpipe through his ugly no amateur lungs. neck with the other, all the time trying to kick him, especially where Joe had told me I should in just such an emergency. Then he sat down on top of me! It was considerably harder to scream now with his butt pressing my ribs into my backbone, but these were no amateur lungs. I started praying in earnest out loud now, though I could no longer scream. This boy wasn't listening but the Lord was, because suddenly, the beast stood up and said he would take me home. With false courage, I huffed no he would not. He followed me as I tried to smooth my muddy skirt down while stumbling my way out of the woods and down the road for at least a mile. Tormenting thoughts badgered me, the main one being that this heathen would change his mind and attack me again. There were no houses around us and I had a long way yet to walk. I was hurting and too worn out from being manhandled to listen to him begging me not to tell Joe or my daddy. He finally gave up and sped off. Now I'd try to concentrate on what I'd do once I got home. I prayed all the way home that no one would find out and that no one would be home when I got there. Since that hardly ever happened, it was another real miracle that my mother, daddy, or little brother was not home. If they'd been home, Joe and I both would have been caught, Aura memoir• 53 because my parents would have demanded to know where Joe was and why I walked home. I hoped they wouldn't be home so I wouldn't have to tell what had happened because I thought this might be the scenario: Joe would get the beating of his life for not coming home and bringing me home as he was supposed to. I would be next in trouble for asking this acquaintance to bring me home. Daddy might think I brought this on myself. Next, Joe and Daddy would go hunting this would-be rapist and probably would mutilate him and his family. Then, the whole town would know what happened. The embarrassment would not be worth it. I kept quiet and avoided him at school. I have never told Joe. I learned to be more cautious and stick a little closer to Joe. I listened to him at a bonfire at the school when we were in a big group of people, as he sidled up next to me and in an odd voice whispered, ''You are not to get in the car with Hank." A quick search ofhis face told me he wasn't just bullying me or making a suggestion. His eyes were beseech­ Joe would get the beat­ ing me to listen this ing of his life for not time. The watchman coming home and stayed alert. He had bringing me home as heard the boy make some comments. Joe's he was supposed to. protection and sense of responsibility humbled me. On the afternoon with the beast, I would have been glad to see his old watchdog face. He wasn't so bad. Maybe Joe was correct in his distrust of boys around his sisters. How was I to know? I hadn't had to be without him much before. I decided there were just too many weirdos in this world and I had managed all on my own to meet two, three if you count the redheaded guy in Meridian. As I thought back to the beast in the woods and this creep named Johnny, I thought Joe was really a knight in shining armor for me. He was my older brother and my friend. He did what he could to keep me out of harm's way. One thing was for sure: By fighting with me, he sure had taught me to fight back and to make screaming a science. He would not allow me to be a sissy. He meant well. I can't stay mad at 54 • Aura memoir him because I wasn't at the right place tonight. Joe was really all right. Then again, maybe he wasn't all right, because as I got in bed, the heathen laughed, "I never even left the house!" Aura art • 55

vision

Christopher Dang 56 • Aura art

The Stare

Cheryl Gordon Aura art • 57

seekers

Gordon 58 • Aura art

The Eyes Have It

April Garzarek Aura art • 59

The Eyes Have It

Garzarek 60 • Aura art

untitled Aura · • 61

untitled

Grayson 62 • Aura art

untitled

Beth Harding Aura art • 63

untitled

Lindsay Mouyal 64 • Aura art

Four Trunks Brendan Helmuth Aura art • 65

Cactus

Helmuth 66 • Aura art

untitled Lynn Ledbetter Aura art • 67

untitled

Ledbetter 68 • Aura art

symbols2

Nicole Marshall Aura art • 69

symbo/s3

Marshall 70 • Aura art

untitled Sharon Casady Aura poetry• 71

Clifton D. Kelly

GoD WILL BUILD FROM THE RUINs

"God Will Build From the Ruins" the sign says and I wonder, "Which ruins?"

Scattered stones obediently pile back up, crumbling arches, tumbled walls, fallen towers slowly straighten their spines.

Atlantis resurfaces, rivulets streaming from curved silver skyscrapers and running along mirrored sidewalks.

Pompeii rises from the ash, her people shaking off the gray dust and carrying on.

In Hiroshima the silent, deadly light flashes back into itself, leaving in its wake a bustling city. 72 • Aura poetry

Clifton D. Kelly

INFATUATION

With Greg it was cherry vanilla ice cream on the 4th and his elbow against mine in the movies. He got fat later. Justin was a cloud of smoke and gold earrings flashing in the sun. He was into rap metal and had been in rehab. My parents couldn't stand him. Jeremy was all bare pees and boxers peeking over baggy jeans. He flirted with cheerleaders and waitresses, then slid his hand down my pants in the O'Charley's parking lot. A walking Abercrombie ad, dumb as a brick. David had ocean-blue eyes and flannel sheets. I loved his 4 A.M. theology and listening to his heart beat against my ear. We sometimes spooned in his fiance's bed. Fucking tease. Will read Updike and Shakespeare, played Counting Crows on guitar. We spent nights in his dorm room discussing our future as artists, our untimely deaths, our posthumous critical recognition. He transferred to some school in Florida to get his MBA. Aura poetry • 73

Tommy was church hymnals and Bible studies. We took road trips and talked about miracles, held hands when we prayed. I watched him drive off with my sister in a shower of rice. I kept looking long after he was gone. 74 • Aura poetry

Clifton D. Kelly

AFTER THE DARKNESS

Of all the terrible wonders that have passed these last days, the darkness was the worst.

Still, my father does not believe.

The prophet of this unknown god of slaves was once one of us.

Now he casts serpents at our feet smothers us in blackness drowns us in blood- cup basin river.

Tonight his angry, faceless god will take more than our water our livestock our light.

My father is a king, I am his eldest. He says the gods will keep me safe yet I fear. Aura poetry • 75 Stan Kempton

A FLOWER WITH NO NAME

The growth of a garden is the growth of a soul. Twined and twisted, full leaf and colored. It is seasons and night. It stirs without wind in texture and sun. It is odyssey, a maze, a familiar quilt. Tamed be not, but a quiet capitulator to the sum of all beauty yet to be revealed. 76 • Aura poetry

Stan Kempton

WHO DENIED US OUR CULTURAL HERITAGE?

Stealing in through the night and snatching our souls and taking them to lands with different colored dirt and trees and animals and with odd smells, and where the sky at night has stars all backwards. Where the How-to Manuals on the breaking of us Black man, is handed down from one white generation to the next (they never seem to run out, and they all look the same) past the fields baked a hot humid mask of half breaths and dizzy spells and great storms of sweat gone dripping in forever streams across the wastelands of the endless days ahead. The How-to Manuals of whippings and hangings and the behind the barn or in the woodshed, or under the open dark of a field so remote that the screams from a young slave girl-barely thirteen-is muffled by the distance, and so preserving the rape of a race in a humbling, beleaguered manner of quietude and neglect, and the antithesis where only one side prevails. The How-to Manuals of that said prevailing race, on making the savage, civilized, with their Virgin Mary's and their Bible and their Jesus dressed like a white man from England, washing the Mrican cultural milieu, the smells, the dirt, the placement of the stars, out of our heads like the ancestral language on their tongue now forgotten. But it must never be forgotten for we will be shamed into acquiescence, leaving our children with fresh scars that never bleed. Aura poetry • 77

Bryan Martin radiot the backward message tonite-country lazer poppin; guys, great ass for want of old bay, mescal & vine i roast the guitar jaywalking expensively and so whose night dolly leans vague scratch to powerful hotels about that response phones "i know he'll murder meat" nigh expectations? blue screen applause or drop rocks from the door no time to george answers, hardball trembling in the ice cream planet a flimsy gale 78 • Aura poetry

Bryan Martin

UNTITLED what boston wants me to say frozen cigarette dotcom countertops halt lawr enjoying the beauty of questioning a house­ is this hemorrage guitar-enough for you? you leave the club half an idea not having outside unsupervised looking for like trouble bye that is my job? producer raw pageant doo doo ok police keep an eye on the sidewalk outta gettin up what responsibility comes into play what natural traffic recheck this point to thinking slap that goes out a year kids believing their own car in front or something the power right slack yeah & watch it snow bologna, it expand in your house or my house do feel legwork i don't want to mend a lap without terrorism hugely just a little fucking change stupid thai muff, your life hey gang! it's a radio; to the world of difference-aged fifty unimpossible, even worse in line waiting the cloud securely area for them hours iffing privic publatey the four o'clock news takes place in may with pete rose investigating bound-for-commando trickled shrubbery so expect some polite activity watching pretty good who turns very fine gathering unmatched restaurants less than perfect settings twin-boil the extra mt. vernons after posting bail elsewhere may be the first thunder suspended ending as a bit of accuweather, shampoo martini tomorrow debut to eclipse the jason game Aura poetry• 79

Susie Paul

THE DIME-STORE GIRL for Anne

So steps the dime-store with Saturday dollar. The planked floor gives like ground, abuts to the whispered green of old linoleum, flecked like wild birds' eggs.

Between the world and Woolworth's, she stops. the green dollar rolled like a bud, palmed like a ticket, then counter, counter, counter, each unfurls. So steps the Saturday girl.

Ahead, the go-round rack teeters on its stand. Its trinkets tremble, like feathers on birds puffed in the cold gray. The tiered cake shape of it, tiara-topped, tilts in display for her Saturday.

She considers a comb, flamingo, pink as zoobound birds. Ice, crushed nearly liquid sifts in squat glasses. 80 • Aura poetry

She smells the chill of water set upon the lunch counter, high and wiped clean. A comb, pale green, gilt bits trapped in swirls like sand within the ocean's curl-this one, thinks the dime-store girl.

Tweet, then tweet, beyond the racked and gloss-wrapped goods, cheap or cheep, she peeps into the dim, beyond what dimes and nickels buy, stepping slowly, heart, however, hurried, meets among the yellow and gaudier green the turquoise parakeet, eye- blue.

Held in the furrow of her hand, her Saturday dollar, coiled, furred as a green stem. The petals her fingers are uncurl. So grows the dime-store girl. Aura short story• 81

MJ Kuehner

CHAIR MAN OF THE BOARD

Howard usually watched the news dispassionately, but today something caught his attention. And it wasn't just his favorite anchor, that shapely Chicana girl who always wore the really tight skirts and low-cut blouses. Sometimes she even wore those little cat suits, the little one-piece black numbers that fit so tight like Catwoman used to wear in those old Batman episodes. Howard thought, "God, I love L.A.," as he settled into his favorite chair. She was talking about Georgia today, but he remembered all the other broadcasts, just like this one. "Purposeless physical violence and needless mutilation that makes no measurable contribution to the accepted goals of punishment," she reported, looking demurely into the camera. Howard tried to concentrate, but she leaned forward slightly, showing some cleavage. All he heard was "blah, blah, blah," as his imagination caressed her curves. Howard forced himself to listen as she told how the highest court in Georgia had just banned the electric chair. ''Because its specter of excruciating pain and its certainty of cooked brains and blistered bodies have outraged the public for decades," she said, and flipped her hair. Howard thought: what bullshit. That excruciating pain thing is pure conjecture. How the hell could they know that for sure? The real problem was operator error, but Howard knew that fact would fall on deaf ears. And all because some Bozo's head caught fire in Georgia a while back, during an execution. Howard had told that operator numerous times, not more than 20 seconds, but the guy obviously thought he knew better. Some of them were like that. "This is the end of the electric chair in Georgia," she repeated, "which during the 1900's had been one of the leading death penalty states. Opponents are praising the ruling as part of the nation's ongoing effort to re-evaluate many aspects of capital punishment." 82 • Aura short story

Howard turned off the TV. This isn't good news at all, he thought. Now there were only 2 states left. Nebraska, and of course, there's always Alabama. Howard was pretty sure he could always count on Alabama, but then he'd thought that about Texas, too. He'd used to call Texas the "Gold Standard." That was a killing state if ever there was one. But outside pressures finally took their toll on the Lone Star state. Howard had never dreamed he'd live to see that day. "Goddamn ACLU," he mumbled, just like he always did when another state dropped the electric chair. Howard didn't really have anything against those union guys, nothing personal, anyway. He even admired their conviction in an objective sort of way. He figured it's even a good enough cause, as causes go. Hell, just on principal he didn't even vote for George Bush in the last election, and Howard figured Bush had fried just about more men then all those other governors put together. But since those protestors in the 60's, things hadn't been the same. Not the same for business, at any rate. And Howard's family business meant everything to him. He had been passed down a legacy of sorts, and was really starting to get concerned. The last ten years had been lean years, and Howard worried that there might not be a business left to pass on to his only son, whose destiny it was to continue the family tradition. The 100 year-old family business passed down from his great, great grandfather was now in serious jeopardy. Howard came from a long line of hard working government contractors, and he wanted his son to feel that same sense of pride in a job well done that he'd always had. Howard blamed the collapse of the family business on his own lack of foresight. If he had just gone to college to become a scientist or a chemist or something, then he could have gotten in on the ground-floor of this lethal injection bullshit. But Howard was a traditionalist, and never saw the end coming until it was too late. Now he feared the time had come for a heart-to-heart with his 14 year-old son. Howard had really hoped to wait a few more years, but now it looked like that might be all they had left. The Aura short story• 83 day of the electric chair was almost over, and he guessed now was as good a time as any to have that talk with Alex. In fact, Howard felt pretty bad that he hadn't already told his son why they call his old man the Chair man. He'd done a pretty good job of sheltering Alex from the truth so far, but mostly because the boy was so indifferent to working. "His whole damn generation is allergic to working," Howard mumbled, as he grabbed his truck keys from the hook by the back door. He was hoping a six pack of Bud would help loosen up the words a little. As Howard drove the short trip to the Shop 'N Snack, he tried to remember how his own father had told him about the family business. He couldn't have been much older than Alex was now. Maybe a couple of years older, but not more than that, he was sure. He remembered sitting in his father's study, an overwhelming room that Howard thought smelled of history. He knew that history didn't really have a smell, but the room had an odor Howard would never forget, not as long as he lived. It reminded him of stagecoaches and shoot outs, and the Wild, Wild West. Of course that was probably just a young boy's imagination, but the image stuck for good. Even when Howard had cleaned out the old house after his father died, he was pretty sure he could still smell the air of old Westerns in that big, empty room. Howard pulled in a front slot at the Shop 'N Snack, and turned off the truck. With both hands on top of the steering wheel, he gently laid his forehead on his hands to think, but the words his father had told him so long ago didn't come. He didn't know how to tell Alex that his family had always made a living by fixing electric chairs. Howard just didn't know how to tell him that the family had secured that government contract nearly 100 years ago, and that the skill had been passed down for generations. It was a tricky business fixing those chairs, and not once had one ever crapped out at the wrong time. Howard was extremely proud of that fact. Mter all, they could only try and kill a man once. He had to make certain the equip­ ment was kept in tip-top working condition at all times. Howard thought maybe he'd start by taking Alex into his own study for a man-to-man. Tell him what a proud history his family had, and how they'd always been 84 • Aura short story

patriots for their country. Ready to do whatever needed to be done to ensure that justice was carried out swiftly, and without complication. Why, Howard couldn't imagine a finer job than aiding his country in such a way. The American way. Of course he'd explain to Alex right away that no one in his family ever killed anybody. They'd never do that. In fact, Howard had never even seen an execution. He'd try to explain that killing was a job for God and the Government, not for regular Joes like them. Howard had been raised to believe in an eye for an eye, just like "The last ten years had the Bible said. He been lean years, and believed the guilty shoold be punishOO, Howard worried that there and he was glad to might not be a business left help but he was even to pass on to his only son" gladder to be gone when it happened. Howard lifted his head from the steering wheel. "Damn Grayson," he mumbled as he looked up to see who was working the convenience store counter. "I hate that silly sonofabitch," he said out loud as he slammed the truck door. It really pissed him off when he was just trying to run in and out of the store like tonight, and Grayson chatted him up like they were a couple of old, gossipy women. Truth was it didn't bother Howard too much that Grayson was gay. He knew God took care of sinners like Gray in the end. Howard slung open the door, and silently cringed as Grayson whirled around with a flourish, as usual. He noticed the funny look on his face right away, and how it didn't sit quite right, but by the time he'd placed the look the man with the gun stepped out from behind Grayson, and everything changed. Howard saw that Grayson had been crying by the little trail of black mascara that was running down his cheek, right past the purple swollen thing that used to be his eye. A tall white man with a shiny shaved head held a gun to Grayson's right temple. Howard had time to notice the homemade tattoo on four of the man's fingers that read Aura short story • 85

H-A-T-E. He'd have to remember that detail when the police arrived, because of course the police would arrive and put a stop to all this, Howard just knew it. Bad things only happened to bad people, and even though Gray was a little on the fruity side, Howard knew he wasn't really bad. Howard was busy internally reaffirming his belief that right was right and justice was for all when the tall man blew off the right side of Grayson's head. Just like that. First he was alive, then he wasn't. Howard barely noticed as the tall man panicked and flew past him out the door. He couldn't take his eyes off Grayson, who just lay there on the floor in front of him with only half a head. Moments ago there had been a bulging purple bruise there, but not now. He cocked his head to one side listening for the police sirens, but couldn't hear any. Howard didn't understand how something like this could have happened. He took a few small steps closer to Grayson's body to get a better look. Howard didn't think there was any way he could still be alive, but he thought it was the right thing to do to make sure. As he got closer, he saw that the tall bald man had dropped the gun on the floor next to the body. Howard tried to pick up the gun, but it was so slick with blood that it slid right out of his hand. He picked it up again and wiped it off on his shirt, thinking how wrong it looked lying there like that, all covered in Grayson's brains. Howard heard faint sirens now, still far away but coming, so he thought he'd at least try and put Grayson in a respectful position. Not lying there like that in a heap. Howard got behind Grayson's ruined head, grabbed his arms and pulled him out flat on the hard concrete floor. At least now Howard could go out to the truck and get his jacket to throw over Gray's head. It just seemed like the right thing to do. He didn't want any customers to wander in before the police arrived and see Grayson like that. As Howard started out the glass doors of the store toward his truck, he saw that a police cruiser had finally pulled up outside. He just formed the thought that he'd never been so happy to see a police car in his life when they started yelling. It took Howard a few seconds to realize that they were yelling at him. 86 • Aura short story

Howard dropped the gun as he was told, although he didn't remember still having it in his hand. He turned around and spread when he was ordered to, even put his hands behind his head so they could push his wrists down and cuff them. As the two police officers pushed on the top of Howard's head to put him in the back of the cruiser, he didn't fight. It never occurred to him During the ride downtown, Howard was still considering ways in which to tell his son about the failing family business. He tried to pick up his train of thought where it was before this whole shooting thing happened, but he couldn't quite find it. Something about justice and doing the right thing. Yes, that was it exactly, Howard thought smiling. He stared at the lights of downtown from the back of the patrol car, thinking how beautiful the city was as his mind worked at the details.

88 • Aura art

antiques

Ryan Murphy Aura art • 89

architecture studio

Murphy 90 • Aura art

Portrait of the Future Mrs.

Anne Puckett Aura art • 91

stitches detail

Puckett 92 • Aura art

HASTE

Ryan Russell Aura art • 93

SKATE

Russell 94 • Aura art

Pop Alone Kimetha T. Schmidt Aura art • 95

Baby with Hose

Schmidt 96 • Aura art

Southern Saturday

Stephanie R. Sides Aura art • 97

Jeannevert

Amy Soverow 98 • Aura art

untitled Marla Stone Aura art • 99

untitled

Stone 100 • Aura art

untitled

Lindsay Mouyal Aura art • 101

untitled

Mouyal 102 • Aura art

Thursday

Ryan Russell Aura poetry• 103

Miranda Wade

ESTELLE'S AzALEAS

By March, the bushes in front of the house had sprouted a hundred pink heads. Estelle had long since been installed in a local nursing home.

She didn't see the ignition of her peonies and the waking of her daffodils, but she never mentioned those. It was the azaleas she missed most.

I suppose it's better that she doesn't know about the poke berries sharing their bed and their once crisp edges rounding out for need of discipline. 104 • Aura poetry

Quinn White

UNTITLED

During sessions for Sketches of Spain Miles came in for a sip of vodka.

"I can't eat," he Complained-then Chuckled going out, Singing a made-up Song, "Me and Buddy Bolden." About a New Orleans Trumpet man with A reputation.

Takes Improved until Macero Interjected, "the Writing there is Almost Gregorian." Miles Smiled, "That's all I could hear Last night in My sleep." A little cushion of air Something to keep The trumpet Floating. Aura poetry • 105

Brandy Yates

0FTHEWORLD draw with purpose yearn for forgetfulness that creating reminds again to realize with every line and curve wait for nothing but what is now is all gone always to pass significance; but, somehow, understanding the beautiful moment. 106 • Aura poetry

Brandy Yates

TENDENCY

Keep the red book close to my heart Keep the doors painted dark

Watch the girls who sip coffee with straws and let me touch their hands slightly without feeling but knowing

It will amount to nothing Aura short story• 107

Marcus Allison

A CRY IN THE COUNTRY

Secrets make folks do crazy things. Like hiding your medicine, when family folks are around. After rambling through my room I crept down to the bathroom and shore enough there it was in the medicine chest. Fool woman, I thought, he could have found it there. Cotta be more careful next time. I gulped down some water from the water spicket and washed the pill down. That's when I heard the cry. Well, not exactly a cry, but more like a whimper. The way an injured animal cries out in pain. The sound was coming from down the hall. I stepped out of the bathroom. The overhead light bulb hanging from the rusty chain lit up the hall. I could see the hardwood floor that still had the crack in it. Reminds me I need to fix this old house one day. I look down toward his room. The door was standing wide open and I could hear the fan roaring. There was a eerie feeling in the air. I was careful to cover myself pulling the old flimsy pink robe tight across my chest. Then I heard the cry again. It was coming from Boy's room. Boy is my only grandson. He had arrived early today (or was that yesterday by now) quite unexpected like. But why did he have to show up now? Sure I was glad to see him, but if only if things were how they used to be. "Boy, are you okay in there?" There was a night light plugged in to the wall. He must have brought that with him. It gave just enough light to focus on the room's contents. The chifferobe standing up against the wall near the door, an oak wood dresser with a mirror attached was at the right side of the room, and Boy's blue suitcase was laying open on the floor with clothes slung around it. He was lying in the middle of the bed completely wrapped in a white sheet with his head and shoulders perched against the black wrought iron frame. "Oh!Oh!" "Boy, wake up you're having a bad dream." The fan was roaring. I'm surprised I was even able to hear him from down the hall with the noise this thing was making. "Boy," raising my voice, "wake up hon, wake up." He opened his eyes. Even with the dim light I could still see 108 • Aura short story their sparkling blue color. Just like the Carolina sky on a spring day. He looked lost, unsure of his surroundings. He reached up to touch his forehead and began to wipe the sweat away. "Where am I?" he screamed. There was terror in that voice. He jumped up from the bed tearing the sheet from his body. He grabbed for the sheet to cover himself but it was too late because I'd already seen what a grand­ ma ain't suppose to see. "Boy, are you okay?" ''Yeah, I think so. What are you doing in here?" "I heard you crying from down the hall. You was having a bad dream." "Oh God, not again," he said crossing his face. "What do you mean not again?" "Nothing." He looked away. "It don't look like nothing to me." "It's nothing really. But did I say anything?" "No, you were just crying out. If you said anything I didn't hear you. But then again," I pointed to the fan, "with the dad gum rusty thing I'm sure I missed something." It was blowing right in my face, and I felt like knocking it to the floor. I never have liked a fan even in this God awful heat. "But it was just an old butter bean dream I reckon. You did eat might near three plates of my chicken and dumplings." We both laughed. "So you can manage a grin after all. First one I've seen on that face of yours since you got here." "Grandy?" "What is it Boy?" I sat next to him on the bed. "You remember when I used to spend the summers here and sometimes I would have bad dreams?" ''Yes, I do believe I recall that. I don't remember your sisters having nightmares like you did though." ''You would tell me not to worry, you're just homesick you'd say. Then you would bring me a glass of coke over ice." I patted his hand. "I'll get you that Coca-Cola," I said.

I've been alive a long time. Too long some would say. But when you get to be my age you can tell when something's not right. Out here in the country we call it smelling a rat. Aura short story • 109

Where my grandson was concerned I smelled a rat. Showing up at my door clear out of the blue, he said he just needed a vacation. Well, for one thing, I knew for a fact that he hadn't been at his job long enough to earn a vacation and for another, he looked frazzled. Now on his first night he cries in his sleep. I promise to myself I'd get to the bottom of this if it killed me. I cracked the eggs into the iron skillet. Boy liked his eggs fried sunny side up. But I couln't stand mine that way "The tears turned that with runny yellow. lovely Carolina Blue to a Had to have mine misty blue that could scrambled well. I went to the hall and hypnotize you" yelled out, "Boy, get on up now your breakfast is almost ready." I had let him sleep. It was now nearly eleven o'clock. I had long ago had my usual breakfast of eggs, toast and black coffee. But after that dream of his last night, I knew he needed his rest. "Well there you are sleep head." "Morning Grandy." He kissed me on the cheek. "God, eleven o'clock! You should have woke me." "Shoot no, Boy you needed your rest." I sat the plate down in front of him. He's a handsome young man with dark brown hair, thick and coarse just touching the tip of his ears. His face is oval shaped, with the most beautiful eye lashes you ever seen on a man. With those Carolina blue eyes you could almost say he's pretty. I notice he put on a little weight since I'd seen him last. His stomach was a little bigger. He had on a blue tee shirt that said, "Save the Manatee." ''You got a earring.. I didn't notice that yesterday." ''Yeah, I've had it a couple of months." He reached up to touch it. "Do you like it?" "Listen Boy, I'm an old woman and I guess it's hard for me to get use to a man with a gold ring in his ear. But all the same what I told you last summer is still true. As long as you're happy I don't care what you do. Be true to yourself." I got up from the table to get myself a cup of coffee. "Now if we could only convince that damn stubborn mama of yours to just bend a little." 110 • Aura short story "Fat chance." He wolfed down what was left of his eggs and bacon. ''Yaw still not speaking, are you, Boy?" "It'll be a year this September." As I sipped on my coffee I thought of my beloved George. If he was alive it would kill him seeing this rift between Margaret and Boy. George was always such a gentle soul. So patient in the face of adversity while I'd be kicking and screaming ready to tear somebody's eyes out. When he left this world I thought I'd just as well die myself but life does go on and you reach for whatever you can to get you through the day. Gorgeous backyard sunsets, blue birds singing happily on a spring morning and your loved ones, like my sweet grand boy. I took another look at Boy and thought, why did you have to show up now? My eyes danced around the room and noticed the torn place in the ceiling. Me and this old house are a lot alike. Both of us are falling apart, in need of repair, but the means just ain't there to restore us whole once again.

"Grandy, look at those birds out there just flying through the sky. Nothing to worry about." He was staring out the back door with his face pressed against the screen. "I'm gonna go back tomorrow." "Well God's sake alive! You just got here day before yesterday." Secretly, I was relieved. "I guess I thought I'd feel better out here but it's not working out that way." "Boy, what's going on with you? And don't give me that bullshit about you just wanted a vacation. Something's happened hasn't it?" "I don't want to talk about it." "Did you lose your job again?" He had a devil of a time keeping a job. His mama gave him up the country about it every time. "If you must know, yes, I am unemployed again! Are you satisfied now!" "Why are you angry son?" "I'm sorry Grandy! I'm just tired of things never working out. And don't tell Mama for God sakes." He came and sat down at the table. He was rubbing his hands across the wood surface until he found the letters he Aura short story• 111 scratched out years before. C-0-R-Y. That was his first name. I never called him by it, though it waB George who got me started calling him Boy. George loved him like his own, especially since we never had our own boy. Well, that's not exactly true. Our boy was born a year after Margaret. Little Gerald named after my paw. He was so weak from the day he was born. He just cried day and night. Almost three months to the day I brought him home he slipped away. During the night he got all quiet; not a sound from his room. Too quiet, sort of eerie, if you know what I mean. George went to check on him and when he didn't come back I knew something had gone wrong. I'll never forget that morning till the day I die, (which may not be so far away, Lord willing.) He was clutching little Gerald, still wrapped in his white blanket, and rocking him while he sang, "My little angel is a going home. God is taking my little angel home. God is taking my little angel boy home." George just stared straight ahead while he sang, as if he didn't see me at all. His eyes were frozen. His Daddy had to come over and almost pry our little boy from his arms. It was the most pitiful thing I think I ever saw. Then years later when Margaret grew up, she had us a grandson. We had almost give up on a boy. Well, you can just imagine George (and me), just loving him to pieces. When Boy was 10 years old she had the gall to take our Boy away to Alabama, chasing after some man. She never could hold a man. We had to be satisfied with Christmas, Easter, and the glorious summers when we'd have our Boy for nearly three month. What with all this history, Boy was more than just a grandson to me and George. So now, I couldn't stand to see Boy in such a fix. "Are you sure you've got to go back, Boy?" He looked up at me with his eyes filled with tears. The tears turned that lovely Carolina Blue to a misty blue that could hypnotize you if you weren't careful. The tears were like a fine mist cascading from his eyelids. Before he could answer I spoke right up. "It's not just the job is it? What else is wrong?" I reached out for his hand but he jerked away in such a flash that he knocked the salt shaker to the floor. "Boy, my Lord what's got you in such a state?" He was walking around the room almost in a circle. His back was to me. I noticed 112 • Aura short story his fists were clenched and he kept beating them to his side. I thought he looked like a caged animal trying to break out. "Does this have anything to do with that dream you had the other night?" With that he whirled around, his wrists alive with energy in midair, his jaw tight, his eyes larger than life. "That goddamn bastard!" He yelled as he pounded his fist on the table. I tensed up, my back arched against the chair, the top of it pushing against my shoulder blades. "Who? Who are you talking about, Boy?" "Raymond! Mr. Big Shot! My boss! Or my ex-boss now!" His face was hot with rage now. Splotches of red colored his checks. There was no stopping him. The color of the devil flared on the skin of his throat just over the vocal cords as he screamed, "I wish I'd killed him when I had the chance!" "Boy, now just a second and let me get you a glass of ice tea before you kill us both, honey child." I pointed my finger at him. "In other words you need to cool it!" As I poured the tea the ice cubes popped. I topped it off with garden green mint and store bought lemons. I decided to fix myself a glass as I listened to the rest of his story. Boy gulped the tea down in one swallow. "God, Grandy it's too hot in here!" It was hot for mid morning. Another record breaking day for June. The summer was shaping up to be unusually hot and dry. It hadn't rained in over three weeks. It wasn't just South Carolina either. The entire South was suffering in the heat wave. The sort of heat that makes old folks drop like flies if they ain't careful. Maybe one day I'll go ahead and let Boy put that air conditioner in. Hell, who am I fooling. I am not about to have that shit blowing in on my head! Boy's voice grew so quiet like the calm before the storm. "I wanted to kill him you know. I really did." "Boy, I ain't never seen you like this before." "Maybe it's about time! I'm so fucking tired of being pushed around!" He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Boy what did he do to make you so mad?" He looked me straight in the eyes, his voice suddenly filled with a humbleness, a tenderness. It was almost childlike. "If he had just left me alone .. .let me do my job." His voice cracked and I saw the mist again in his eyes. "All I Aura short story • 113 was doing was my job." I was straightening the plants up front near the entrance. I thought it would look good to put some geraniums in with the ficus. that's when he grabbed me." "Grabbed you?" ''Yeah, Mr. Big Man sneaked up behind me and grabbed me by my shirt collar. That fucking bastard!" "Now Boy, listen I don't want that sorta talk... " "Don't Grandy, not now... Just don't! Okay?" I noticed he was trembling. "If only the plant hadn't missed him!" '"The plant!" ''Yeah, I threw a geranium at his head. That bastard!" His fists were clenched again. "I don't remember too much after that. At least not until the police came." "The police!" ''Yeah, I went a little crazy and the police had to restrain me. They said I attacked him. That some big guy had to get in between us. I don't really remember that though." "Good gosh, Boy!" "Like I said, I wanted to kill him, that much I do remember. Anyway, I got fired and spent the night in jail... imagine that," he said. I had never seen Boy this way before. So angry and hostile. He was almost out of control. Jail, I couldn't stand the thought of my Boy being in jail even for just a night. "Anyway it's over. All behind me ... I hope." "And you a talking about going back to Birmingham in such a state?" "Well Grandy, there's no use hiding out here. I've got to get my life back together. I guess I just needed a break." But something felt unfinshed. Wrong even out of sorts to this old woman. In a way I was glad he would be leaving. Like I said, the timing was all wrong. But on the other hand Boy seemed to be hanging by a thread. So close to the edge I didn't want to push him but what if I didn't? "Boy, you sure about going back?" ''Yeah." He got up and walked back to the screen door. He opened it and walked down the steps to the yard. My hands were a trembling and I felt those damn dizzy spells hitting again. Good God Damn how did my body ever 114 • Aura short story get in such a flx. I grabbed the door handle, to balance myself, and with my good hand I pushed it opened and yelled out. "How about we cook out tonight since you'll be going back tomorrow?" "Sure," he smiled as he turned around and waved. "I'm going for a walk. Be back in a little bit." ''You'll burn up out there Boy," I yelled out to him. But he didn't pay me no mind and just walked toward the field with the sun beaming at his back.

A cloud of thick gray smoke drifted across the backyard. It smelled of charcoal, thick and heavy, that had already drawn those pests that love summer barbecues. The sun was like an old man beating down on us, stripping us of precious energy. It was still too early in the evening to expect any relief from this God-awful heat. I sat on the picnic table that just last month Old Man Cranston had painted a glowing white. I tried to pay the old man but he wouldn't take a dime. ''You can just have me over for supper some night," he said. "That'll be pay enough for me." In your dreams old man, I'd thought. My panties are tight around my waist and that is where they're going to stay. His house was straight across the field. I was staring right at his place, a brown wooden four room house with a red brick chimney. I've heard rumors that he did away with his wife. Course he swore she just up and left. Ain't nobody seen hide nor hair of her in years. Even her own people don't know what happened to her. Around that same time the police found a missing Bunny Bread truck about two miles from here. Was just sitting there on the side of the road. Loaded with plenty of loaves but no driver. Folks in the city ain't got nothing on us country folk. I was fanning myself and sipping an ice-cold bottle of beer. Don't tell the Baptists, but it shore was good. Boy was across from me slicing tomatoes and onions. I looked up at the pecan tree towering above our heads full of green leaves. Trying its best to provide some summer shade. "God it's hot as Hell," said Boy. ''Yep, I guess it hit at least a hundred degrees again today. Speaking of the heat, I had better get those burgers off the grill before they turn into charcoal Frisbees." I Aura short story • 115 picked up the spatula on the picnic table and was making my way to the grill. Then like the guest that crashes a party, it jolted through me uninvited, tearing through my muscles, gripping me, shaking me, sending my head spin­ ning trough the thick smoke. The spatula was gone, oh my God, where was my cane? Oh God, I should have brought my cane. Then like the devil it is, it pushed me down, down, down, until I was rolling, twnbling, my face scratching against the dry brittle grass. "Oh my God, Grandy, Grandy, are you all-right? What happened? What happened?" He rushed to my side. I was lying flat down on my face. "Boy, you gonna have to stop pulling on me." "But are you all right?" "Do I look all right, son?" "I'll go to the house and call 911." "Darling, we ain't got no 911 out here yet, this is the country." "Oh my God, Grandy what's wrong with you?" "Listen to my, Boy. Boy, shut up and listen to me! Go to the bathroom and look in the medicine chest and bring me my medication. It's the only Revco bottle in there. You'll see it." "But Grandy what's ... " "For God's sakes Boy go!" I heard the sound of his tennis shoe tear into the earth as he ran to the house. It seem like an eternity, but finally I heard the screen door slam. "Grandy here it is. How many you want?" "Just one, just give me one." I could hear him fumbling for the tiny tablet. "Oh shit I dropped one. Wait here's one, Grandy." He popped the tablet in my mouth and held a glass of water to my lips, and tilted my head back. After a few minutes I let him help me up. I sat at the picnic table sipping on the water while Boy scraped the burgers off the grill. "Okay Grandy, can we go inside now before you die out here? By the way, when we get inside, I want to know just what in the hell is going on!" "Let's see," he was holding up the bottle, glaring at me, "this medication is MS Cortin, that's the name of it right, Grandy?" I was lying in the bed with the sheet 116 • Aura short story pulled up over me. The square wooden wall clock was ticking to a rhythm like a gentle rain falling on a tin roof. It was 7:45. "Hell, don't ask me how to pronounce it, Boy!" "But you know what it's for don't you? Take for pain as needed," he read the instructions off the bottle. ''What's going on here, Grandy?" "Don't get smart with me Boy!" His face was cocked to the right, his eyes had that twinkle in them, and he had a smirk on his face. He's got that smart ass streak in him just like his mama. He was jiggling the medicine bottle as if he was playing a musical instrument. "Well Grandy, I want to know what's "Then like the devil it going on and I want to know ... " is, it pushed me down, "I don't give a down, down, until I was goddamn rat's ass rolling, tumbling, my what you want to know Boy! As long as face scratching against I'm still breathing this the dry brittle grass." is my house and I have the say round here understand?" "No I don't understand. I'm gonna call Mama." ''You call her Boy," I pointed my finger straight at him, "and I'll never speak to you again! Besides, yaw not a talking remember?" "I'll make an exception in this case." The words nursing home kept a coming to mind. I was so mad I could just slap Boy! I turned my head and looked out the window. I could hear Old Man Cranston's dog barking to beat the band. The sound echoed across the field. "Good Lord Grandy, I'm just trying to help. What's wrong with you?" "There ain't nothing wrong that that I can't fix for myself." God how I was telling tales. So many lies I'd done lost count. "Let's just get some shut eye and I'll fix you a big breakfast before you start out for Alabama." "Lard you don't think I'd go now do you?" "What do you mean?'' "Well I can't leave you in this condition." Aura short story • 117

"What condition! Good gracious alive, Boy!" "Sleep well, Call if you need anything, Grandy." With that he stuck his tongue out and turned very swiftly and danced away toward the hall. Leaving me with my mouth wide open and my bottle of pills lying at my feet.

The next morning I awoke to a plate of scrambled eggs, country ham, fried potatoes and homemade biscuits. As I opened my eyes the steam was tickling my face. He was holding the plate right up under my nose. "Good God, Boy, that's enough food to feed an army." ''You need your strength. Eat up." He sat down the plate down on the bedside table where.there was already a hot cup of coffee waiting for me. I had to admit it did look good. The biscuits were a golden brown and were sliced open faced. Boy had spread them with real country butter, and a thick coat of my homemade strawberry jam. I popped one of them in my mouth. "Who taught you to cook like this anyway?" ''You did." He smiled at me. "Grandy, I don't know why you won't tell me what's going on, but fve been thinking, if you'll just go to the doctor ... " "Boy, 1. .. " "Just let me finish. If you go see Doc Ferguson and assure me everything's okay then rn leave. I know something's wrong or you wouldn't be on this medication. But I don't think you're going to tell me. But at least humor me and go see the Doc." He was right. I needed to go back to see Ferguson. Last night I had to get up and take two more pills when a month ago one would have done me all day long. To make matters worse, they were hardly easing the pain anymore. "Okay Boy, if you're hell bent on running my life, I'll go before you drive me crazy. Or before I kick your ass out the door!" The next day Boy, drove me over to Maudlin to see Dr. Ferguson. I remember when this town wasn't nothing more than a gas station and a grocery store. Now look at it. Full of fast food joints, and stores on every corner. But still a small town, especially compared to Greenville, that's just up the road a piece. He stuck that dag gum needle in me to draw out 118 • Aura short story some of my fluid. Then handed it to that floozy of a nurse with the red hair. Later, after the test was done he return to finish up with me. The pug nose Doctor took off his glasses and pulled up a chair next to the exam table. He was a big man and for the first time I noticed how big his feet were. His black laced up wing tip shoes were dirty and badly need of a polish. Never trust a Doctor who doesn't polish his shoes. "Thelma, I had hoped I wouldn't be seeing you again so soon." 1 JUSt stared at mm. ··1 guess me momem of Lrut1t has come," he lowered his voice and continued. "The truth is I've done all I can for you." "Can't you prescribe something else?" "There's not anything else left. Even if there were, it would lose it's potency as well." He reached out and put his hands on my naked shoulders. They felt cold against my skin and I immediately tensed up. "Dear Lady, it's coming down to the wire now. It's time to get your affairs in order." I shoved his hands away. I could feel the tears wet my eyes. I quickly turned my head away. I'd be damn ifl let this fool Doctor see me cry. As he rambled on I just kept looking at the sick. It felt like I had been staring at those stupid white cotton balls forever. "What about that, what you call it, that remission thing?" I turned back to look him dead in the face. "Well Thelma, you've already been down that road. It is not likely to happen again. With a cancer as far progressed as yours and with a woman your age it is very rare." I shut my eyes for a minute and felt my whole body start to shake. "It's time to call the family in, if you haven't done so already. Good God Lady, you haven't told them have you?" "No and I ain't a going to either!" "Thelma Watkins, what am I going to do with you? How about that grandson of yours out there in the waiting room?" "He's got his own troubles Doc, I ain't about to worry him with mine!" "Thelma, you need support." "No what I need is for you to get your fat ass out of here and let me get dressed!" Well that about did it for the Doc and me. He gave me that same look Preacher Jones did when I told him his church was full of a bunch of smart ass hypocrites. Aura short story • 119

On the way back home I had the window down. I wanted to feel the hot air on my face. We passed by brick houses, painted mailboxes, including one with a hand carved rooster perched on top of it. A big ugly dog ran after Boy's car. I was sipping on a can of ice-cold Coca Cola. "Grandy, the air is on." "The window is fine by me." "Grandy," he paused for a second, his hands gripping the steering wheel, "Grandy, when are you going to tell me what the Doctor said?" "When Hell freezes over!" "Grandy?" "Boy, they ain't a nothing you or anybody else can do just forget it!" "Oh, just forget it huh? Seems like most of my life that's what everyone has always told me." "Boy, what are you rambling about?" He was quiet for a second all I could hear was the hum of the car's motor. "Nothing, Grandy. But I'm not letting this go till you tell me the truth." "So we're back to that again. You a running my life. Everybody is trying to run this old woman's life. Shit fire. Don't give me any sass either son I've had all I can take today!" I turned back to the window and rested my chin against the partially rolled up glass. The heat from the wind hit me in the face and I wondered how long I could go on like this. It ain't fair, I thought. I need more time why can't I have more time? Seems like I'm always having to strike a bargain with the Lord Jesus Christ. But this time it don't seem like it's going to work. Right then the wind blew through the car and I swear I could hear crying. I turned and look at Boy, and he was bawling his eyes out. Shit he was always too smart for his own good. I'm going to have to tell him damn it! I'm just going to have to tell him. I put my hand out the window and tried to catch the wind as we drifted by.

But I didn't get a chance because the next day after we got back that's when Boy just started acting like a crazy man. It was like he couldn't sit still. He was up with the 120 • Aura short story chickens every morning. In fact I don't think he had slept much at all during the night, and he would go on these long runs. I know jogging is good for a body but he seems to be killing himself. He was like something was driving him and I caught him staring out into space on too many days, even talking to himself. But he was talking to me less and less. Just staying in that damn room with the door shut. I would hear the door slam and I would say to myself well woman you better hold on and not get sick. Because the rate the boy's going you'll be outside pulling him up off the road like a flattened pancake. Then came the morning when there was silence. The kind you find in a funeral home. I didn't need to be thinking of them places either! I kept a waiting but no sound came and that's when all hell broke loose. I grabbed my cane and crept down the hall. I pecked at the door. Nothing but silence. I took that damn wooden cane (I guess by now you know I like that word damn, you damn right I do) and hit it against the door. This time I heard him a stirring about. I propped the cane up against the door. "Boy, you a going jogging this morning, son?" Silence. I tried the knob. Yep, it was locked sure enough. "Go away," he yelled! "Boy, what's going on in there son?" "Go away it's too late for me! I've made up my mind and you can't talk me out of it." I placed my right hand against my heart and I could feel it pounding. With my left hand I grabbed the side of the door frame to keep my balance. "Boy, what are you talking about?" "Go away!" "Boy, open this door right now!" I begin to bang at the door and I mean bang like nobody's business. Finally I took the cane again and I was Hell bent on knocking that door down. God what was I a thinking? Damn fool! I couldn't be in my right mind. I couldn't knock down that steel door. Then came the crash. Sounded like a million pieces of glass flying through the air. God Almighty, he's broken the mirror over the dresser. It's times like these that I wish my George was here. Old woman now you think what the do, what to do? I heard the echo of a barking dog. That's it! Old Man Cranston! I'll go get Old Man Cranston! Or Aura short story • 121 maybe call the sheriff? No there's no time for that. Got to get the old man. Finally he'll do some real good.

"For Heaven's sake knock down the door, Man," I whispered. We were standing at the entrance to the hallway. "Hold on, Woman." He gently placed his hand on my shoulder. "We have got to proceed carefully." I stood there looking at Cranston. He was a little man sort of a runt. But the man did have energy. He always wore one of them white caps that house painters are famous for. His full head of gray hair was bunching out of the seams of the darn thing. "Hurry up, Man!" He pulled me back in the kitchen. "Listen, Thelma, this be our plan." He winked at · me. "You go to the door and distract, Mr. Boy, and I'll go to his window and ease on in." With both of his little hands he patted me on the face. "Woman, I didn't go through W.W.II for nothing!" I did as I was told, for once in my life. "Boy," I was trembling as I uttered the words, "hon you all right? Oh, Boy speak on up now." Oh, sweet Jesus let him be all right, I prayed. The sound like to have scare the willies out of me. But it wasn't the Cranston but Boy. I could hear him pounding his fists into the floor. Thank God, he's still alive! He was moaning and crying like a wild animal in pain. "Boy, it's okay we'll make through this, child! If it's that job well Hell that don't matter you'll get another one." "That fucking bastard! That god damn fucking bastard!" He kept pounding his fists into the floor. It was almost like a rhythm. Then I heard a scuffle. The old man must be in there. "Stay away from me! Stay away from me I mean it!" "Grand sakes alive Man, open the door!" I screamed. My ear was pressed into the door. I heard the crunch of shoes on glass. "Holy Jesus, Mr. Boy you give me that glass now, son." "Stay away from me and don't call me son! You're just like him. He ruined me! That bastard! He ruined me!" "Mr. Boy, I ain't here to do you no harm. You remember me don't you, son?" 122 • Aura short story

God if this don't kill me nothing will! I heard shoes sliding through glass now. "Let me go! Let me go!" Then everything grew quite. The door flung opened. There was Cranston standing in the middle of the glass with an ash white look on his face. "Where's my grandson?" I cried. Then I saw Boy, crouched down in the corner of the room. His face buried into the wall. His sobs were ringing through the room. As if they could shake the very foundation of the house off the ground. "I got to him just in time, Thelma. He would have done it. This boy needs help!" "All right Old Man, you've done your job now clear on out of here!" With my thumb I pointed for him to leave by way of the door. "Woman, you got a lot of nerve! Oh, what's the use same as always," he mumbled. He took off his cap and hit it against the door. He turned back and looked at me. "I'll tell you one thing though. IF the police finds out they'll be Hell to pay. They lock folks up for pulling shit like this!" "If you call the police you'll be dead before night fall." "I ain't going to tell nobody you crazy thing! But the doctor he sees might." "Get out!" With that Cranston was gone just as fast as a bullet. The room was quiet now. He slowly turned around. The late morning sun was filling the room. His face was wrapped in the light. I remember how swollen his eyes were. I don't think I will ever forget that look. It was like the life in Boy's face was all gone. "Why didn't you let me do it? All I wanted was to be able to die!" "Why in God's green heaven would you want to die because you just had some hard luck?" "Hard luck? Oh, you're just like Mama you don't want to know." "Know what, Boy?" "Know what he did to me." ''Your boss?" "No, no, no! Not my boss. Tony!" "Tony, your daddy?" He begin to cry again. His blue eyes, in the sun lit room, looked pink. Aura short story • 123

"I was just a little boy when it started. I didn't even remember till this summer. I thought coming out here I could stop all the memories from coming in to my head." He grabbed hold of his head with both hands and rocked himself back and forth. Then it hit me what he was saying. The room felt like one "The rain seem to come of them escalators at in waves that day. But Haywood Mall in before evening there was Greenville. Like I a glorious clearing and a couldn't keep my bal­ ance as I tried to take wonderful coolness in in my surroundings the air" and get off without falling. I did make my way to the bed and sat down. "Come here." He just stared at me. "I said come to your Grandy, baby." I climbed up from the floor. Oh he had that look on his face like he didn't know what or who to trust. I put out my hands for him to grab hold to. He fell into my arms just like that little boy that use to come here for summer vacation. "My sweet, Boy. You're safe here now with your Grandy. Nothing ever gonna hurt you again." I sang to him as he climbed on the bed. His head rested in my lap. I sang a song my own sweet Mother use to sing to me. "Sweet, sweet, dreams for my baby and me. God gonna set us free. My sweet, sweet baby and me."

It was several days later that he told me all the details. I never wanted to kill somebody so bad before. That monster, what he did to his own son. If we knew where he was I'd get to him. I swear if I could get my shot gun loaded again and could find him I would ... No, no woman, you got to get hold of yourself and help this child, I thought. Mter that terrible day, when I almost lost him, he started to sleep in my room. When the memories got to be too much he would climb in my bed and I would hold him tight. God must have known that I needed to be here for 124 • Aura short story him because during those trying nights my pain seemed to leave me. Then slowly the life returned to Boy, you could see it in his face. I do believe once he even cracked a smile. God must have known that too because I woke up on morning with my body wrenched in pain. The damn cancer was back with a vengeance. Boy, knew I was having a time of it but of course I tried to hide it. Funny how we don't want to believe what's true about life. We both had a scared look on our face. I had seen mine that morning in the OOthnx:mmir­ rortzymg to get that medicine to work. Over breakfast (Boy fixed it) he asked, "Grandy, you're okay right? The Doc did say you were going to be okay didn't he?" Boy, stared back at me with his large blue eyes, his face with that look of alarm. That look that says you know things just ain't ever going to be the same. I pointed to the ceiling. "I am going to have to fix that torn place in that ceiling on of these days." He just looked at me. "Boy tonight let's sit on the porch with a pitcher of lemonade just like the old days." "Sure, Grandy." "Boy?" ''Yes, Grandy?" I noticed he had that blue tee shirt on again that said, "Save The Manatee." "There's something I gotta tell you tonight." He jumped and cleared the table. I never seen nobody wash a mess of dishes up so fast. Then he was out the door said he had to take a walk. The sun going to bake us all to a crisp, I said to myself. I pull myself up out of the chair and went to the wall a pulled the receiver loose from the phone. It's about time I called her. The hardest call I ever had to make. Even though I didn't tell her everything I knew she would know soon enough and for the first time I knew the battle was almost over. This house is going to miss this old woman. I stared at that place in the ceiling. I wish I could've fixed that.

Somehow the summer had slipped away from us. God knows it had been hot enough. But on Labor Day I woke to the sound of roaring thunder and finally the sound of pouring rain hitting the tin roof. The rain seem to come in waves that day. But before evening there was a glorious clearing and a wonderful coolness in the air. Which was a Aura short story • 125 delight because we had planned our barbecue again. This time we had barbecue chicken with fresh corn. Well to tell thQ truth the corn wasn't garden fresh because the damn sun had burned up everything. Boy, bought it at the Wrnn-Dixie. There was my famous potato salad that I make with spicy mustard instead of mayonnaise, and celery seed, and homemade cheese biscuits just the way Boy like 'em. Mter supper we sat down by the creek bed. Even though we had the rain it was dry for the most part. A cluster of trees were straight ahead of us. Evergreens that seem to almost want to touch the sky. We sat down on the old log that's been here just about as long as I have. In the sky the sun was sliding downward. Like a fine artist it was splashing the sky with color. I ran my hand on the log. There was a colony of ants feeding on some unknown source. I looked back at the sky. It was alive with fire. The color of the deep burnt orange, ready to wave goodbye to another day. Goodbye, that was the word I had resisted all summer long. It was the word I was going to have to use now with, Boy. "It's time now, Boy," I turned to look at him. "For what?" He asked. "For you to go back to your life. To find some kind of life for yourself." He didn't speak at first but turned his head away from me. "Grandy ... " "No, we both know you need some help with that horror that happened to you." ''You mean the rape?" ''Yes, cause you still got all kind of anger at that monster of a daddy. And rightly so. But I done helped you all I can. You need some professional help from one them there psychiatrist. You've got to give yourself time to heal." "But Grandy, I don't want to leave you now. Not like this. Not with you, you ... " "My cancer?" ''Yes." "Boy, there's something you need to know. Your mama will be here day after tomorrow." "What!" "I called her. She don't know everything yet but I going to tell her when she gets here. She'll soon know that 126 • Aura short story

I'm a dying," I said with a sigh. "Don't say that! What did you have to call her for?" "She's my daughter and I'vQ got a lot of making up to do. And I ain't got much time to do it. I'm ashamed to say I ain't always been such a good mother." "Are you going to tell her about me?" "Now that's up to you and your mama. I won't say a word about that." "Grandy?" ''Vo..: , Rn;v?' "I'm afraid if I leave I'll never see you again!" "Oh you'll see me again, Boy. Maybe not in this world. But I promise you I'll be rising some sweet moming to meet them heavenly angels. We will meet again over there." I pointed to the sky. "Don't you fret none about that." Suddenly a rush of wind blew through us. "I wish you'd look a there," I pointed back toward the sky. "He not only has given us one of the prettiest sunsets I ever seen but just look a there." "It's a rainbow," he said with surprise in his voice. "All that rain done given us a rainbow," I said. "No, Grandy, God is just keeping his promises." "I reckon so," I said. "Boy, don't take too long dealing with all of this. Do what you gotta do then get on with it. Life goes so quickly. One day you wake up and you done used all your time up." I took his hands and held them tight. I looked deep into his eyes. "My sweet, sweet, Boy." "Grandy?" He swallowed hard as he tried to get the words to leave his throat. "What is it, Boy?" "I think ... I'll remember this summer ... for a long ... time." He threw himself into my arms, and rested his face against my bosom. I held him tight an took a deep breath, as the darkness fell down upon us. Aura contributors • 127

Notes on Contributors

Marcus Allison lives in Homewood, AL. He is currently enrolled in Vermont College working towards a BA in creative writing. He was previously published in The Birmingham Post Herald.

Carissa Andrews lives in Homewood, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with concentration in graphic design.

Brittany Armistead lives in Birmingham, AL. She is a UAB junior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in sculpture.

Sharon Casady is from Freeburg, IL and currently resides in Birmingham, AL where she is a UAB senior graduating in May 2004 with a BA in Art Studio and concentration in graphic design. She is a member of the AlGA local Birmingham Chapter, and she is currently working as a graphic designer for the Kaleidoscope, UAB's school newspaper, designing ads. She also freelances, creating logos, logotypes, and other graphic design needs for clients. She was chosen as one of the three finalists in the Do Dah Day T-shirt design contest 2004. She also was one of the five finalists chosen for the Sara Good poster design contest, 2004. Sharon has received the License to Learn Scholarship, 2002-2004.

Erin Childress is from Boaz, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with concentration in photography and minoring in psychology. Her art has been shown in several exhibitions including the Juried Student Annual Exhibitions, 2002-2003 and Trace Your Roots at WorkPlay in April 2003. Also in 2003, she received the UAB Gallery's Purchase Award. Erin will graduate in May 2004. 128 • Aura contributors

Dustin Julius Creech is from Harlan County, Kentucky and currently resides in Birmingham, AL, where he is a UAB Senior expecting to graduate in May 2005. He is working toward a BFA with a minor in Art History. Dustin has had his art in several exhibitions including: Distance-Solo Exhibition at Alabama Power; 2004 Magic City Art Connection in Birmingham, AL; 2004 The Body in Question in the Visual Arts Gallery at UAB; and the Juried Student Annual Exhibitions, 2002-2003. He is currently the President of the University of Alabama at Birmingham Art Guild.

Christopher Dang-"Please contribute to my web­ counter: www.knology.net/-cpd."

James P. Fahy has been (for what it's worth) a writer of various professions for a couple of years. While most of his work has been of the "behind the scenes" variety, he has been known to lend his name to various publications as a columnist, an editor, or as a joke. He likes music, too.

Ashley Freeman is from Tuscaloosa, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in graphic design.

Stephen M. Frost lives in Birmingham, AL. He is a UAB senior set to graduate in August, 2004. His major: BA in Art Studio with a concentration in Graphic design; minor: Art History. He was chosen as one of the five finalists for the Sara Good poster design contest in 2004.

April Garzarek is from Calera, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in photography and graphic design. Her series, "The Eyes Have It," debuted in the 28th Juried Student Annual Exhibition, 2003. Her wire sculpture, "Tiffany," was accepted in the 27th Juried Student Annual Exhibition, 2002. Aura contributors • 129

Josh Goldman lives in Birmingham, AL. He attends UAB and is seeking his MA degree in English with a concentration in creative writing.

Cheryl Gordon lives in Birmingham, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in graphic design.

Truman Grayson lives in Birmingham, AL. He is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio. His work was accepted in the 26th Juried Student Annual Exhibition, 2000.

Beth Harding is from Leeds, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in graphic design.

Tina Harris earned her MAin English with an emphasis in Creative Writing from UAB in 2002. Her teaching experience includes teaching at the University of Alabama at Birmingham and Jefferson State Community College as an adjunct instructor, as well as teaching creative writing in community programs. She is a founding member, teacher, and the director of the Magic City Community Writers. Her creative work has been published in a variety of journals including Santa Clara Review, PoemMemoirStory, StorySouth and As Ordinary and Sacred as Blood: Alabama Women Speak. She was awarded the 2003 Barksdale-Maynard Poetry Award and the 2002 Sigma Tau Delta National Conference Awards for poet­ ry and memoir. While a graduate student at UAB, Harris edit­ ed the award-winning Aura Literary Arts Review and received the Gloria Howton Award for Creative Writing. Her personal interests include creative writing and pottery.

Brendan Helmuth lives in Birmingham, AL pursuing a BA in Art Education. He has worked for a bookseller and has studied graphic design at UAB. He has worked as a graphic designer in Birmingham and Chicago specializing in "Aesthetic Renovation." He currently works part-time as a bookseller. 130 • Aura contributors

Kristi Honk lives and writes in Birmingham, AL.

Regan Huff grew up in Chapel Hill, NC, but has managed to get fairly well entrenched in Birmingham, AL. Unable to adjust to the institutional culture of even marginal employers such as schools and museums, she is self-employed.

Ashley Hulsey has been a graduate student in creative writing and education, an environmental educator, a planning associate (whatever that means), a nanny, a sales clerk, a singer, and a hippie camp counselor since graduating from UAB with an English degree. Presently she works as a storyteller for the Birmingham Public Library where she is finding that some of the world's best poetry is hidden in the Youth Department.

Emily Hunter is from Alabaster, AL. She is a UAB junior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in graphic design.

Clifton Kelly is a Montgomery native working on his MAin English. He admires F. Scott Fitzgerald and Margaret Atwood and hopes to pursue a career in publishing.

Stan Kempton lives in Fairhope, AL.

M.J. Kuehner is a freelance journalist from San Diego, CA now working and living in Birmingham, AL.

Cathy Ledbetter was born in Cobb County, GA. She helped her late husband operate a prosthetic shop in Florida for fifteen years. She is a Christian mom of three, works in Birmingham, and lives in Etowah County, Alabama. She has kept journals since the age of fifteen and has always enjoyed writing non­ fiction.

Lynn Ledbetter lives in Birmingham, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in photography. She is the 2003-2004 recipient of the Aura contributors • 131

Ireland award in the Department of Art and Art History. She also received an "Award of Distinction" in the 28th Juried Student Annual Exhibition, 2004. She has had a photograph published on the cover of the UAB publication PoemMemoirStory. She will enter graduate school at UAB in the alternative fifth year program in the Fall. Lynn has taught photography in the Birmingham area since 1996.

Nicole Marshall is from Napa, CA. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio. Her work has been shown at the Santa Reparate International School of Art in Florence, Italy.

Bryan Martin has lived, loved and lost in Salisbury, MD most of his life. He now resides in the Iron Tortoise and currently can be seen around town irritaining hangers-on as 2Pac-Man. Baltimore and Algebrassiere make him cry.

Undsay Mouyallives in Birmingham, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in photography. Her photographs have been accepted in the 27th Juried Student Annual Exhibition, 2003.

Ryan Murphy is from Athens, AL He is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in graphic design and photography.

Susie Paul lives in Montgomery, AL. Her work has appeared in Negative Capability, Kalliope, Georgia Review, and other journals and magazines.

Anne Puckett lives in Birmingham, AL. She 1s a UAB junior pursuing a Bachelor of Arts. Anne's work has been exhibited in the 28th Annual Juried Student Exhibition at UAB, December 2003. Her work was also submitted in the "Nation of Kids," Collaborative Community Art Show, December 2003. Upcoming Exhibitions include, Collaborative Community Art Show featuring 4 women artists, April 2004; Collarmoth Craft Collective, May 2004. 132 • Aura contributors

Catherine Roth lives in Birmingham, Alabama, where she is a student at UAB.

Ryan Russell lives in Birmingham, AL. He is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in Graphic design. He works as a professional graphic designer/ photographer. His main focus is in the music and skateboarding industries. Ryan has photos featured in advertisements in publications such as AHt:nH:tLlvt: r.lt:OO auJ Lan vf lncrt>ia., o.ncl a.loo ha.o photos on two Jones Soda bottles. In addition, he has shot photos of many touring bands such as Thursday, Fugazi, Hot Rod Circuit, and HASTE.

Kimetha T. Schmidt, a Virginia native, began her career with a business degree in marketing from Stetson University in Deland, Florida. Mter spending 10 years in the financial industry as a financial advisor and then co­ founder of a Nascar racing-related mutual fund, Kim switched careers and is now a freelance graphic designer in Birmingham, AL.

Stephanie R. Sides lives in Birmingham, AL. She is a UAB student majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in Graphic design.

Amy Soverow lives in Birmingham, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio. Amy works as a glass artist doing architectural and residential commissions with work in local and regional galleries.

Marla Stone is from Mobile, AL. She is a UAB senior majoring in Art Studio with a concentration in graphic design.

Miranda Wade lives in Pleasant Grove, AL, a remote western suburb best reached by train, with her fiance and muse and their two wonderful cats. She is a senior at UAB majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing. Aura contributors • 133

Quinn White-"We should wrap bleeding bodies in bandages. We should take the arrow lodged in our skull and not concern its origin-we should pull it out and stitch the skin tight. We should run happy barefoot, tumors plunged, terror resolved."

Brandy Yates is from Bagley, AL. She is involved with the Honors Program, Vade Mecum, and Sigma Tau Delta at UAB. She has been published in Sanctuary. SUBMIT TO AURA

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

All submissions should be accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Without such, no response will be offered in regard to publication, nor will the submission be returned. Please do not send previously published work or simulta­ neous submissions. Both will be automatically rejected.

All submissions of relatively great length (short stories, essays, plays, etc.) should include a copy of the work in electronic format (preferably on floppy diskette). Submissions of poetry should not include more than five poems and should not total more than ten (10) typed, double-spaced pages. Visual artwork of all forms is accepted; slides are preferred, but not required. Please include a copy of the artist's name on each page of written work or on the back of each piece of visual artwork (if this is possible). Contact information for the artist should also be easily accessible. No submissions are accepted through e-mail. Any submissions of this fashion will be automatically deleted without consideration.