2021 Fourteenth Issue

Bluegrass Accolade BCTC Literary Journal - Issue No. 14

EDITORIAL BOARD

Don Boes Nancy Bronner Maureen Cropper Dannielle Quintos John Scott Savannah Sipple Jon Thrower

Managing Editor / Layout and Design: Maureen Cropper

Cover Art: Dana Benton Cover Art Title: “Untitled”

❖ Bluegrass Accolade BCTC Literary Journal – Issue No. 14 2021

CONTENTS POETRY______Title Author Page

Kentucky Dust Dana Benton 5 Reflection Dana Benton 7 Rest Dana Benton 9 Time Enough Dana Benton 11 At the Company Picnic Don Boes 13 Crouch and Scuttle Don Boes 14 Hinge Don Boes 15 Pawn Ticket Nita Connolly 16 Picnic Nita Connolly 17 Nostalgia Katherine Coogan 19 Quarantine Green Katherine Coogan 20 Pablo’s Army Katherine Coogan 21 Scattered Stones Katherine Coogan 22 Polka Dot Cats Haley Hartman 23 Adalyn’s Adventures Julie Hendrix 24

FICTION______Title Author Page Painted Dreams Dana Benton 25 Metaphorically Speaking Bill Snyder 52

ART______

Title Author Page Untitled Dana Benton 55 The Babylon Effect Justin Gibson 56 Sheltered Rain Justin Gibson 57 Untitled Sallie Hatton 58

3 NOTES______Title Page Biographical Information/Notes from Contributors 59

❖

The Bluegrass Accolade began as a project of the Literary Arts Subcommittee of the Bluegrass Community and Technical College’s Arts in Focus Committee. Our thanks go out to all who helped make this year’s issue possible, including the writers, poets, and artists who contributed their work, and the editorial board members who contributed their time and effort to the production of this issue.

4 DANA BENTON Kentucky Dust

The hum-drum of a weed-eater far, far away the croaking, lonesome call of the cicada, the faint whoosh-bump of cars returning home in gravel driveways after long days at work, the bullfrog who stops his throaty gurgle just as an owl who-who-whos in some secret place, heralding the end of a day still edged golden with light: these are the exact sounds of a Kentucky summer barely awake before dusk. To breathe in summer is the earthen smell of freshly cut lawns and tomatoes spicy-scented on the vine, drooping low enough that crows can’t resist the ones who yellow guts have spilled onto the richest of the black topsoil. The songbirds grow tired enough at this time to chirp only at every third cry of the cicada, a harmony of slow-motion melodies like a prelude to a nighttime lullaby, and even the wasps buzz languidly as if in a stupor. The heat of today’s afternoon was so rich with moisture its leftover fog—like a living, breathing giant— swaddles the mountainside in a cocooning embrace to woo trees which will soon be flamed red by the heat into nighttime slumber.

I cannot pretend to want to live anywhere but exactly here, where generations whose seeds I come from sat in the same hollowing stillness

to end summer days like this one, in its gentle serenade and air saturated with the fragrance of earthen gardens, right before going inside to be under moonlight-bathed tattered bed blankets. There, memories of dusk play like motion pictures across their mind’s eye, reminding them in the bone-weariness of night that each day’s hallowed end will once again make the grit and grind of constant work and homestead labors escape their minds like wild stallions running loose for the first time. The assurance that Kentucky dusk will return tomorrow eases all life’s burdens as their tired bodies give way to the deepest, sweetest slumber.

DANA BENTON

Reflection

There is a day a woman finds her reflection in that great gilded glass mirror-- a semblance of what she has seen for years staring back at her with a steely, sovereign, half-sinful, half-solemn gaze.

Not a girl with a watermelon mustache anymore; not a granny with lips like tissue paper yet. Not who she has been or will be, but just her, with dreams still smelling of saltwater taffy, crayon boxes, chlorine in the pool, and the cedar hope chest part of her was buried in.

She finds the beginnings of wrinkles but doesn’t mind. Those lines travel the paths of her story. As her eyes walk the length of her wide thighs, dark freckles, stretch-marked stomach, pillowy arms, she is glad for the mystery she is,

and wonders with eager anticipation what story this body will tell as her half-sinful, half-solemn gaze sinks so that her spine forms a question mark and gives testament to this woman.

DANA BENTON

Rest

I had forgotten the quiet calm of rest and solitude here in the countryside. I have watched the tilt of a sun’s rays on a single blade of grass, standing taller than all its counterparts, illuminated in pink, then gold, and finally the blinding white of day. It blows one way and then the other in cool spring winds, delicate but immovable, tiny but fierce. Soon it will get cut down, but grow back again, humming underneath the mower and producing its fresh, sweet smell.

I cannot hope to gain a sweeter peace than this— the hearkening cry of a robin to her young, a fat, wriggling worm in her beak, landing with one flap of her wings on the pink-blossomed branch on which she has built her nest where fragile heads poke up from. One worm is plenty for all the chirping to silence her world for a bit. And I wonder if the robin recognizes her provisions have made everything in her world right until she must soar away once more.

Joy is not hard to find in the ordinary: tiny purple weeds blanketing an awning of a giant white sycamore which spreads her arms in protection over them is satisfaction to my wandering eyes and feet. I have stopped there to breathe in the scent of spring

and watch the sun create spiderweb patterns on top of what is now a thousand shades of purple. The blaze of summer’s heat won’t pierce this sycamore, nor these darling weeds. I know, because during their dormant death in the stark barrenness of winter, they poked up their nodding heads and answered the call to resurrection. What joy they must feel to be in the world again!

DANA BENTON Time Enough

There is time enough to accomplish every task laid out for me. There is time enough to scrub every crumb from dinner’s dishes until they gleam, time to immerse them in a sudsy bath, watch as steam rises from the faucet during rinse, pay attention to the four splattering drops which fall off and clank into the metal sink. There is time enough to let the dish drip-dry while holding it with scaly hands from days of having time enough, letting the soft glow of the evening sun bathe it in an ethereal light. That light makes this useful object appear as a thing of great value, the strength of our bodies as sustenance flaunting colors of reds and greens laid upon it, soon digested, forgotten, and washed off once more. There is time enough to admire each thread coming loose in the towel wrapped around the dish as it becomes waterless, the way its translucency is like a curtain from which to view the varying purples of evening’s sunset. The towel swallows the dish whole, enveloping it in an arid but comfortable dryness. There is time enough to find a hideaway for this dish, lodging it in the abundance of cabinets filled to the brim with other useful, beautiful objects— time enough, even, to rearrange the tower of them, paying no mind to the cacophony of clatter this creates, because even the sound of this is much smaller than life’s normal noise. Having rearranged them all, there is time enough

to stand back in satisfied silence, hands on hips, and admire the fruit of labor, the barrenness of the sink, the last glint of the sun as the sky turns blue and sinks below lines of silhouetted trees, which stand like guards outside the kitchen window, beckoning a time of winding sweetly down. There is even time enough to sink low in the couch’s cushion, feet propped on a soft mound of pillows, and take deep, cleansing breaths while doing nothing—nothing—nothing, except exactly what I am supposed to be doing: hearing for the first time the sound of silence interluding with the bashful cry of a Great Horned Owl. There is time enough to pause the world for a bit: at day’s end, there is no more accomplishing— there is time enough for that tomorrow.

DON BOES At the Company Picnic

After the volleyball game the volunteer clown slips off his incredible shoes. He’s cheerful after awarding key chains to the kids while the employees frolic and the cagey managers chink and ping in the horseshoe pit.

All will sit down together at the catered meal— a pork producer’s extravaganza followed by door prizes— all save the sweaty comic who has done the best business, trading trifles for honest amusement, spending his clowntime wisely.

DON BOES

Crouch and Scuttle

Instead of muzak, the elevator fills with football fans from Dallas and a flight crew from Atlanta. The dialysis center at the mall used to be a dance club. Assume the microphone is hot. The concierge acknowledges my lanyard and escorts me to the buffet. The lobby is designed for the glare of a narrow future. The salad bar is backlit with neon. My gift card is expired. In case of fire, my ingenious plan is to crouch and scuttle. The last committee I chaired was the last committee I chaired. Pages are missing from my playbook.

DON BOES Hinge

A decade of friction eradicated by a squirt of oil. A charmless sound eliminated. The ticking clock. The ticking quiet like the transcript of clouds. The comfort of completing a task. The city hired a dozen goats, brilliant employees, to clip the grass around the senior center. Smart machines. A win-win situation. Now I miss the irritating rasp of the basement door. A tedious game I did not want to see rained out. My ticket was expensive and located behind home plate.

NITA CONNOLLY Pawn Ticket

The same shovel that buries memories exhumes them. The whirr of an electric fan blowing a white curtain. Cracked linoleum, cool against little bare feet. Milkweed garland on a wire fence around a cracker box house with no mortgage. The past is not lost, just in hock. Memory is a scrubwoman crying and singing.

NITA CONNOLLY

Picnic

Picnic at Big Rock. First warm day, age 6. Little purple sundress. Martha’s cold fried chicken, so good. Joey and I fought over the drumsticks, played in the creek.

Girl Scouts in a line on the bank. Wind blew one’s hat off and she spilled her box of Lemonheads chasing it. Do Girl Scouts marry Boy Scouts? Are their kids born Scouts?

Ran to the water fountain that never works. Stood on the pedal, just in case. Nope. Pulled on the door handle of the bathroom. Locked as always. Looked through the keyhole, watched 2 naked teenagers wrestle.

Back to the picnic blanket. Lay on my stomach and split blades of grass. Martha rolled over, asked me to untie her top. Didn’t want tan lines. She lit a cigarette and turned up the radio, We Don’t Need No Education.

Hadn’t seen Joey for a while. He was the older, but still I decided to go look. I’d heard stories about kids that went missing in the park and turned up dead, so bad no one knew their names till after somebody looked at their teeth.

I called Joey’s name as I walked. “Slice!” someone yelled from the golf course. Made me jump. Heading back, I saw Joey and an older boy go in the bathroom. I waited, balanced on the water fountain pedal.

His face looked funny when he saw me. Hid something in his pocket, said “Race ya back!” A guy with a guitar took up our spots on the blanket. Martha listened to him with her chin in her hands.

Joey looked sleepy but acted twitchy. Martha looked at him, looked away. “Where were you?” “Doing hacky sack by the grills.” “Right. Come on, we’re going home.”

Years on, my loyalty helped him now and then. But it’s easier for Atlas to shoulder the world than one little piece of public park architecture. One of those lost boys. Alive, But still identified by his teeth.

KATHERINE COOGAN Nostalgia

Seeing you today Both in our minivans It was not the flashback I had always imagined You were like a stranger now I was nervous But I knew it was now or never We chatted about the current moment What we are working towards You are leaving again Overseas again Just like you always wanted Way back when I wonder what you saw When you saw me today Was it enjoyable? Like before? Did you think of me again later? A part of me The spontaneous youthful spirit Wished I had asked you to lunch Wished we could have split a beer Talked about parenthood, good music, books The weather But instead I said “well good luck with everything” And you said. “yeah, you too”

KATHERINE COOGAN Quarantine Green

I never knew green was the color of compassion Makes sense I suppose When you think about renewal To be “green” To recycle To be the color of spring New life The color we put out now To honor the dead We have some green pinwheels out at the end of our yard Green is my sons favorite color Green always seems to have a taste Peppers, beans, sour apple candy Even watermelon if you are lucky Green is the color of sea glass washed up Found and pocketed Saved for later Green is a healing bruise Green dinosaur toys lined up Green is a smell Fresh cut grass Basil and Rosemary Now green haunts And we can only sit and wonder Will the green mean something changes? Where does the Hope go that we store up? “little green be a gypsy dancer “like Joni sings Green is not a primary color It’s mixed it’s cool If we are lucky enough maybe We all go back to the green.

KATHERINE COOGAN Pablo’s Army

The night of your big art opening I was on crutches I wanted to be there Wanted to come in, just low key Like some “cool girl” Instead, I hobbled out to a taxicab Under shelves of falling rain I wanted to be there I longed to see what you created Maybe I was searching for parts of myself In your art pieces A big room full of sculptures An army of forms Different bodies with the same cast head Found materials, you scrapped I wanted to support you Even though I left town right when you needed me most I wanted to be there Many regrets washed over me In the rain that night I let it go I read about the show You were a great success; you did your great work The world could finally see What I always knew Late nights in your studio That old plaid wool couch Six packs of beer we spilt All those life talks I wanted to be there Instead, I went home Propped up my bad ankle Imagined your big calloused hands Thought of your voice real close to my face Your old blue comforter wrapped around me As I closed my eyes

KATHERINE COOGAN Scattered Stones

You used to knock on my window From down below the second story apartment of that old house I rented You tossed up stones Many nights I was not sure the small pings to the glass were real Or some longing of my own making You always sought me I think I miss that the most We truly needed each other In those days of youth All the uncertainty and self-doubt You melted that away From where I am now in time Looking back almost as if over my shoulder From a fast-moving train at a set point I already past I should not have been so fleeting I should have planted roots I should have never let you go No way to tell what would be now But I still hold you close You called me your girl with the sunflower eyes I admired your chaos and your quiet strength Your art made of found objects Your late night talks The metal rose you made for me in welding class The night you kissed me in the park Your large hands and apple cheeks I lost track of you Someone else picked up the pieces But a few are left scattered Like the stones you threw up in hopes of my face reflected in the window of time

HALEY HARTMAN Polka Dot Cats

Polka dot cats,

with pink and red spots,

dance around me

and consume my thoughts.

JULIE HENDRIX Adalyn’s Adventures

I live in a place that’s a magical place A place where kittens magically appear My dogs keep me safe Benny and Merlin are their names and they keep anything scary at bay

Some may sound strange but stay on the path Hold on tight there might be some math Highway 15 is a good route to take Go past Bethany then 541 will do just swell You’ll see Mount Carmel as turning on War Creek but don’t drive fast My magical fortress is found as you’re bound on Rock Lick Pass

If you don’t have a car it’s not that far Arrive like a missile using a water vessel North Fork Kentucky River will take you fast

It’s hard to find, but my granny always arrives on time Great big potholes Curvy old roads or big piles of snow Come what may nothing can keep her away.

DANA BENTON Painted Dreams

Birchwood white. Porcelain skies. Cream crops.

Ian Collier filed through the white paint samples, placing each card in their respective slot, no need to look at the six-number identification code at the top. His keen eye told him everything he needed to know, even in the most challenging of shades, white. When strangers first met him, they thought his discernment was due to nine years’ experience at Harry’s

Hardware, but he knew better. Since he’d been a child, his ability to distinguish one color from the next had been uncanny. Every Christmas he received a new crayon box and was more excited to read the names of the new colors than he was to color the superhero pictures his mom got him. He had graduated to pastels in middle school and paint in high school. No one at

Harry’s would ever know, but any free time he had between working and college was taken up with hours of painting on canvas after canvas, often to frustration and to the middle of the night, when he would lie down exhausted and spent. Only once had this caused him to be late, which was just last week. He reminded himself of the reprimand he had received from his supervisor and began working frantically at getting the new paint sample cards in their slots.

He’d been at it for half an hour when he spotted a customer on the other end of the aisle perusing the samples of a different brand. Ian took in her deep crimson hair and dark wash jeans, coming behind her with the last set of greens in his hand to put away.

“Do you need some help, miss?”

She glanced up at him as if she hadn’t seen him coming, and he was so taken aback at the color of her eyes that it took him a moment to process what she was saying.

“I’m looking for the perfect shade of pink. Not bubblegum, and not with any purple in it. Seems like everything I see is just so---” She struggled to find the right word.

“Girly?”

“No,” she said, offended. “Pink is a unisex color, didn’t you know? It’s 2021. What I meant is that everything is too---sweet. Too delicate. You know?”

Ian didn’t know. Of all the customers he’d had over the years, this one stumped him.

Still, her eyes intrigued him. What color were they, exactly? Blue? Green? Blue-green? They were the oddest shade, something he wasn’t sure he’d seen before. Jade? No, that wasn’t right—

She was talking again and he’d just missed all she’d said.

“So anyway, the ice cream parlor needs to be more—you know, nice, bright, airy. None of this delicate business.”

Ian collected his thoughts. “You’re painting an ice cream parlor and you don’t want the color to be sweet…?” He waited for her to catch the irony, but she didn’t. She was nodding sincerely.

“Have you considered trying mint green? Or a sunny yellow?”

“Look, if you don’t want to help me—”

“Pink it is,” Ian interjected. He thought. “I think I have the perfect shade for you, actually. Come over here.”

She followed to the newly stacked paint samples. “Yes, here it is,” he said, pulling one out for her. “Parisian paradise.”

“Oh. Ohhh,” she said, holding it in her hand, and her mouth forming the word. Ian noted with pleasure her lips were the same crimson as her hair. Normally so much makeup would be off-putting, but it suited her.

“I think you are a genius,” she said suddenly. “Do you know how many paint stores

I’ve been to? Five! Five paint stores! At each one was some middle-aged man telling me to go with some shade of baby butt pink, and they’d never listen. And here you are, and just like that” she snapped her fingers, “you find the perfect shade! This is it. I’ll take eighteen gallons.”

Ian gulped. “Eighteen?”

“It’s exterior, too, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then eighteen. And whatever else I need to get started on all this.”

“You’re doing this yourself?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Of course I am. I own the business, don’t I? Responsibility falls on me.”

Ian went to work mixing the paint. Parisian paradise had caught his eye when he’d shelved it, but as he mixed gallon after gallon with the redheaded stranger waiting, he began to grow tired of it. This was why sometimes his art didn’t turn out. The same shade of green would stay on his paintbrush for hours on end, and just because his eyes were weary of seeing it, he would toss that palette away and begin broad strokes of whatever was opposite that color.

Art nouveau, his mother called it.

“So, Bridgeville is getting a new ice cream shop?”

“Sure is. Old Depot location. It’ll open as soon as it’s painted. Hopefully next week.”

Ian’s throat clutched. “You’re going to paint the entire Depot building by next week?”

“It’s doable. Has to be, considering rent is due with no spare change. Besides, I’ll be half-homeless if I don’t get it done.”

“Half-homeless?”

“I can always spend the night at Cherry on Top,” she said. “Wouldn’t be the first time

I’ve lived with a blowup mattress as my only furniture.” Her tone held a hint of a smile, like this was some grand adventure.

“I—I could help,” Ian said with some hesitation.

“You could? Oh, thank you!” Her face lit up with joy. “Hey—don’t look so surprised.

I’m not ashamed of getting some help. If you were serious, that is.”

“I’m serious.”

“Aren’t you a doll,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. Even though she was clearly around his age, he had a feeling if he hadn’t been behind the paint counter, she would’ve pinched his cheeks. “I’ll pay you a little something. Might end up getting paid in free ice cream.”

“I like ice cream,” he said. What am I doing? When do I have time to paint between school and work and art? He began to retract his offer. Opened his mouth to say something. But when it came time to place each of her eighteen gallons in the cart, his mouth closed in a grin.

“It’s an adventure,” she said, winking and pulling her cart away from the paint counter already. “Oh. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Ian.”

She walked away.

Ian called out, “And you are…?”

She said it so low he barely heard. “Truessy.” Then she flipped her red hair over her shoulder and looked back at him. “Short for chartreuse.”

The color of your eyes, Ian thought with both satisfaction and worriment. He wished he would’ve thought of that color first.

Ian’s class ended early enough that he had time to go to Bodacious Bagels on campus and grab his favorite bagel, spreading it with a thick layer of cream cheese. He’d thought to grab Truessy a bagel, too, but she was a baker and would surely be underwhelmed. Instead, he opted for a plain coffee and brought some cream and sugars with him just in case.

When he pulled up half an hour later, the Depot, which was sandwiched between a fire station and a shoebox-sized post office, had every shutter on every window thrown open, and the front-facing double doors were propped open with gallons of paint. True to its name, the

Depot had been a waiting station long ago for the train whose cabooses were still lined up across the street, in an overgrown field and splattered with graffiti. A historic marker stood outside the location, denoting its importance in the community until it had shut down in 1962.

Ian remembered his mom talking about the Depot having been a lady’s boutique that promptly closed because no one in Bridgeville could afford even a scarf there, and in his childhood, it had been a diner he’d frequented twice, having gotten a stomach bug the second time. It had been shut down ever since, or at least as far as he knew, and the red paint that covered the exterior had chipped and peeled in such a way that it looked to Ian to be charming.

Not just red. Vermillion, he thought.

Stepping inside the corridor, he found several large box fans set up and a ladder leaned against the far wall. Pink paint had already been poured into a large tray, and about a fourth of the wall was covered with it. Ian grinned. No matter what Truessy thought, the shade was sweet.

“There you are!” Truessy said, coming around the corner with a wide smile. She took the cup of coffee he handed her and waved away the cream and sugars. “Took three days to clear the cobwebs and wash the walls before painting. Whatcha think?”

“It’s—it’s something.”

She snarled. “Well, it doesn’t matter what you think. Cherry on Top will be sensational!

Just wait until my freezers arrive.” She took a sip of coffee. “Took only a hundred and fifty more bucks to buy brand new ones than it would have to ship my old ones. Figured I’d take

‘em up on that.”

Ian once again assessed her age. “How is it you came to be a business owner so young?”

She half-laughed, half-shrugged. “The way anyone does. Hard work. Grab a roller, and we can get the inside finished before lunch. I’m famished.”

Ian worked in methodical stripes, getting paint on his roller and making broad strokes.

Though he’d not done it very often, he was good and thorough. The monotony became a rhythm. They were silent as they worked for a long while.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Truessy asked at one point, pausing to wipe sweat from her forehead and in the meantime smearing paint in her eyebrow.

“Candied carmine. Ambrosia bloom. Porcelain linen.”

“What?”

“Other names for this paint. Blushing bride. Salmon sunset. Cheeky flush.”

“That last one’s not your best,” she giggled.

Ian flushed. “No. It helps pass the time, though. You try.”

She cocked her head and surveyed the wall. “I’ve got nothing.”

He laughed.

“You’re right, it’s harder than I would’ve thought. Could you do this all day?”

Ian put down his roller, resting against it. “Crisp champagne. Fairy rose. Amaranth bud.”

“Showoff,” she teased. “Could’ve just said yes.” Then she took a smaller paint brush that rested in the pocket of her overalls and flicked it at him. “You get to work on the base boards, and I’ll finish up this wall.”

“Lunch?”

“Patience, Jedi. Work in stages. It’ll go faster.”

“Pace over quality?”

Truessy shook her head. “Pace over half-homelessness.”

Ian’s stomach growled so loudly a few hours later that Truessy began giggling from her perch on the outside scaffold.

“Fine. Your stomach wins. Where do you want to go?”

“You paying?”

“Depends. Steakhouse? No. But if you pick a greasy burger joint, I’m in.”

They took off in her early 2000 Honda Accord and arrived at a Mom-and-Pop joint in a few minutes. Ian scarfed down one double cheeseburger and was starting on his second when he glanced into Truessy’s earnest face.

Holding a ketchup-dipped fry in one hand, she seemed to be studying him. “You always this hungry?”

Only when gorgeous redheads ask me to paint their businesses, he thought. Aloud, he said,

“It’s three hours past my lunchtime.”

“You always so routine?”

Ian didn’t like her scrutiny. He stalled with a long sip of his soft drink. “Yeah, I guess so.”

She seemed to be taking this in. “What’s your major?”

“Mechanical engineering.”

She let out a stream of air. “Impressive. You’re good at math, then? That’s a subject I could never get used to. Always so many rules for so many different things. Cherry on Top is financed by a banker who gives me printouts like I’m in kindergarten, so I know where my dimes go.”

“Not good at math so much as I’m good at putting things together. I like the way things work.”

“Like puzzles?”

“Sort of.” He didn’t elaborate.

Long minutes passed in silence. “Seems a shame,” she finally said.

Ian swallowed his last bite of burger. “What does?”

“Here you are an artist, and you’re going to just work at putting things together in some dank factory somewhere.”

Ian paused. He didn’t think she realized what she’d just said. His mother, too, had called him an artist before she’d ever known he held a paintbrush every time he was by himself.

“What makes you think I’m an artist?”

“I don’t just think you’re an artist. You are an artist. It’s more than your love of color.

You don’t see the world the way other people do. Somehow your world is more richly colored

than the rest of us.” She took a sip of pop. “Seems like a waste you’re going to be making puzzles instead of masterpieces. You can’t do both, you know.”

Ian didn’t know what to make of this girl. Who was she, to tell him such things? Yet he longed to hear more.

“You’re going to be busy,” she went on. “You go, and you think you’re going to make this great life for yourself, do it all. Then you find yourself working overtime every weekend, having a mortgage and 2.5 kids with a white picket fence, and you forget that you’re not just a person who makes machines come alive, you’re a person who creates art, too.”

Ian felt a little angry. “Because you have so much experience?” He asked.

“Actually…yes.” She promptly got up and tossed the remnants of her tray in the trash.

“Come on, cowboy. We have work to do.”

The next time they took a break, Truessy was rubbing her arms in pain and searching her purse for a Tylenol.

“You need one, too?” She offered.

Ian shook his head. Few words had passed between them since their lunch. No one had ever spoken to him so directly, and it left him with questions he didn’t care to ask. He paused and stretched his back, then glanced at the time.

“I’ve got to get home and get ready for work this evening,” he said. He tried not to think about the paper he had due tomorrow and the test in Economics. He wouldn’t get in bed until at least 1 am, and his muscles were screaming at him to rest now.

“Thanks for your help today,” she said flippantly, still rifling through her purse. “Shoot.

Can’t pay you anything yet. Okay to wait until tomorrow?”

Ian had it on the tip of his tongue that he wasn’t coming back. Why work for free when he had so many other responsibilities? But her chartreuse eyes were looking at him in such an imploring way that he found his tongue betraying him.

“Sure. I’ll be here when my classes are out at 4:00.”

Ian once again made sure to eat before arriving at the Depot, having not eaten anything since the double cheeseburgers from the day before. He’d fallen in bed with his work clothes still on, having not studied for his test, written his paper, or even eaten the sandwich he’d made and left on his dorm counter. Stomach satisfied, he stood for a moment and surveyed their work from yesterday. The entire left side of the building was finished except for bare spots at the top and the bottom where the paint had run thin, and it would need a second coat to cover the carmine underneath. Still, they had gotten almost the entire storefront finished in one day.

He didn’t remind himself the sides and back would need painting as well.

Truessy greeted him with her wide smile when he walked in. “There’s the engineer! I took it on myself to spray paint the shutters so they could go up opening day.” She held them up for his perusal.

“Pink on pink?” He asked, examining them.

“It’s a pop of color on a busy street,” she confirmed. “Besides, don’t you have better words for it than ‘pink’?”

Ian couldn’t help the slow grin that spread across his face, although he didn’t know why. “Second marriage lace on cotton candy trousseau.”

“Ha!” She squealed with delight. “And there’s the artist.” She handed him a paint brush. “Let’s get to work.”

For the next two hours, not a word was spoken while they methodically climbed up and down the scaffolds and worked fluidly to get paint on the right side of the building.

It was Truessy who broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to ask about my name?”

Ian didn’t look at her as his arms stretched over his head. “Didn’t plan on it.”

“But it’s a color, and colors are your favorite.”

“Fine. Tell me about your name.”

“Not if you’re going to be like that,” she said, and she dabbed her roller back in the tray for more paint.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I asked you to tell me about your name.”

“No, not that. Why are you doing this for me?”

“Free ice cream?”

“No, be serious. You have college and a job. You could be out partying every night.”

“I’m not much of a partier. And so could you, by the way.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather be in control of a business than lose control with a drink. I tried it once, and it made me feel wobbly.”

“I think that’s what people like about it.” He considered her words. “Is that what owning a business is about for you: control?”

Truessy didn’t answer until she had made another few broad strokes. “That’s definitely a plus. I believe if I work hard enough and do well enough in business, I can relax all the other things in my life.”

“Because of money?”

“That, and because after a while, you work by muscle memory. You scoop the ice cream, order the ingredients, clean the floors, and make all the customers happy all in one fell swoop. Don’t even have to think about it after a while.”

Ian glanced sidelong at her from his perch on the scaffold. “Sounds like a factory job.”

“Well, I’m no artist. That makes life different for me than it does for you.”

There she goes with that word again, Ian thought.

“Are you going to answer me? Why are you doing this for me when you could be doing anything?”

“Nothing else to do,” Ian said with a shrug, getting more paint on his roller.

Days two through four passed without ceremony. By the end of day four, both sides and the back had been painted with first and second coats. All that remained was finishing up the old-fashioned trim on each of the windows. They’d worked at a frantic pace to get it all done.

“Favorite order at Pete’s,” Truessy said one day, plopping down a brown paper bag in front of him. “Only three double cheeseburgers instead of two.”

Ian raised his brows. “You must be preparing me to work like a dog.”

“I’d forgotten spring break is next week. I assume you’re going home or to the beach, but I need this done by the weekend. Otherwise, I’ll be—”

“Half-homeless,” he finished for her. He looked around. “We’ll have to work past sunset. Do you have a spotlight?”

“Oh yes, in my back pocket. Let me grab it for you,” she said sarcastically.

“I’ll make a trip to Harry’s and get one as soon as I finish my lunch.”

“I’ll ride with you. I need the break anyway.”

Ian couldn’t help watching red tendrils of Truessy’s hair fly in the wind as they drove down Highway 186. This stretch of road would end abruptly in a few minutes’ time when he turned off to a bypass, and the color was so crisp he already dreaded tearing his eyes away from the mesmerizing scene.

“What’s your story?” He asked suddenly, unaccustomed to her comfort with silence.

“Mmm.” She mulled the word around her mouth. “Story. Don’t have one.”

“Everybody has a story.”

“I was born, I opened an ice cream shop at age 22, and here I am two years later and half-homeless. That’s about the gist of it.”

“Seems like a lot of holes.”

“Sometimes holes are better left unfilled.”

Ian glanced at her and could tell from her profile that she had grown contemplative as she looked out the window, her face shaded in a cascade of golden pre-sunset colors.

“You’re only two years older than me.”

“So?”

“So, I couldn’t imagine having enough money to purchase the Depot. And the paint, and the freezers, and the ice cream—”

“I don’t purchase the ice cream,” she cut in suddenly. “I make it. Scratch.”

“The ingredients for the ice cream,” he amended. “Tables, chairs, curtains, cash registers, displays…”

She didn’t say anything, continuing to stare out the window. When she did speak again, her voice was softer, and he had to roll up her window to hear what she was saying. Goodbye, crimson whisps, he said to himself softly.

“What’s the one thing about life that makes you feel it’s worth living?” She didn’t wait for his response but gave a soft sort of moan. “For me it’s ice cream. Don’t look at me like that.”

Ian averted his eyes and tried not to smile. “Go on,” he said.

Truessy hesitated before beginning again. When she did, it was as if it took great effort to form the words. “There was a day in third grade I came home from a particularly hard day at school, and I didn’t have adequate words enough to express the hurt. I’m not an artist of words or art or music. But I knew how to mix flavors and colors, and so I took the ingredients out of the fridge and went to work as soon as I was in. Mom moved out of my way as I worked and just watched. And when I was done, the whole counter was filled with chopped peppermints and zests of oranges and chocolate chips, and I didn’t even ask if Mom wanted a

bowl. I scooped her two scoops in a bowl and my two scoops in a bowl, and I brought us both a napkin so our hands wouldn’t melt it from underneath, and we sat there on this ugly threadbare couch together and ate our ice cream.” She smiled, pausing, obviously deep in remembering. “The sugar high came and went before I could tell her what had happened, and when I did, it wasn’t such a big deal anymore. I mean, it was still awful, but that night, we ended up making jokes about it and laughing so hard my hair got in the last melted goodness of my bowl, and it was sticky when I went to bed and I didn’t even care because somehow, everything was going to be all right. Somehow, everything would work out.” She stopped abruptly.

Ian slowed down even though he was now driving under the speed limit. He glanced at her and then back at the road.

“Ice cream does all that for you?”

She shook her head, blowing out a deep breath. “Forget it. Forget I ever said anything.”

“I’m not making fun. I’m genuinely curious. I—I just want to understand,” he said, and as he did, he realized how much he meant it.

Truessy opened her mouth and closed it, then opened it again. “It’s not just the ice cream. It’s the whole experience. The creation of it, the getting cream on your hands and in your hair and just the right amount of sugar and then you find the most perfect flavor. And

when you taste it, when you’ve all but licked your bowl clean, there’s a satisfaction I don’t get anywhere else. It’s like having all my emotions summed up in one perfect scoop.”

Ian drove slowly into Harry’s parking lot, parked, and shut off the engine with regret.

“You never answered how you’re able to be a business owner so young.”

“You don’t get it, do you, Ian? No matter what I did in life, no matter how much I could have gone and done other, more practical things, things I wouldn’t now be up to debt in my eyeballs for, I had to work with ice cream. There is no two ways around it.” She looked at him as she opened her door. “That’s why you can’t just be a mechanical engineer. Be an engineer all you want, go make that money. But your heart will always return to the art.”

The spotlight had been in place for three hours since the sun had fallen below the horizon, and Ian was thoroughly exhausted. He paused for a moment, glancing up at the stars overhead.

“You’ve never asked to see my art.”

“Ah-ha! Then you are an artist! I was right!” Truessy squealed, throwing her paintbrush down in the empty part of the tray. “Besides, you’ve never asked to taste my ice cream.”

Ian glanced around and made a sweeping ‘where is it’ gesture.

“Touché,” she said. “How about on opening day, I’ll give you a free scoop and you give me a painting.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he objected. “I only get one free scoop for all this?”

“Yeah, I guess I am kind of indebted to you. Okay, two,” she teased, smiling bright.

“And I’m supposed to just give you a painting? Do you know how long and how hard I work on one painting?”

“’Course not. And you don’t know how long each ice cream recipe took me. Is it a deal or not?”

Ian unbelievably found himself shaking hands on it, and he watched her as her smile grew even wider, something he wasn’t sure would have been possible. And as he did, his heart did a little flip inside his chest.

Three more days of work later, Ian was watching stocky men and women with grease stains on their uniforms hauling in everything from giant freezers on dollies to display cases to sets of tables and chairs that rested on crates with wheels. He had to get out of their way more than once as everything was put inside and watched Truessy as she directed them to each proper location. She was like a drill sergeant in her directions, swift and precise.

When they were finished, Ian helped her put each small parlor table around the small front room and then watched as she sat in one, obviously pleased and satisfied with herself.

With everything but the chalkboard behind the register hung and the ice cream in the freezers, his job was done.

“You look so pleased with yourself,” Truessy said in a teasing voice, throwing a wet rag at him.

He caught it. “Look at this place. Just last week, it was an old, decrepit building. Now it’s up and ready to go.”

She took a seat at the table across from him. “Do you think it’s worth it?”

Ian thought for a moment, knowing she didn’t just mean the profits she would make or all the new coats of paint. “If ice cream is what you love, then yeah. Yes. It’s worth it.”

“You don’t have to sound so much like you’re convincing yourself.” She ran a hand through her ponytail, taking it down and then brushing it back with her fingers again. “You don’t have to believe it’s worth it just because I do.”

“I know,” Ian hesitated. “I guess it’s just hard for me to see the logic in going into debt, working day and night for a treat that will be gone in half an hour, tops. But,” he hurried to say, “I’m glad you’ve found what makes you feel happy, and that you’re going after it.”

“Yet you won’t go after what makes you happy,” she fastened her ponytail. “I’m not sure you see the irony there.”

“I can’t just ‘go after’ my art.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a reason the term ‘starving artist’ was coined. Besides, I like schedules.

Routines. Having to get up and go out into the world. I can’t slave away my life behind the same four walls each day.”

“When you’re painting, does it make you feel the same way I do when I make ice cream?” She glanced sidelong at him.

“I—I—”

“How does it make you feel?”

“Am I in therapy?”

“Just answer the question.”

Ian glanced at the Parisian Pink walls and the trim they’d painted Grecian White after much contemplation. “I—I guess I feel more alive when I paint than I do when I do anything else.”

“Alive?”

“Like, free.” He struggled to define it, thinking of his last painting, one he hadn’t touched since he’d met Truessy that day at the hardware store.

“Free.” Truessy let the word rest between them. “Define ‘free.’”

Ian thought for a moment, and then the words came spilling out of him. “Like, when

I’m there, in front of the canvas, there isn’t anything else that matters. I make a broad green

stroke, and it’s like magic when it goes across the canvas exactly how I want it to, in the exact right shade, and makes it look just like the pine tree outside the window at my boyhood home.

Time does this weird thing where five minutes goes by, but it’s really been four hours, and I feel like I’m doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing in that space. I think it must be equivalent to how Amelia Earhart felt when she first took flight; somehow it all seems impossible, but in the end, it comes together, and in front of you, there is this piece of art that was just a blank white space before. It’s—it’s really incredible.” He stopped, and suddenly he felt embarrassed of his impassioned speech.

Truessy was nodding seriously with a furrowed brow. “I see. And you think this would be the equivalent to ‘slaving away’ in your four walls each day?”

Ian took off his ballcap and then readjusted it. Then he abruptly stood up. “Listen, I don’t know when you’re going to open, but when you do, call me and let me know. I’ll expect to get at least my first hundred visits free.”

“Why are you leaving so soon?”

Ian spun. “Why do you care? Why are you trying so hard to get me out of engineering?

I knew from the time I was ten years old I would be an engineer. I like putting things together with my hands, and I can make a good living out of it, provide for a family one day, buy a house on Maple Avenue, maybe. I won’t do any of those things with art. It’s just a hobby. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re the definition of drawers in a wad, bro. Calm down,” Truessy said, holding up her hands in defense. “Excuse me for trying to get you to see your potential. If everyone felt as alive as you do when you’re doing art at their normal jobs, I bet the world would be a happier place. But excuse me for trying to make it happier.” She nodded at the door. “I open next

Sunday. Come after three, and you can have any flavor you’d like.”

Ian checked his watch. Three forty-two on Sunday afternoon. His four-page American

History paper was due tomorrow, and he had three pages written, but the fourth hadn’t come for the last two hours he’d been working. It didn’t help that Cherries on Top was all over his social media feed, pictures of a slim smiling redhead behind the counter in a carnation pink apron, happily scooping out ice cream scoop after ice cream scoop and drizzling it with every decadent topping known to man. After pictures of four friends in a row who had visited the parlor for the grand opening and raved about the unusual flavors, like Black Cherry Licorice and Pineapple Lime Sorbet, he finally shut his laptop with a slam, grabbed his keys, and headed out.

“Well, well, well,” Truessy said as soon as Ian came in, even though a family of four was in line in front of him. “Look what the cat drug in.”

The family sampled what seemed like every flavor and finally ordered a large assortment of ice creams and shakes, and Truessy had their order fulfilled and ready to go within minutes. Her efficiency and passion for the job was obvious just from watching her.

He walked to the counter. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he started.

“Ice cream. Makes everything better, remember?”

“If you say so. Give me whatever flavor emotion you’re feeling today.”

Truessy grinned, eyebrow cocked, and went to work. In a few minutes’ time, she handed over a giant bowl with scoops of blackberry marmalade pie, and she watched in obvious delight, nearly squealing as she handed him a spoon.

“You’re feeling like pie?”

“Sit down and taste the darn thing,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Ian did. He poked a spoon into the white, purply mixture and lifted it to his mouth, inspecting the part that looked like a graham cracker crust. His first taste was cold but reminded him of hot summer days spent on his grandfather’s farm, picking blackberries, watching his grandmother roll out her third crust that day for a pie. He closed his eyes in pleasure before he knew it, and when he did, Truessy had left her station at the counter and sat down across from him.

“Yeah?” She said, as if he had said anything.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s—that’s some fantastic ice cream, Chartreuse.”

Her mouth fell open. “You guessed it!”

“It’s not too hard, with those eyes.” He grinned, feeling more confident as he stuck another bite of ice cream in his mouth and let it melt slowly. He was forgetting her pushiness from earlier altogether. Then he raised the spoon to her mouth.

She grinned indulgently, gladly taking what he offered. “So, here’s the thing,” she said after she had savored and swallowed.

“There’s a thing?”

“I pay $2,900 rent on this place each month. For the apartment upstairs, add $750. If I sell as much ice cream everyday as I have today—and I won’t, because this is grand opening day, and folks are curious— I’ll be $400 short each month.”

“Okay.” Ian wasn’t following.

Truessy leaned across the table, smacking her hands together for emphasis. “Remember that second room? The dusty one with all the windows?”

“Yeah.”

“I am fairly certain I need a resident artist there. For his art gallery, you know. Instead of wine and dine, ice cream and paint team or something cheesy like that. It’ll be a reciprocal relationship. I sell your art, you pay rent.”

“Basically, I keep you from being homeless.”

“That, and you get your own art studio for $400 a month.”

Ian considered it. “I can’t. It’s crazy.”

“Is it?”

Ian considered again. Then a slow smile spread across his features. He dipped his spoon into the blackberry ice cream and savored it, the flavor summoning memories he thought he’d long buried. Somehow that bite felt like the nine-year-old Ian, the one who hadn’t yet decided on engineering school, the one who thought he would be an artist, who thought he would be something, make something of himself. And as he thought it, he grew more incredulous with himself, more alive with the possibilities, and he flooded with a wellspring of hope.

“I—okay.”

“Okay, Mr. Artist Man?”

He nodded, as if someone else was pulling a puppeteer string on the back of his neck.

“I’ll start tomorrow.” Forget that paper. He’d change his major first thing in the morning.

Visual Arts.

Truessy squealed and leaned across the table, surprising him with a kiss on the lips.

Then she leaned back and said, “I always knew we artists were perfect together.”

BILL SNYDER Metaphorically Speaking

At the time I kept asking myself, “How did I get it so wrong?” This story had been told to me by my mother and grandparents so clearly that it became something that defined my life.

It was like a tiny golden reflecting ball that I could hold up and see myself.

At the end of the day, after the “celebration of life” for mom after everyone else had left, it was just my brothers, sisters, and me sitting around the kitchen table. Everyone was laughing and telling stories from childhood. I was the youngest of the group by ten years and more, so I was not really a part of most of what they talked about. After a while though, I pulled my story out. Then each of them took it passed it around, inspected it and smudged it up with their grubby little fingers.

Mary unwrapped it like she does a Christmas present. She took ten minutes to slowly and meticulously untie the ribbon, cut the tape, and fold the paper into a neat little square. And there she just stopped. She didn’t dig any deeper. She didn’t try to open it up beyond that.

She was always more interested in the packaging than the content.

Louise dropped it into the nitric acid of her sarcastic humor. Taking off the luster and etching the surface until it was simply a dull gray story of no real value. Then she rolled it between her beefy unwashed fingers leaving it sticky with melted ice cream and rancid butter.

Earl took it and dropped it down his pants where it festered amongst the smegma, sweat, and fromunda cheese. Making the whole thing as dirty and sordid as he could before passing it on.

Ed barely even glanced at it. Being as self-involved as usual he was, less than halfway aware of anyone paying attention and mostly talked to himself much the way he mumbles when he farts in his sleep. But then, speaking loudly to override any discussion or thought, he claimed it as his own, and what I told was just a cheap imitation. Everything about mine, the size, the color, the shape, was wrong. He tossed it back contemptuously before launching into another of his long meandering and ultimately pointless tales.

By then the once golden little ornament in my life was smudged, sticky, discolored and so crusted with their contributions that holding it up to the brightest light I could not see anything of myself but only refuse of their lives.

I tucked it into my pocket and when I got home dropped it into a little box full of other misshapen memories. I washed my hands with lye soap and a scrub brush and burned the coat that I had carried it home in. Then I forgot about it. Blocked it from my memory. Years later I was reorganizing my thoughts when this story fell unbidden out of its box onto the rug.

My dog walked over thinking it was a treat. He nudged and sniffed at it, making that strange half-open- mouthed, lips curled back, horse face that animals do when the Jacobson’s organ comes into play as they try to identify the stank.

When he did a small amount of the detritus rubbed off and as I looked at it, I could see a small glint shining through. I rubbed at that spot and then quickly taking a dishrag, some

Brasso, and rubbing compound, I began cleaning it up. Slowly removing the layers of crust that had been imparted to it. The value of their words and attitudes had dried up, dried off, and the nastier toxins had sublimated into the ether. My thoughts and emotions weren’t as sticky as before and I realized then that I had the tools I needed to restore it. Slowly I began to see myself again and realized I could take it back and reclaim my story.

It is not quite the same. The shiny decorative parts and the golden color are gone, but the story… the most important part is still there. Originally my story had been idealized, highly polished, warm and pretty. Now after freeing it of the debris and cleaning up the damage, I find that it is not smaller but bigger and harder with a gray metallic glint that reflects the me I see today.

Untitled DANA BENTON

The Babylon Effect JUSTIN GIBSON

Sheltered Rain JUSTIN GIBSON

Untitled SALLIE HATTON

Biographical Information/Notes from Contributors:

Dana Benton is a Kentucky native with a love for the written and spoken word. When she is not writing, Dana is painting, baking, reading, or spending time with friends.

Don Boes has been teaching at Bluegrass Community and Technical College for a long time. He has been reading and writing for even longer. His books of poetry include The Eighth Continent, Railroad Crossing, and Good Luck with That.

Justin Gibson is an art major. His art medium is mostly digital, and he has been creating art since 2008. He says his style often focuses on the darker parts of humanity, though he also does colorful dreamscapes as well. His key influences are H.R. Giger, Paul Booth, and Ryan Bliss (Digital Blasphemy). His goal as an artist is to constantly push boundaries and provoke introspection within people. "Art is the pulse which my heartbeat palpitates to."

Sallie (Beth) Hatton is a student at Bluegrass Community and Technical College. Her photograph was taken on her last trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains. As her daughter says, "Let's go to the mountains." They love it there.

Katherine Coogan is a lover of language and poetry. A dabbler. An old notebook keeper. An avid reader and dreamer. Always optimistic. She is studying sciences in hopes of pursuing nursing. She is a full-time mother to a mop top curly haired son.

Nita Connolly is a writer, poet and artist from Louisville KY. She lives in the Highlands neighborhood, Louisville’s Haight-Ashbury, with her preppie Deadhead hubby P.J. and their impossibly adorable dog Rocky. She’s a library assistant at the Highlands Branch of the Louisville Free Public Library.

Bill Snyder teaches Biology at Bluegrass Community and Technical College and has been involved in the arts at the college for quite some time, including helping with art exhibits and events.

Haley Hartman is a 20-year-old librarian assistant located in Western Kentucky. She began writing poetry during her sophomore year of high school and has loved it ever since. She finds that most of her inspiration strikes when she’s feeling sad, but over the years she’s challenged herself to write more during happier times. She loves being able to express myself through poetry.

Julie Hendrix is an accomplished job changer. She holds a master’s degree in Mental Health Counseling. Her passion of helping others lead her to be an adult education director. As life changed so did she. She recently finished two classes at Bluegrass Community & Technical College in Library Science. As she started her career as a library director she added a new title, grandmother to Adalyn. Adalyn has inspired Julie to begin a series of adventures.