2012 Edition

Cleveland State Community College ENGLISH DEPARTMENT Editor: Julie Fulbright Assistant Editor: Heather Cline Liner

Front cover photography by: Amanda Guffey

Graphic Design and Production: CSCC Marketing Department

Printer: Dockins Graphics, Cleveland, Tenn.

Copyright: 2012

Cleveland State Community College

www.clevelandstatecc.edu

All Rights Reserved

Funding for this publication provided under Title I of the Carl D. Perkins Career and Technical Education Act of 2006. CSCC HUM/12095/04092012 - Cleveland State Community College is an AA/ EEO employer and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex, disability or age in its program and activities. The following department has been designated to handle inquiries regarding the non-discrimination policies:

Human Resources P.O. Box 3570 Cleveland, TN 37320-3570 [email protected] Table of Contents

Written By Title Photo/Drawing By: Page Frankie Conar After the Storm Julie Fulbright 5 Brittney Glover Weep for Me James Loyless 6 Leaves of the Sea Amanda Guffey 7 Stormy Fisher Mother 8 Savannah Tioaquen I Am the Wind Brandon Perry 9 Tracey Thompson Rose Amanda Guffey 10 Mirror Mirror Megan Payne 11 Tonya Arsenault Siblings Marchelle Wear 12-13 We Can’t Go Back in Time Kimberley Stewart 14-15 Angel Jadoobirsingh Spying Angel Jadoobirsingh 16 My Pay Angel Crawford 17 Cody Thrift Through Solemn Eyes Misti Stoika 18 I Had a Dream I Died Alonzo Bell 19-20 The Hero Tonya Arsenault 21-22 Nicholas Johnson Such Is Life Angel Jadoobirsingh 23 Turn the Lights Out 24 The Window by the Tree Marchelle Wear 25 Chet Guthrie Christmas on the Battlefield Amanda Guffey 26-29 Sweet Kalan Tonya Arsenault 30-34 The 23rd Psalm Marchelle Wear 35-37 Letters through the Fence Marchelle Wear 38-42 Grandfather’s Axe Marchelle Wear 43-44 Her Beauty Daniel Stokes 45 In the Eyes of a Dreamer Megan Payne 46 Rise o’ Rise Dear Wall Street 47 The Old Man Michael Espinoza 48 A Night of Passion Shanna Calfee 49-50 Table of Contents - Cont’d.

Written By Title Photo/Drawing By: Page Chet Guthrie Literature’s Anti-Christ Natasha Clark 51-52 Autumn Amanda Guffey 53 Children Dancing in the Rain Natalie Goleman 54-55 Hannah Hailey Yeargan 56-58 Caoseth Roanoke All Again Nancy Boyd 59 Collage Mercedes Smith 60 Alyssa Whaley Nature at Its Finest Amanda Guffey 61 Laissez Faire Amanda Guffey 62 Through My Eyes Richard Harris 63 In the Mind of an Addict Amber Walker 64 Christy Wells-Reece The Funeral Kyle Brogden 65-66 Life Marchelle Wear 67-69 Dannette Wright Thunderstorms Dannette Wright 70 My Sister Nancy Boyd 71 Letter Poem Sheila Bates 72 Repetition Poem Tonya Arsenault 73 Raina Terry Sugar on My Pillow Tasha Lowe 74 Shelby Bishop Neyland Stadium Shelby Bishop 75 Forever 27 Shelby Bishop 76 A Robot Named William Who Tyler Brock Was Wired Wrong Marchelle Wear 77 A Day in the Life of a Mouse at the Zoo Sarah Kirkpatrick 78 Coining Someone’s Life 79 Tammy Trew Through the Clouds Tonya Arsenault 80 For I’ve Loved You Amanda Guffey 81 After the Storm Frankie Conar Raging winds of adversity came bearing down, And tossed my life around like stubble. Tragedy shook me until my soul was weary But I will pull my life from its rubble. I will scream and shake my fist at catastrophe And not be beaten down by her blow. Thunder, lightning, and storm may rage about me, As I’m pulled by my troubles that ebb and flow. A new tomorrow comes with each dawning Darkness is lifted, morning covered with dew. Rising from the ashes of my broken dreams I will grieve, and then build my life anew. Reclaiming the broken pieces tossed about My existence will slowly take form. My bruised heart will never be the same, But I have weathered the storm Fresh mounds of earth, flowers scattered round With God’s help, I’ll be resilient and strong. I will bare my grief with quiet dignity And hold my head high for life goes on. Battered by the winds of destruction I am bent, but not totally broken. Rising up inside my ravaged heart My resolve I hear firmly spoken From the strong ragging spirit within, “I will survive and one day I will smile again.”

This poem by Frankie Conar was written after the tornado outbreak on Wednesday, April 27, 2011. Cleveland, TN, was one of the many towns hit across the south. This poem is a tribute to the spirit of the people in our area who are picking up the pieces of their lives.

Photo by: Julie Fulbright 5 Weep for Me Brittney Glover Weeping Willow crying in the rain Your leaves droop so gracefully. Your branches swaying in the cooling wind; Your leaves coal black and dark with sin. You give me chills that race up my spine As your leaves and branches fly. You reach for me with a thousand screams. You bring me deep into your dreams. Your bark cold and gray Next to it lies my solemn grave.

Photo by: James Loyless

6 Leaves of the Sea Brittney Glover The leaves above my head, Moved like waves in the sea. Shifting in the wind, Sunlight danced upon the leaves. So beautifully they gleamed, In different shades of green. How soft they seemed, Like the crest of the sea.

Photo by: Amanda Guffey

7 Mother Stormy Fisher What does it mean to be… Mother? Warrior. Protector, defender… Fighter. Mother? Performer. Acrobat, juggler… Dancer. Mother? On demand. Questioned, answerer… First responder. Mother? In love. Whisperer, cuddler… Song singer. Mother?

8 I Am the Wind Savannah Tioaquen I am the wind in which the air you breathe I am the wind that soars across the sky I am the wind that flows across the nation I am the wind that takes pride in I am the wind who defends I am the wind all in one I am the wind that will never stop I am the wind that is strong I am the wind in which you love With the wind she will stay strong, With the wind she will be great, With the wind she will keep soaring. I am the wind

Photo by: Brandon Perry

9 Rose Tracey Thompson We started as just studying in class. Who would have thought that our friendship would last? “Best Friends Forever!” That is what we would say. Should forever end, in just one bad day? Please take this letter and enjoy your rose. I pray that our friendship forever grows!

Photo by: Amanda Guffey

10 Mirror Mirror Tracey Thompson If Snow White had a brother, instead of an evil stepmother It is you he would be, no one else as fair as thee Hair as black as the night, skin so fair tis almost white Mirror Mirror on the wall I will wait. Will he call? I see you watching me, you see me watching you too. Eyes so deep, if I look, I’ll fall. Our computer chats were the best of all. You talk to someone not knowing. But, then you find out it’s me, so you got to be going. Mirror Mirror on the wall, I couldn’t wait. I just had to call. Take my advice, before taking yours, I would think twice. You complain and moan that you are all alone, Heck, here I am, just take me home. I will remember you forever, But I will not wait forever Mirror Mirror on the wall, I did not wait, and he never called.

Drawing by: Megan Payne 11 Photo by: Marchelle Wear

Siblings Tonya Arsenault

little brother, i’m so sorry for not acting like i should for the yelling and the fighting for not helping when i could for projecting all my frustrations onto such a sweet little man the guilt that weighs me down inside sometimes makes it hard to stand you were so much smaller and you were only a kid too i should have been your guide, your friend but i hurt you through and through little brother, i’m so sorry for those many selfish years i promise to be a better sister and use the future to wipe your tears little sister, i’m so sorry for not always being there you needed me many times but i wasn’t always aware 12 sisters are supposed to be friends and for a short time we were i miss that short time in my life for that you can be sure i’m not a perfect person and i’ve never claimed to be i have shown my many flaws to you and have hurt you so bad, i see i have made some big mistakes along our sibling road i’ll always pay for them they are a heavy toll little brother, i’m so sorry for not giving the best advice we were right there with each other through most of that childhood strife i should have been setting an example but instead i was making a big mess i should’ve been showing you what was right of me you probably thought less and less little brother, learn from my mistakes don’t do what i did wrong i know i was the oldest one but you have always been strong see all that i messed up on and take it all to heart all the trouble i got into please don’t you ever start dear siblings, i’m so sorry for not being a better sister to you the kind you can look up to the kind you love through and through i hope you’ve gained triumphs through my failures and learned good through my misdeeds i hope the crooked path i lead shows you what kind of life to lead i also hope you really know how much i truly love you how much i’m willing to make amends just how much i’m willing to do i’ve grown to be a better person please forget the old me if you can dear siblings, i’m so sorry please see the real person that i am

13 We Can’t Go Back in Time Tonya Arsenault I rub cream into my hands And I wonder where time has gone I stare down at those sore hands They’ve been there since life has begun I try and think of all the things I’ve struggled, made it through The wear and tear it’s made on me And others around me too Sometimes I wish I could Go back to a simpler life But we just can’t go back We can’t go back in time Back when things were simple Back when kids could have some fun Mom would turn us loose and let us play Say be back before the day was done I wish things always stayed so simple I wish things always stayed so safe The things I did when I was younger I just can’t let my kids do today One day I’m getting ready for school And it seems like just the next I have a husband and a house full of kids And I never get any rest I find I worry about everything The big things and the small The house, the kids, the dogs, I’m the mother of it all Make dinner, do the laundry Pick up that big mess Come on kids, let’s get ready You’ve all got ball practice What are those dots on your face, Mom? And all of those really thin lines Are they from making silly faces at us Or frowning too many times? Sometimes I wish I could Go back to a simpler life But we just can’t go back We can’t go back in time

14 Sometimes I wish I could go back Go back where things were easy Go back where things made more sense Go back with no more wrinkles And a little bit more rest But then I wouldn’t have what I do now I wouldn’t have my kids and my good man Yes I know the things I would also be missing My wrinkles and my sore hands The things I would be doing without Don’t outweigh what I would be giving away So as far as going back in time Well I think I’d prefer to stay

Photo by: Kimberley Stewart 15 Spying (A Narrative Poem) Angel Jadoobirsingh Avoid the squeaking square, make sure, the time of night step only on support beams, just there the door opens slowly with a low, and grinding squeak. Cringing at the noise, breaking silence in the still night as I crack the door open, making no noise as I slip silently into the room.

Drawings by: Angel Jadoobirsingh

The smell of baby, of gel, paste, drying art. Carefully place each foot, to maybe avoid the weak structure points A sigh, one of relief, and dark eyelashes lying against cheeks, a small, beautifully sculpted hand lying on the pillow by her face. Her small nose, while her full lips are caught in a small smile for a pleasant dream Beautiful, my child, Glowing with youth. Lying in her bed Breathing, and forever growing, alive and blissfully asleep. 16 My Pay Angel Jadoobirsingh

Photo by: Angel Crawford You take away my humanity replace it with a gun. You take away my happiness replace it with discipline with a sense of honor, you give me the right to kill You train me to be a killer you take away my wife you murder my home, my life and I accept it gratefully with duty and with honor. Then take away my pay my art, the ability to help my family survive our way, I’m not home, I’m gone, You’ve made me a killer, then you take away my loyalty, by taking away my home, my family’s food, my wife and my child. You made me a killer, then took away my inspiration to kill. I learned this deadly craft that you taught me. And then you take it all away. Remember this, though, you reap what you sew. 17 Through Solemn Eyes Cody Thrift Through solemn eyes I watch As my brethren are destroyed around me. We are helpless to these machines, We cannot do anything As we are hacked to pieces, Thrown into the fire, Decimated beyond extinction. They say to themselves, “They’ll multiply and re-grow. Then we won’t have to feel bad For destroying them all.” But they do not realize that they are wrong. We are becoming scarce As their own greed consumes not only us But them and the world around them. They need us to sustain life And once we are gone, Soon, they will be too.

Photo by: Misti Stoika 18 I Had a Dream I Died For Rachel Cody Thrift I had a dream I died And was lifted up into The Heavens. I saw a vast and Magnificent sight That is the world. The Lord came to me, And noticed my Awe at the sight. He said to me, “All of this before you I have made. Now I ask you, Which do you love most? Is it the mighty ocean Who roars against all Its adversaries?” I reply to the Lord, “No my Lord. It is not the Mighty ocean.” “Then is it the forests, calm and Vast in their entirety?” Still gazing out upon the Wonderment of the world, I reply, “No my Lord, it is Not the vast forests.” “Then is it the majestic void Known to man as space, With all its mysteries and Questions whose answers Are unbeknownst to man?” “Now my Lord, it is not the Void that is space that I Love most of Your creations.” “Is it the stars, whose beauty Man envies every day?” He asks. “It is not the stars, my Lord.” “Then, pray tell, My Child, what It is you love most of all My Creations.” I continue to gaze out upon The world, when my eyes fix 19 Upon what I love most. “My Lord,” I inquire, “the Creation I love most is That girl. She is the Wonder I love most.” “Why is a mere girl the Thing you love most, My Child?” asks He. “My Lord,” I say, “to me, she Is no mere girl. To me, she is As mighty as the ocean, As calm as the forests, As mysterious and majestic As the Void, as beautiful As the stars themselves. She is my heart, my soul, My very being. She is the love of my life.”

Photo by: Alonzo Bell 20 The Hero Cody Thrift “Mom, I want to be a hero,” the boy said. The mother smiled, and put her hand on his head And replied “I’m sure you will be one day, honey.” He claimed that he did not want a lot of money But wanted to save people from death Until his final breath. Ten years later, the boy was older, And his ambitions were much bolder. The disease, however, that crept inside him all his life Had finally decided to cause him strife. He collapsed one day, and they rushed him to the ICU; His face had turned an awful hue Of white. Sweat beaded on his forehead, And his mother, crying, said “Why? Oh why?” “Mom, don’t cry,” The boy said to her. His speech had already begun to slur. Instead, she cried and cried some more While the doctors stood beside the door. “Ma’am there’s not much we can do. None of the doctors have a clue About this disease, you see,” The doctor said sympathetically. “He’s only got about an hour to live. And if you think you could give Us his body so we can study him, I believe there might be a slim Chance of finding a cure.” The thought seemed obscure But she consented and, within the hour The boy passed and gave the doctors the power To find a way to heal the sick, And they accomplished it rather quick. Five years later, the boy was long gone. And every day, an hour past dawn The mother wakes and remembers her son And all of the wonderful things he had done. “My son, you got what you dreamt of. You always told me you would always love To be a hero, who saves the people from death 21 Until your final breath. You achieved it, dear boy. You have saved People, even past your days And became a hero like you wanted to.”

Photo by: Tonya Arsenault 22 Such Is Life (A Haiku) Nicholas Johnson A long heartfelt walk A walk to the old oak tree Where I then will lay

Photo by: Angel Jadoobirsingh

23 Turn the Lights Out Nicholas Johnson (A satire supporting the Stop Online Piracy Act Blackout of January 2012) We have come to our end My fellow pirates and I We raped and we pillaged The world wide web high We turn out the lights Now as we fight We lower our colors To show the world we were right They’ll see without us That they stand all alone No Google or Wiki or Youtube their home Turn your lights out so old SOPA don’t see Just what it’s like without you and me Lower the flags And tell all your men We won’t tell them anything Ever…… again That’s what it’ll be as we stand shackled and cuffed on our way to the headsman to call our last bluff we, the pirates, have stood our fair ground this is our last stand this is the last round so turn off the lights and hold your breath tight if old SOPA wins we’ve fought our last fight

24 The Window by the Tree (A Personification Poem) Nicholas Johnson I view two directions Yet I see everything The light and the dark Your hopes and your dreams I’ve seen you for years Yet you see right through me Such is my purpose The window by the tree

Photo by: Marchelle Wear

25 Photo by: Amanda Guffey

Christmas on the Battlefield Chet Guthrie

I stood there half beaten in a muddy, bloody trench made from the tears, sweat, blood, and thicket of December snow as it fell on the quiet western front. The trenches were filled with a murky soup, made from the souls of the soldiers who had died early years before, serving their nations, dying with the honor of being buried in the trenches as they were gassed, shot, and stabbed. The war was nearing its end, however; the imperial axis powers were falling; falling with the utter stubbornness that had fueled its war machine that led to a hell on the European continent, as well it made a larger commotion on the earth. The weather was a bitter cold as my men huddled together, listening to the sirens scream to run into no-man’s-land and shoot, stab and gas, unknowingly wondering if we ourselves would come back alive. The siren rang and we ran, but this charge was different, however. We had run through mud- filled craters and seemingly never ending fields of barbed wire fences unharmed. We had broken through enemy lines, avoiding their gun shots, bayonets, gas shells, and sabers. However, it was there that I watched my fellow brothers fall at my feet as we ran, running into the woods nearby, hiding out, waiting for the enemy to explore our place of hiding so that we may 26 snipe, seek out, and destroy. We had run for about a half hour until we felt the enemy was far behind us and out of our sight. It was then our commander stopped us for a head count and assigned us into groups as I was appointed to follow three others. We then ran through the forest groves, seeking a place of further refuge. After about fifteen minutes, we came across an old two story house that was at its point of falling in on its foundation. But it strongly held up enough stability to hold my fellow brothers. We scouted the building and every room, finding no signs of life. But in the corner of one room, something caught my eye. Slowly I crept into the darkened room where the moon was shining brightly through the several holes that infested the frail ceiling. Under the moon’s light, I caught the glimpse of a soldier’s corpse, dried to perfection in mummification. He sat there still holding his gun in one arm and a locket in the other, waiting for an invasion from the enemy that had come too late. Out of curiosity, I pried open the corpse’s hand to see as to what the locket’s secret held. The locket was covered in a charred gray dust as I took it from the dead soldier’s hand and rubbed away the dust with my tattered uniform. As I did, the locket began shining with a radiant golden color. I then opened it, and within the locket it contained a picture of a family. The dead soldier to my assumption was with a woman and two children, to my guessing were his family, a loving family he was willing to die for in serving his country, as he waited for an invasion that came too late on his side of the battlefield. If he were alive, he would have surely charged at me, but instead in a way of proper respect, I gave him a vow in honor for his suffering patience. I thought, War is a sickness on humanity that all humans contract, it is not avoidable, and it has no cure. It is a violent sickness that consumes the heart causing a brother to turn on his own flesh and blood and slaughter them mercilessly without a sense of human sanity. I felt sorry for this soldier who had waited for an invasion that never came; I felt he served an honorable cause, but died in vain. An unsettled anger and confusion lifted within my soul. Why is there war? I thought. What happened to God’s words that we should treat our fellow neighbor as we would ourselves; and what were we truly fighting for in this war? Over mere inches of land trying to conquer a disputed land at the cost of thousands day by day? It was madness, utter ignorant raging madness that resolved nothing. My thoughts I contemplated out of anger and confusion were interrupted as I heard a sound, a sound of enemy footsteps marching through the thicket of snow coming from outside the building. Without realizing, I placed the locket deep within one of my worn pockets. My men and I huddled, waiting for them to bombard the house where we resided. We waited and waited and waited. But we heard not a sound of war, but instead that of peace. They met us in what was left of the living room, dropping their weapons, showing they would not shoot. In place of shooting, one of them spoke in their native language for us to pick up firewood and build it in the remains of the still sturdy chimney. We worked together, looking through the forest for kindling and other types of firewood. Even pulling a few boards protruding here and there from that corroded building, I had begun to converse with one of the soldiers from the enemy lines. His name was Vlad Rosenburg, a soldier from the German army. He had a weak dialect in the English language, but I could still firmly understand his words through his thick German accent. As we fell short of the others, Vlad and I carried on an interesting conversation. “The war has a great toll on our country,” Vlad said. 27 “It has too in my country as well,” I replied. “What all has happened to your people? You live on an island drinking your tea and eating your biscuits?” I somewhat chuckled and said, “True, we do love our tea and biscuits, but we have lost many due to this war of nonsense.” “Well at least it hasn’t affected your country as it has mine. We live only miles from the battlefield. I’ve already lost two of my nephews and my only brother.” “Same here, my brother and I recruited at the same time believing it would be a venture, and we would come back heroes, but sadly he died in a gas attack just a few months ago. I had to make the hardest decision I have ever made in my life. As I watched him suffocate, I had to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger.” “I am sorry for your loss. My brother died before my eyes from a gunshot to the chest just as we began rushing from the trenches and onto enemy lines. If he had not been there to take the bullet, I would not be here. I am grateful that he was there to defend his younger brother.” “You know, Vlad, I believe we share the same pain and heartbreak. Neither of us has greater scars than the other. This war has done equal damage to our nations.” “Perhaps you are righ,t James.” “Hey, do you have any clue of what day it is?” “It’s the 24th I believe.” “Christmas Eve, my God, is it really that day?” “I believe so. Time flies when you’re fighting in a useless war.” It was the 24th of December, Christmas Eve. I had forgotten with the escalation of the war, the attempt the opposing nations fought over in order to take mere inches of land, switching back and forth day by day, waiting for a mass gain in ground that had yet to happen. My friend and I walked back to the house as we huddled together by our fellow soldiers to the warm fire we had made and talked, not as enemies, but as brothers. Often speaking and telling stories of each other’s families from back in our homelands. There were so many different languages being spoken throughout that bombarded crippled house, but yet it was still clear that it was family that was the greatest gift of all to us. Family was the gift that kept our spirits alive, that kept us warm on the coldest of nights, even as the murky soup froze beneath our feet. Even as we felt it was a meaningless war, we would go out of our way to defend that gift we held so dear. The cold had a fidgeted sting that lingered in the air, but the warmth of the fire and our souls kept us alive that night. That night we were not enemies; we were brothers undivided by war. As we slowly fell asleep by the fire, later in the morning’s light, we took the time to pull apart a few of the boards and rusted nails from that corroded structure to build a coffin. We dug a shallow grave, and we went up the stairs to the second floor to the room where I had found the fallen soldier’s body. We made a make-shift stretcher out of a few thin beams and a ragged bed sheet as we gently lifted him onto the rugged frame. The dead soldier’s debt had been paid as his burial was welcomed by a long line of crowded soldiers on either side. We did not discriminate by who was who on enemy sides. His burial was a burial of peace, a burial far more honorable than those who had died in the

28 trenches of indifference. Just as we began to lay on the coffin door, I remembered the locket I had placed within my pocket the night before. I said, “Wait.” I jumped into the shallow grave and placed the locket back into his hand. The thing he had given his life for, his family, his nation. At his grave, he was allowed to have the thing he most likely cherished most, his family. As we laid on the final pile of dirt, we said a prayer that his death had not gone with an unjust cause; he had not paid his life in vain. We took a cross and marked his grave, a rugged cross that would forever stand undisturbed. We later went to fighting as war will, but we knew the day was coming soon when the war to end wars would come to an end. To my knowledge that night, we all accepted that it was the season to be unified in the brotherhood of mankind.

29 Sweet Kalan Chet Guthrie 1. It was the meeting of late February and early March, a time when the frost of winter and the heat of spring met, conceiving a day with a brilliantly constructed light warmth. The weather had brought out the best in me, giving me the strength the winter had taken away some months before. That day, I decided I would hike to the town’s local cemetery, an age old home to the dead, which had been brought into existence by the casualties of the civil war that had come some ages before. Many of the head stones cracked and faded leaving many sad souls to be forgotten in an era that had come to its end. Cars had replaced horses, phones had replaced the telegraph, and music had spread with a new beat called Jazz. I did not come to pay respects to the soldiers who had died in the conflict over brother versus brother, however, but that of a friend who had met a dreadful end some 10 years ago. Out of the few legible stones, hers is the most stubborn that refuses to fade into history and out of one’s mind. I have come to do what I have often done before the winter comes to claim the remains of autumn’s warmth. That is to tend to her lonesome grave by planting a rose and stripping the weeds that grow so thickly over her grave. As I have often done before, I reminisce that it seems only yesterday that she took her life because she found the man she loved so dear holding another woman in his arms with cheer. Her name was Kalan. The name of an angel I will remember until the last of my days, a name of a kind-hearted soul that should have never met such a destructive end. Her hair with its long dark caress, her eyes of blue sapphire that had a hypnotizing glance, that soul and beauty that carried the weight of a goddess. She was of true beauty that greatly filled our town with lively spirit. As we often called her, she was the “angel” of our fair city. Not a hurt soul went on agonizing after they crossed paths with Kalan. However, this was her Achilles heel that led to her death. She was in love with a man that I know she was heart-felt that he was surely to make her his bride. It was her dream, her passion; but sadly she refused to acknowledge his unclean hands fueled by his corrupt heart. Often she was warned that he was such a man that consorted with all women, spreading his drunken lustful lies that were his reality. But her heart went deaf to our words of warning, which if she had listened, she would’ve understood his true nature and not the guise that he concealed to her. 2. How he came into being to my recalling, it was on a cold winter day in January. He arrived on an inbound train from the local railroad. The rumors I had heard, he had come from a home of old wealth. His ancestors being carpet baggers from the North who took advantage of the South’s short comings when the South fell; he was a tall man with tan skin and finely thick brunette hair. He was truly an Adonis of men, but his morals and character were not so much. He had come to escape the prohibition of alcohol, the government’s sworn duty to punish those who drank “the devil’s mouthwash.” I believe he had come to our fair Tennessean town with knowledge that it was a town between mountains, a place of perfection where he could drink and lust after women as he could

30 do freely. Shortly after his arrival, often in the morning’s light, we the town saw him coming down from the mountainside, stumbling with a drunken sway after a long night of drinking. To our knowledge, he had come back from the escapade of a hidden steal forged by a widower and his daughter who lived deep on top of one of the mountains. At the end of every night after taking part in his sinful pleasure, he would often fall passed out drunk in an abandoned barn on the outskirts of town. We never quite said anything, but one day Kalan’s father, Gregory Scott, our town’s pastor, decided to take him up off the streets and clean and feed him. He was hoping this would save that man’s soul. 3. That is how Kalan met him, on a spring night in the middle of March, the very day her father brought him home. Oh I wish that we all could have taken a step back in time to right Pastor Gregory’s wrong, but sadly Father Time in all his wisdom could not and would not allow us to do so. It was later in the months that came that we saw him and her stroll the old cobble stone streets with the days as they got hotter, moving close to June’s merciless summer heat. We would often watch the both of them as they sat by the town’s awesome lake, or it was more of a creek that fed into a later crater like hole, so to speak, long formed in the days of the mountain’s creation. They would sit under a large umbrella as she would lay by his side with great trust, great loyalty as it was custom for a lady to do so at that time. The time when he was not around, possibly drinking and whoring himself with other women, she would often talk about her dream, her dream that he was the man her life had been waiting for, the man that would take her across the alter. The only way how was he would have to be bathed in the salvation of Christ. Sadly around this time, Pastor Gregory had died from a heart attack, and Kalan was left very troubled. She isolated herself for a short time, breaking away from her mourning when Pastor Gregory’s funeral took place. After that, Pastor Gregory’s estate was passed down to Kalan as there were no other heirs, quite possibly the only flesh and blood was her mother that had died some years before, shortly after Kalan’s birth. The other members of the Scott clan had slowly died with the passing ages, an overall majority dying in the great bloodshed of the Civil War’s toll. 4. It was a strange eerie feeling when that man wanted to be bathed in Christ’s salvation. We had an unsettled feeling that quite possibly this man’s salvation was triggered after Pastor Gregory had died, an alleged salvation in the name of greed, lust, and dishonesty. We believed he wanted the collected wealth the Scott family had acquired over the generations, a majority being a large lump sum coming from the renting of their home during the war. At that time, the man’s wealthy river drying out with his excessive drinking, he had nothing left we figured, and he knew if he came to the Lord’s Table, he could marry Kalan and along the line of time take control of her family’s wealth. But we shuttered the feeling, and I remembered later in the month when he came to the Lord’s alter on that August day. We unknowingly believing he had come to be saved from his wrong doings. We watched as he was bathed in the Lord’s holy water, baptized in the way of having his sins washed away. Oh, at the time we gladly cheered, for not long after, he proposed to Kalan for her loving hand in marriage. She was very ecstatic and anxious and filled with much happiness. The town took part in throwing her 31 the wedding of her dreams. The town carpenter worked with his artistic hands to weave a magnificent wedding dress, the town baker baked a large white cake some 4 feet tall, the town artisan worked from a thick block of ice to sculpt out a beautiful swan, the women of the town flocked around her every time she set foot into the streets, often consulting her on what was her required style for her wedding day, and too they wanted to see who was worthy enough to carry the title of being one of the “angel’s” brides-maids . Oh, it was a great vibrant feeling throughout the town. Our town “Angel” finally being married to a man that had been saved from his sins. That day had finally come as not only her, but the entire town, had waited with much anticipation. She placed on her fine silk gown and her glory veil of holy matrimony and she began walking down the aisle followed by the chosen few who met her title. But one thing was missing. Where was her lover? Where had he gone? After hours of waiting, we broke down into groups to find our “Angel’s” groom and ultimately save this momentous occasion, her wedding. We searched high and low in our small town to no avail to finding one trace of him. But then a person in my group said, “Why don’t we look in the old widower’s cabin? In his past, he had gone there many times before.” We fretted this one place, for what if we were to find him consorting in his old sinful ways? 5. Without choice, we explored the mountain side, the trail that led to the hermit’s cabin. It was about an hour’s walk until we met our destination, but sadly we had come to the site we had feared. He was drinking excessively, and he was holding the old widower’s daughter. The widower had finally died the night before as we found him in his old rocking chair. Sadly, we were not the first ones to see what was going on; Kalan had beaten us to this horrendous sight. She ran down the mountainside, screaming a ghastly god-awful scream, a scream of fear, sadness, and being cheated. What had taken us an hour, she did in a half hour no less, especially with the factor of a dress; she ran to her home that she had inherited from Pastor Gregory many months before and slammed the door shut. After that, she was not seen in the streets again. Her life had become a hulking wreck; she was living in a world with a shattered dream. To my imagining, there was a beautiful dress that she had prepared, but a dress she will never wear that laid away in her closet, gathering dust uninterrupted. Every night and day since that incident at all hours, her whaling cries could be heard throughout the town, and as from her second story home,, she could be seen looking down on the world bitterly with an urge to leave it. Many times as she was seen she was holding tight the wedding dress she had prepared, but a dress, sadly, she will never wear, after that day that man left along with the remaining breeze of the summer winds. In a matter of a month’s, time her absence from the town left it a grayish gloom, her joyous love no longer there to fill the town with a lively spirit. Quite possibly, it seemed that it was her very soul that kept the town alive. The streets were filled with very little signs of life. It was not the same without our “Angel.” Her once beautiful beloved home that was her father’s, the very home she grew up in, had become a grotesque disfigured atrocity with every passing day she bathed herself in reclusion. It had become what we had imagined Kalan was feeling, a crippled eyesore that had been abandoned. In due respects for her shattered heart, seeming that she would never meet us in the

32 outside world again, we paid her taxes to the great Scott home along with an offering to keep her alive by setting fruit baskets at her door in hopes that she would return just briefly to the outside world. However, we never saw her, but the baskets of fruit would always go missing, leaving us to think that maybe one day she would return to us all. 6. Then one day we remembered as it was so, a disturbing silence had fluttered through the air. Strangely her cries had finally gone silent, but the mystery of it was why? What had happened? We the town wondered? After a day’s worth of , we broke the threshold to her home, the fowl stench of rotted fruit meeting us with an intruder’s welcome. Slowly we ventured into that condemned household, looking through the cobwebbed infested living room, through the dark hallways and the kitchen, which on the table piled high were fruit baskets filled with partially untouched fruit. Then we noticed a trail of rose petals following up the stairs and down a darker hall where the trail stopped at the foot of a closed door. The door creaking slowly as we opened it. We peered through the dim room, and that’s where we found her on her bed in her wedding dress with a bottle of poison in her hand by the night stand. Due to the starving of his love, she looked frail and weak, and I saw the bones in her cheeks, but even shriveled and withered, she looked like she always had, a humble angel laying her head down for a peaceful eternal slumber. 7. When news had spread that Kalan had died, the town erupted in anger. We sent many in the directions of the north, south, east, and west, having little success of that man’s whereabouts. At her funeral the entire town had attended. We buried her in that dress to give her what she could not have in death, but even so being married to the grave, death would have served a better man than the one who left her to suffer. Often when I’m here at her grave, I wish she had taken my plea for her loving heart; I would have given her the entire world. But not even all the dreams we shared as children could change the direction in her mind for the man who was a living sin; my mind often filled with the many places we played, especially during the summer days when the school house shut its doors and we were bound to discover a new world. We had been friends until her untimely end and quite possibly on a road to love that been interrupted by that man I cringed. His name, by far, I could not stand; Garrett Freeman was his name. When I sit here tending her grave reminiscing, I tell myself, “It’s hard to believe that it’s been ten years since you left the earth, an angel bound to live in the clouds of heaven.” Sadly, many of the of the town have forgotten her and her dreadful end, but not I who tend to tend to her grave. One day in a distant town on the Georgian coastline when I visited one of my brothers and his wife, I believe I did catch a glimpse of Garrett Freeman. He was waltzing out of a brothel with two whores in either hand. It greatly disgusted me that it seemed he had no remorse for his corrupted heart and his unclean hands, the tools he used to suffocate her to her untimely end. “But let it be known to you, dear sweet Kalan, I will forever tend to your grave until the last of my dying days, to show you I have not forgotten you and that I still love you, Sweet Kalan.”

33 Photo by: Tonya Arsenault 34 The 23rd Psalm Chet Guthrie My friend, Will Burtt, lit a cigarette as our submarine had had finally surfaced and we had opened the hatch for the first time after two days beneath the ocean’s surface. I could tell it was a long-awaited smoke as Will was getting jittery and short-tempered nearing the surface as he was not normally so. No, my friend was a very kind- hearted fellow, a real ladies’ man if you will. Or at least that’s how he was at the Hawaiian port of Pearl Harbor just before we set forth on our naval journey. We were sent on a journey to monitor for German and Japanese ships off the Japanese coast of Midway. Well more or less, we were bound to find more Japanese than German ships, of course, but all in all, no matter whom the enemy ship was, we were ordered to destroy it. The war had been escalating for some time now after the Japanese empire attacked us on Pearl Harbor. America was finishing up on her invasion on Hitler’s 3rd Reich while on the western front, it was still a bitter war between nations. Will and I had been there that horrible day in history as we did not realize there were more days of bloodshed to come. Will pulled out a cigarette and said, “Hey Jim, you want a smoke?” I politely said, “No, you know I kicked the habit after those Japanese kamikaze bastards attacked us. He said, “Ah I remember.” “Then why did you ask in the first place?” I said rather angrily. “Because I can,” he said. “You asshole,” I replied. All the ship’s men had finally got onto the very narrow deck to take a breath of sweet salty fresh air. It was the first breath of real air they had had in days. “Ah, this beats living in a sardine can any day of the week.” I heard one of them say. Our reason for surfacing, we had run out of torpedoes, and our captain thought, Why not surface before we go back into port? It was a wise decision at the time as we met the sight of a beautiful summer day, the wind blowing quite gently as we all sat up on deck. It had been about an hour until at 3:37 we saw something off in the distance, which looked to be a rather grayish glob. We weren’t sure as to what it could be; we thought it had to be some kind of ship. Only question was if it was an allied or enemy ship? But as it got ever so closer, there was an explosion next to our proud submersible. One of our exceptional crew of 28 men ran back into the cramped stairwell down to their confined living quarters to retrieve their binoculars. He came back up and looked at the ship’s flag. We were right; it was a Japanese destroyer, that crimson sun rising high ever so mercilessly. Then there was another explosion much closer to our sub this time. Our captain said, “Hurry! Get back in; Move it, move it, move I, otherwise, if you want to end up dead!” We rushed and clamored into that god-awful tin can of confinement, and down we went several fathoms. It went dark as we all huddled there in pitch darkness, the lights slowly coming to life. In the command room, all the ones who had come first were gathered. Will and I were one of the lucky ones that made it to the command room first. We watched the green sonar. Bing, bing, bing, it went; a lonely green bullseye with a small dreaded red dot moving ever closer to our position under the sea. It got closer, closer, closer. Moving with a fearful speed- closer, closer, closer until the destroyer sat right on top of us. There was an eerie silence for about 10 minutes that made us gut-wrench with fear that seemed to be centuries with every passing moment. BOOM! We heard, shaking the sub violently. There were screams of fear and worry, cries of unknowing what bomb would hit what next. There was about a 10-minute silence,

35 that Hell-ship still sitting in the same place as it had before. BOOM! Another explosion happened. Luckily, it felt far away this time and not closer. It seemed that every 10 minutes or so, another explosion would happen. Some feeling close, some feeling very far away; then a bomb hit the port side tearing into the metal and gashing a massive hole. The men that had been there were killed instantly in the blast. Quickly they shut the water-tight door with the compartment filling with water fast; we were in worry and shock now. If we took another hit like that we would surly meet a watery grave. BOOM! The next bomb hit close, but not with the same damage. BOOM! A bomb tore into the top side, killing 6 men easily. The lights had died then, and the power went out. The only rooms of safety that were left now were the room to the main hatch and the very room we waited like lambs to the slaughter; lambs surely led astray and into a watery hell. As a faith of goodwill, Will pulled out a bible he had picked up off a fellow dead soldier, a naval Chaplin I believe it was that had died when Pearl Harbor had been so viciously attacked . He said to everyone, “When they attacked us in Pearl Harbor, as I stayed hidden in one of the plane hangars while they bombarded us with bomb after bomb, a Naval Chaplin had gotten caught in one of the blasts and was incinerated instantly, all as he was trying to comfort his fellow men. Nothing was left of him except his charred bible. As he had done, I continued to read his bible and prayed with the soldiers just as the kamikaze bombers destroyed the roof. To the weary soldiers, I read the 23rd Psalm. If we die now, no matter what belief we see difference in, let at least the last thing we read is that the Lord God is our shepherd.” BOOM! Another explosion happened. Now it seemed the time between explosions had gotten closer in between. Under the darkness, I saw a lighter light up and the dim radiance of a cigarette glow. Will said, “There a candle anywhere?” This answer was surprisingly answered with a “yes” as we all thought of it to be a doubtful no. One of the men who sat at the sonar screen pulled out a candle from a glove box and handed it to Will. Will lit it with his lighter. Will read aloud: “The Lord is my shepherd, I Shall not want.” BOOM! Went another explosion shaking the crippled sub violently; “He makes me lay down in green pastures.” BOOM! We were right; the explosions were getting closer and closer in between. “He leads me besides still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in the right paths for his name’s sake.” BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The bombs were now being dropped one right after the other. We held on and prayed for dear life. Will continued, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil; for you are with me.” As the explosions were happening, we heard a large clank. It was bomb right above us, but it did not explode. In fear, sadness, and tears, we prayed as if it were judgment day, and we were wishing to be granted the rapture into heaven. “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.” Then in the middle of the bombardment, there was dead silence. The bombs had ceased. Pure silence, unsettling silence, disturbing silence, a silence of awestruck relief; what had thought to have been the very end had turned into imagining a brighter future for us and the remaining crew. Then the red dot on the sonar began moving, slowly but surely. It began moving away until the red dot was gone from the green bulls-eye. Later that day, our crippled submersible resurfaced. Those left alive ran up the

36 claustrophobic stairwell and to the outside. Our Lord had answered our prayers. The 23rd Psalm had come to life. That day, no matter what sinful nature we as humans shared, we had all been saved by our God’s words of trust; as the sun was setting midway over the sea, a sight I thought I would never see again, we recovered our fellow brothers who had lost their lives in the conflict and lined them up honorably so that when an allied freighter came by, they could be taken home and buried for their duties under the sea. The crater the bomb had left on the top side gouged deeply into the sub’s hull. Our sub had been mortally wounded, and if she did not get help soon, she would sink, but we were able to emit a signal to a local freighter, and we were waiting for a ride safely back to port. The bomb that had not gone off, we edged it over the side of the ship so that it would not have a chance to do further damage to the remains of the sub. My friend, Will, was standing there putting another cigarette in his mouth about to light it. I said, “You want to do that?” Will said, “You know, I quit; today we almost ended up dead. It’s the most I could do.” He dropped it on the deck of the sub and crushed it with the heel of his boot. That was the day we were saved by the 23rd Psalm, not the Psalm, but words of our Faithful God and His words of salvation.

Photo by: Marchelle Wear

37 Letters through the Fence Chet Guthrie One day, I ventured down an old rugged dirt trail concealed by a vast forest grove, where the smooth hot-topped summer pavement came to a fork in the road. The trail to my knowledge had been there for years, decades, centuries no less. However, those were the stories I had heard from the locals as I had only been in the town for just a short while. To all, they advised that I stay out of harm’s way and stay off the beaten trail. The story to be told, down the road was an old worn shack that a family, a generations worth of drunkards, had lived and resided, drinking their lives away on a land long since handed down through the ages. The family was a brutal bunch that terrorized all those who had come across their cruel homestead, untold acts that those who had come back would not speak of; however, on that long hot summer day, I wished to find a place to explore, an adventure, yet having the sweet comfort of shade to escape the sun’s hot summer rays. I walked amongst the large trees, some looking to be centuries old with their branches piercing the sky almost as if touching the feet of angels and a width that only the swipe of a giant’s axe could even attempt to make them come falling to the earth. It made me wonder if maybe there could even be an unknown giant roaming these thick forest groves; maybe it could be that a giant came and made the old trail. My thoughts of wonder gave me somewhat of a fear; but no, there could not be such a thing, but could there be? What of the family who had lived here for so many years? I continued to seek my unknowing answer. Then the trail came to an opening in the woods. There stood an old shack surrounded in barbed wire fence. It looked to be as if no one was home, so I walked closer, and the more I approached it, the more I heard barking, and soon a vicious dog came bursting against the frail fence, the fence surprisingly holding the dog’s tremendous weight. It snarled, snapped, and bit at me, failing in every attempt to do me harm, and soon, with due time, in boredom, losing interest in its prey, the bitter hell hound walked back to its miniature house in that barren yard. In the distance, my sight caught a graveyard, perhaps the tombs of the generations who had drank their lives away, or possibly the final fate of those who had not been so lucky coming across this supposedly horrid place. I looked among the head stones, some old and some new. And some that bore mere crosses being freshly dug. There were several of them rounding to be three or four, my mind warily wondering as to who was buried in those graves. My worrying turned to fear, and I left as I walked swiftly back onto the dirt trail, but then I noticed something in the corner of my eye. I saw a girl appearing to be my age; she was covered in scars, some gashing deep into her face. She had tears in her eyes, and she was screaming; sadly, the glass window shuttered the sound, so I could not hear. Fear filled my soul and I ran, running through the forest and onto the dirt trail, leaving a shroud of dust behind me as I ran- running, running, running- until I had come to the relief of the hot summer pavement. That night, I pondered what I had seen. Who was buried in those freshly dug graves? Who were the family that had resided there all those years? Who was that girl that I had seen that made me jump with a flicker and run with fright? My mind was consumed in these subjects of thought, depriving me of sleep as I laid there in an unneeded bed. Although the relief of sleep came to me late in the night, I feel asleep with an unwanted

38 decision that I agreed to disagree; I would go back to that battered shack and find out the name of that maimed maiden, stricken many scars, and leave a letter in hopes of receiving one in return. I left with the rising of the sun early that morning, walking down the single-lane highway, the growing heat penetrating the black-topped asphalt. I walked along the rich grassy soil, avoiding the growing discomfort, until after a half hour, I came back to the fork in the road. I crept slowly beneath the forest thicket, slowly coming back to that old shack in the woods. In an hour’s time, I had arrived at that dreaded destination. The dog did not howl like from before, but sat in its house, watching me with a bitter stare. The girl was not there, but soon I saw a face appearing out from under the draped window. It was her; she placed her hand upon the glass and wept before me; I wondered, “How could I get this letter to her safely and stay away from being harmed?” I sat there a moment to think. In moments, my mind produced one idea; I would risk the condition of the letter and hide it between the cracks in the hell hound’s house. I would come back later to see the fruits of my attempt. In the distance, I saw a Ford driving fast and hard coming in the direction of the trail. Just as the truck pulled into the gravel driveway, I was cleverly hidden, making my way back to civilization. In curiosity I looked back; the driver of the truck came clumsily out of the vehicle, stumbling clumsily with every step. It was a bearded man wearing worn jeans and a tattered flannel shirt; he had a glass bottle in one hand, throwing it hard against the side of the building, collapsing as soon as the corroded termite-infested door slammed. The next day, I returned under the gentle touch of the joyous summer rain, wondering if the letter possibly, yet unlikely awaiting me was surviving the light rain, hitting softly against the dry thirsty soil. I mostly kept dry due to the large trees, vines, and shrubs that filled the canopy of the tree line. The dry dusty trail had become a thick soupy mud, in which I got stuck, slipped, and slithered with every step I had taken, until the aggravation and discomfort forced me to trail through the forest. It was about an hour later before I had gotten to the shack, my body covered in thick mud, looking like a monster who had come out of a barren bog. The rain slowly stopped as I rubbed my hands through the grass and felt through the cracks of the dog house, pulling out a letter; however it was not the same letter I had placed there from before; on the mouth of the envelope the name “Stranger” was inscribed in dark ink. Quickly I ran with the letter, avoiding the mud that covered my body, never to touch the mysterious jewel, which I had received. I had gotten home, taking a shower to cleanse myself of my muddy exterior. An hour’s time had passed in my cleansing, anxious as to what was written within the letter; when I had dried and I was ready read, I went up to my room where I had placed it on the center of my bed; I was both shocked and astounded by what I was reading; the letter read, Dear Stranger, Whose name I do not know, please help me; I am the daughter of the man who lives in this horrid shack. He has murdered my mother. He is a drunk. He has beaten me, tortured me, and raped me when he is in a drunken mood. He wishes to destroy me as he did my mother. I beg you not to tell anyone of this letter or what is written within it, but please keep my spirit afloat and set me free from the prison that I am enslaved to. I believe you wish to know my name. My name is Anina. Sincerely, Anina 39 The days of that summer since that night, I would write her passing letters back and forth through the fence, her drunken father oblivious to my existence, even that devil dog that had feared me came to the fence a time or two, excited by my presence. I got to know her as I had never come to meet her. We discussed many things. The stories of our lives, our interests, and our philosophies on what the world truly is. Somewhere along in between the lines of every letter, I felt we were talking of something else more important. That something was love. One particular letter written near the end of the summer, she asked if she could meet me between fence where the dog house and the fence met, the place where we had exchanged letters throughout that summer. I agreed graciously, the next day running on the pavement and down the beaten trail; that’s when I saw her, awaiting me across from the other side of the fence. I came up as she greeted me with a kiss, grabbing me tightly through the many holes in the fence; hugging me as if I was the very savior of her world, but the joy was soon interrupted. Her father came exploding out of the battered shack, cursing every vile forbidden word known to man. With his immense strength, he hurled me from the other side and began beating me, dragging me through that barren yard where he locked me within a coat closet. For several days I remained there, unsure as to if it was day or night; I heard many things that vibrated throughout the shack - sick twisted things that would make my heart stop only if it hadn’t already begun beating so fast. After days without food, water, nor sleep, I finally collapsed under the fear, stress, and anxiety that weighted down on my sanity like a pallet crated with many concrete cinders, crushing my ability to think logically. I laid there for some time, could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours, possibly days, I had not a clue as to how long I waited in that cramped closet, lying there possibly dead, in denial that I was still alive. Then the door opened, and I saw the dim light of a candle in the darkness. It was Anina; she had come to free me from my demise. Slowly we crept through the shack and into the outside where it was the remainder of a summer night, the stars shining brightly throughout the skies; the need for a candle or light no longer needed, the moon shinning bright as a silver sun over the night sky. She showed me to the fence’s gate leading me on to freedom. I began my run, but her words stopped me within my first few steps; Anina said, “I want to go with you.” I had awaited these words for so long. Replying, I took her by the hand, and we ran, running from the hell that had been living in the forest for so many years. We ran through the darkness, the sun slowly rising, the silver night turning into a golden day. However, the relief of a dream come true had become a nightmare. Her father was waiting in the fork in the road with a rock in one hand, using it against my head, knocking me unconscious. I awoke from my slumber to find myself lying in a bed of tall grass, the sun burning mercilessly against my face. I got up and ran the trail, running with the speed of lightning, the crack of thunder, bolting through the dust and dirt. I had finally come to reach the shack to see she was tied to a post, her father standing at an opposite end loading his shot gun, readying himself to kill the last of his kin. Her mouth was gagged, and her screams were deaf. I jumped the fence, howling in anger, “No, stop you bastard!” I grabbed his gun, attempting to pry it from his hands, the barrel swinging violently in the air. Finally, a bullet was fired. Her father laid there motionless as I clenched the weapon shaking uncontrollably. I had shot and killed a man, but I was confused if I had done a just act or if I had eliminated an innocent man only

40 corrupted by forgivable sin. In thought, I had not realized Anina had freed herself, running into the forest nearby, leaving me alone clenching a barrel on a deserted property with a dead man before me. I walked home that night in a frightened depression. The girl I helped save disappeared out of my life, and I wondered if this murder was a role of divine justice I had played a hand in. It seemed the world had not noticed my disappearance, not many acknowledging I had been gone. That night was the same as the summer had begun. I did not sleep, wondering if I should go back to look for her, and I agreed I would. The next day, the last day of summer, I walked along the beaten trail until I came across what once was an old fenced in shack in the forest. The sight I saw was different, however. There was no longer a shack, but the remains of a foundation and fence hardly stood consumed by vines and thorny weeds. I saw what was left of a family graveyard, the freshly dug graves now old, just as the as the others I had seen before, the crosses replaced with head stones there; the older stones had begun to fade and crumble. In the corner of my eye, I noticed one stone in particular. It was old, very beaten, and worn. At first, I could not read the bold lettering, but I finally understood what was etched within the tablet. It was inscribed, “Anina”. I did not believe what I had read. I ran in fear back into the town asking what had gone on there, the story that made me look almost insane. No one replied to my half-cracked story; however, one person, an old man, told me that half a century ago, a drunkard had murdered his wife and shot his daughter as she was tied to a wood post for attempting to escape his torment, his horrid acts which the old hermit would not even speak of; he explained why everyone in town said to stay away. One was to regard respects to the murders that had taken place. Two was to make sure a town secret dies. And three, many that venture back to the remains of the shack often see apparitions from the past, sometimes almost as if they were taking a step back into time to what happened one summer day half a century ago. He did not like that I had made the journey back there on several occasions, but he was astonished to hear my story, never hearing of anyone who had made contact with the ghosts of the past. Times will change, and old stories will be forgotten; however, I will not forget what happened that one summer. I helped a maimed angel’s spirit stay afloat, helping her to the heavenly realm. To this day, ten years later amongst the time I spend with my wife, my children, I lay an occasional letter in hopes she will return again to answer my letters through the fence.

41 Photo by: Marchelle Wear

42 Photo by: Marchelle Wear

Grandfather’s Axe Chet Guthrie

In my log cabin between the Bed and night stand lays my My old grandfather’s axe. An Heirloom passed down which Put forth the facts that build A family, a homestead, a way To a better life This axe helped construct my Wood cabin from the trees Nearby which soon attracted A woman which made my heart fly; I was bound to make her my bride And she was brought with great Surprise when I placed a ring Upon her finger However later after we said Our vows I one day came home To find her in bed with another Man. At this sickening sight I 43 Grabbed the axe and I swung It down on the bed, then chasing Them throughout the cabin I had built with my bare hands, with Every swing I remembered a time When my grandfather told me to Use the axe when danger comes Through the door, even if it Is the lovely other It’s been twenty years since They were last seen, but I know Where they went, six feet deep Under a small cabin, that was forged By a man and an axe he carried.

44 Her Beauty Chet Guthrie Her beauty is but an Envy to the Goddesses who reign All over that which is the land And sky, they bitterly Strike her down wishing That she would die, but This is not so for like them Her beauty is immortal She is an angel put unto The earth to save an unworthy Mortal soul, like I so that I may Have a second chance at Life, letting my mortal soul Become everlasting, so that I may fly high with Her in the heavens How may I compare her eyes To that of blue fire, hair as black As the night sky, letting the light Of the stars glow bright, Leading the way of past Lovers; and a smile that Gathers the clouds to rain So that a rainbow will soon Follow. I can see why the goddesses Who rein all over that Which is the Land and Sky would strike her so bitterly, For nothing is as beautiful As she

Photo by: Daniel Stokes

45 In the Eyes of a Dreamer Chet Guthrie In the eyes of a dreamer, Anything is possible, from The first time the dream was Dreamt that person said, “That dream I’ll make possible” Through the eyes of a dreamer They will pursue that dream till No end pressing forward, forward, Forward until the dream becomes Reality But if that dream were to fall Sickly to the hand of death, The dreamer will pursue another, For if they were to pursue that Dream which is dead they Would end up dead themselves Oh in the eyes of a dreamer.

Drawing by: Megan Payne 46 Rise o’ Rise Dear Wall Street Chet Guthrie Rise o’ rise dear Wall Street, raise your picket signs high To the sky, let America make her Battle cry; Save the government from its Shroud of tyranny, awaken the Common people from their Self-loathing dream and make them See America’s corruption The America they once knew Is an America no more, the Hands of the almighty dollar Being the house, senate and President’s eyes; Rise o’ rise dear Wall Street make the The people remember what The 4th of July means; go into The cities, go into the towns, Even go into the lion’s den; Let America’s words be heard; Not a whisper, not a howl, But a roar that echoes throughout The land; The goodwill of mankind will win, The government’s corruption will Not stand; let them take back the people’s Land, bring America back! Bring it Back I say! Save America dear Wall Street! Even if it means putting down your Picket signs and returning with Weapons WE THE PEOPLE will save this Nation for it was founded by THE PEOPLE for THE PEOPLE and Not the hands of few

Rise o’ rise dear Wall Street

47 Photo by: Michael Espinoza

The Old Man Chet Guthrie

There was once an old Man in a retirement home. Who smelled of rotted dreams And you could see his bones. One day he died, but nobody Cried For he died as he lived Alone

48 Photo by: Shanna Calfee

A Night of Passion Chet Guthrie

It was how I recall a lonely night in the Spring when she and I sat together in Our welcoming humble home, sitting by the old Fire place that had been a part of the House for some time, placed there by the Owners that came before; a new couple Forever eternally bound by love, beginning A new life together in holy matrimony As they say; we sat there by the fire, Sitting intimately feeling the heat of the Fire’s warmth; silent, not speaking a word, Just gazing at the fire and into each other’s Loving eyes; on that night the unpredictable spring Had shown the remains of winter, it was Cold, dark, and drizzling with a light rain, Just she and I in our lonely paradise like Adam and Eve, the first man and woman

49 To live and know love; seizing the moment I reached to kiss her soft lips as her lips Met mine; I put my arms around her, A bliss of passion erupted; we raced each other Like children up the stairs down the hall to our holy Room of rest, consummating our love in the Short burst of ultimate passion that strengthens And binds a love everlasting, a rose blooming Never to wilt, it was a night I will remember That will stay forever with my mind, as it was a Night of passion.

50 Literature’s Anti-Christ Chet Guthrie

Photo by: Natasha Clark

Some say the anti-Christ has not yet Arrived on earth, some say he has yet To show his gruesome presence; however I believe the anti-Christ has arrived, only object Of difference, he is not merely a man, but an English teacher; a scornful woman might I add; To those who are in possession of knowledge’s Crucible she hides her satanic nature with the Deception of her cheerfulness; preying on those Less holy lacking in the sacred relic Her room being a torturous hell; the ear Agonizing screams of the chalk making its Slow grind down that dreaded green slate, Her manipulative words of the English language;

51 Poking, twisting, and dismantling one’s master Work until its bequeathed nobility is reduced to Mere poverty; she will speak for an hour’s Time, but an hour’s time that stretches into Eternity; perhaps the greatest of her torturous Repertoire would be the open windows to paradise; The sun shining over the thick green grass while The birds sing their precious melody as we are Bound to our chairs further to witness The world we cannot possess The great prophetic poet Frost warned us Of this vile devil, the satanic demon that studies A work until its hidden meaning is found, As a work can only be enjoyed as a mystery Left for one’s own discovery; but what a joy It is when that clock ticks to the final moment Like the Lord’s holy rapture; the sweet sound of Backpacks restocked, the blessed tune of papers Rustling, and the walk to the outside world, A heaven from that confined hell Some say the Anti-Christ has arrived, some He has yet to show his gruesome presence; I say he has arrived, but he has come in the image Of an English teacher, a woman with the Vision of literature’s end

52 Autumn Chet Guthrie Oh the autumn winds Are beginning to blow through And the end of the summer Has finally drawn near; The leaves have wilted And turned from green to Red, brown, orange, and Yellow, dancing like monarch Butterflies as they fall Gracefully to the ground; What such beautiful hymns The autumn winds sing, Singing of the colorful beauty Of all things that the cold Of winter later will take when The autumn wind leaves.

Photo by: Amanda Guffey

53 Photo by: Natalie Goleman

Children Dancing in the Rain Chet Guthrie

You and I tell one of the Greatest stories ever told, Our love is as pure as that of the Snow, we are like children Awakening from their Bedrooms in the dead of Night to get out from under Our sheets and out From our windows, into The warm summer night Venturing onto the cobble Stone streets where you And I shall meet to speak Our childhood dreams. We shall sit on the stooped Steps looking up to the starlit Sky, imagining if the stars

54 Were the dreams of lovers Past, the street lamps long Dimmed out leaving only the Stars to shine a way for Lovers new But the beauty of the night Shall be consumed by clouds And a gentle summer rain Will roll out soon as it comes Pouring down out of the sky I say hold my hand, do not Fear, it is just the rain, let us Dance among the water droplets As they lay, living in the true Beauty of the night It is a love only you and I Can share, it is a love that Is ageless to defy time, it Is a love that cannot die, It is immortal, pure, and true, That love that is like that Of a child; despite the age And time, we are like children Dancing in the rain.

55 Photo by: Hailey Yeargan

Hannah Chet Guthrie

The days were just beginning To warm as the earth was Awakening from its Long winter, summer where I stood there, gazing below At her, the girl I admired The most Watching as she laid like a Goddess on that smooth Rock bench reading from A novel which perhaps was The story of my life, and at That moment she read as I a lonely god stared from That second story window Where I first laid eyes upon Her was the day I sat foot in My English class; I sat as she Walked through that door

56 With an angelic strut, dancing Among the desks and chairs With a smile that none could compare From day to day we went through The sad tale of A Rose for Emily To the vengeful anger of Montresor In The Cask of Amontillado The hour and a half passed wildly As I admired that nameless Brown-eyed angel from afar Her name sadly I wish I knew, Those days passed like wildfire, Making me grow ever more Anxious with every passing day I watched her lie there I believe That answer was ready to be Answered, I a lonely god made His decent from his cloud On the opposite side of her Was a rugged bench not meant To fit the grungiest of bums, I sat there however, I sat there Because it was a seat to the Most beautiful sight on earth, Waiting for the words to come from My mouth, waiting, waiting, waiting, But the threshold would not Cross my lips, fretting, feeling Unworthy in her divine presence My heart quenched ever passing Second knowing the bell was about To ring, my chance to know her Name was slipping fast, I finally Spoke, “What’s that you’re reading?” She turned her head slowly looking At me, “Why I believe it’s a story You’ve read countless times,” with A soft intimate voice My mind drew a blank as to what She could’ve meant. Passing this Question we began speaking Of our lives, our interests, and

57 Literature; At last the bell Rang, we got up to head for Class and I asked, “What’s your Name? She looked at me again And said softly, “Hannah.” I still never understood what She meant that day, it could’ve Been the story of my life was Indeed in her hands and she Would make me a lonely god No more.

58 All Again Caoseth Roanoke Photo by: Nancy Boyd

Inch by inch. Mile by mile. We fall and we crawl, We get back up; Just til we fight again & Inch by inch. Bullet by Bullet. We win the battle, But we lose the war; We escape death, only to brush by it once again & Inch by inch. Stone by stone. Our world falls apart, And our cities crumble; We build it back up just to have them fall apart again & Inch by Inch. Heart by Heart. We fall in love, And it never lasts; We find another one & Only To Lose Them All Again &

59 Collage by: Mercedes Smith 60 Photo by: Amanda Guffey

Nature at Its Finest Alyssa Whaley

Swinging of the trees All I feel is the breeze Wandering through the grass So much beauty I pass Nature is my favorite thing I want to be where my phone won’t ring The birds make the music to each step I take I could live in nature and not need a break Watching the sunset is like God’s work of art The sky is full of colors, it’s my favorite part Now it’s time to wish upon a star And walk through the forest back to my car

61 Photo by: Amanda Guffey

Laissez Faire Alyssa Whaley Alone with you I am free The world is in my pocket Now I can be completely me

62 Photo by: Richard Harris

Through My Eyes Alyssa Whaley

People watch me every day They sit and they stare With so many options to offer People usually grab a chair I have so much knowledge because of all I’ve seen With just a click something different appears I wish you could see things the way I do I’ve been around for years I see when you’re happy I see when you’re sad I see all your emotions I see through it all, the good and the bad Just click me on Then make a decision Of what I can show you next I am the television

63 Photo by: Amber Walker

In the Mind of an Addict Alyssa Whaley

Drink until my face is numb Drink until my body is like gum Drink until I can’t move Drink until I think I found the groove Drink until I don’t care to lose Drink until there is no more booze Drink until my vision is blurred Drink until my speech is slurred Drink until I find what I really want Drink until I don’t care what I flaunt Drink until I can’t stand Drink until there is no helping hand Drink until I don’t have a thought Drink until I am dead and gone

64 The Funeral Christy Wells-Reece (Only thing on the stage is a chair and a side table with a Bible on it. Character is sitting in the chair with head in hands. As speaking begins, raises head…) Hey, God. It’s me. I know I haven’t talked to you in a while. I’m sorry about that. There are just so many things going on, with school, playing on the baseball team, my friends, church. I know it doesn’t make sense that I’m busy with church activities, but I don’t have time to talk to you. Maybe I can do better about that from now on, okay? But, right now, I could use some help sorting a few things out in my head. (Stands and begins to pace) The funeral is today. My mom says that I have to go because he IS family. That’s the LAST place I would ever want to be. But, then again, it means that I will never have to see him again….or be afraid of him. So, why is it so hard? Why am I not happy about this? You would think I would be relieved! Instead I feel…man, I don’t know what I feel. Scared, still. Nervous, definitely. (With confusion) And sad. Why do I feel sad? (Takes a deep breath and then speaks with anger) After what he did to me???? Why should I feel sad about him being dead????? I should be like, “Hey! Good riddance, scumbag! Wouldn’t wanna be YOU standing before God!” (Back to confusion) So, why do I feel so sad? Please help me understand this, God. I thought I had dealt with the things he did to me. I have prayed about it sooo many times. I even got to the point that I could pray for HIM! Doesn’t that mean I forgave him? I asked you to deal with him and send someone to minister to his soul. That was a HUGE step for me. And, last I heard, he had given his evil heart to you. I’m glad he asked YOU for forgiveness because he never asked me. Although I did hear that before he died, he had been asking for me. I didn’t go. I’ll never know whether he wanted to apologize or a chance to have one more shot at hurting me. (Sits down) You know, growing up, I never thought that things like that happened to kids that loved you, God. And I love you with all of my heart. I tried so hard to do everything you wanted of me. Why did you let this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this? Where were you? Sometimes, I don’t know if I have the strength to keep living with this pain! (Begins crying. Looks over at the Bible and notices scripture as a character picks it up and reads out loud) “It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect.” (pauses while looking at the scriptures) “You armed me with strength for battles; you made me adversaries bow at my feet.” “Okay, I get it. I don’t have the strength I need, but I can find it in you. But, God, there is so much going on in my head right now. I am so confused about what happened, and my heart is broken. I don’t know who I can trust anymore. What do I do? Where do I go? Who do I turn to? (Looks at an index card in the Bible) Psalm 46:10….”Be still and know that I am God.” If you are trying to freak me out, God, it’s working! (Kinda laughing) I understand, though. I gotta just stop running around trying to find someone to blame and just give the pain to you. If I don’t just turn it all over to you and stop taking it out of your hands, how can you help me heal? Besides, I know he was the only one to blame. You were always right here (with hand on heart). 65 (Looks at watch) It’s time to go. Thanks for helping me to get through this…not just today. (Puts jacket on and exits stage left) Scripture reference: Psalms 18:32, 39

Drawing by Kyle Brogden

66 Life Christy Wells-Reece He was short, bald, and made a lot of noise, but she knew she would love him for the rest of her life. She was sweaty, exhausted, and crying, but he took comfort in her arms. When she spoke, he felt like he was hearing an angel, like the ones he had just left. When he looked into her eyes, she felt like she had never known what it meant to really love until this exact moment. He was born on a Tuesday. She took him home and was proud to show him the room she had made just for him and talked about how she struggled to pick the perfect shade of green for the walls. He didn’t know what green was, and it didn’t matter. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She went on and on about all the facets of the room. All that mattered to him was that someone who loved him was keeping him warm and safe. He knew that somehow he could always depend on her to do this for him. As he grew, she giggled in glee as he rolled over for the first time. She thought she would burst with excitement when he crawled, and when he took his first steps, they had a mini-family only party. But there was one moment that truly changed their lives. She knew that her husband wanted his first word to be “dada.” She longed for another word to trip off his tongue, one that would be much more useful over the years to come. Sure, every boy needs his Dad, but it is “mama” that they call most often. When he fell off the front porch and broke his arm, he screamed, “Mama!” When he learned to ride his bike, it was, “Hey, Mama!” he yelled as he rode out of sight. On the first day of school, he said, “But, Mama. I don’t know anybody. Can’t I just stay home with you?” Dad just laughed it off. It was Mama who dried those tears, while holding back her own, of course. And when, in second grade, Emily Wilkinson broke his heart, it was “Mama” who told him it was okay to cry and that no one had to know. So, you see, “mama” was a much more useful, more practical first word for the boy to say. Time marched on, as it tends to do, and he grew older. And, as is inevitable, she did as well. He decided to go away to college. She was heartbroken, but she never let him know. She only told him how proud she was of him and how great it was going to be, living on campus. She helped him pack and buy things for the dorm. When he drove away, she was once again fighting back those tears that had been attempting to march down her face on that first day of school, what seemed so long ago.This time, she was not so successful in her war. College came. College went. He was home for holidays and summers, but it wasn’t the same. He seemed to grow in ways he hadn’t while living at home. He was a man now. Would he still need his “Mama?” She could only hope. She wasn’t the same either. As time had changed her son, it had changed her in so many ways. She had become more like the mother that she had taken care of. She was no longer the young, healthy woman she was when her son was born. There were now wheelchairs, medications, and doctors to see. That took up most of her time now. There was no longer the spry young thing that would chase the boy around the playground and take him for ice cream. Now, she could use his help to get around. But would the boy understand that? Would he be willing? Would he still see her as the “Mama” he loved so much now that she was sick?

67 When he came home after graduating from college, he had news…big news. He was in love and had asked a girl to marry him. She was happy for him, but she hoped that this didn’t mean he didn’t need his “Mama” anymore. She helped him get ready for the wedding. She smiled and waved goodbye. Inside, her heart was breaking because she wanted everything back. She wanted her health back. She wanted her boy back. She wanted their life back. After a couple of years go by, he came back home with more great news. “Mama, we are going to have a baby.” She was thrilled. He would finally have the chance to love as she had. He was telling her that he wanted to be the kind of parent that she was. She was as excited to see her granddaughter born as she was the day her son was. He named the wiggling, pink baby after her. The baby had her nose. The memories of the day she held him in her arms for the first time came flooding back when she held her granddaughter. No matter how old you get, you never forget and that love never goes away. When he took the baby home, he took her to her room and told her all about how they searched for the perfect shade of pink for the princess room that they had designed just for her. As her life began coming to an end, he sat by her bedside. They both knew it was time for her to go, although neither wanted it to happen. He held her hand and told her to not be afraid. She said she wasn’t. She knew that there were angels up there that had sent him down, waiting for her. She told him how proud she had been to be his mother, every second of every day of his life. If she could, she would have counted every breath he took because she was so grateful that he was her son. They both began to cry as he told her how proud that he was of his mother. “Even when I stood outside the door on your first day of school and kept watching, after you told me it was okay, that I could leave?” “Even then.” “Even when I drove you to school in my pajamas” “Even then.” “Even when I went to Emily Wilkinson’s mother and told her how rude and generally unpleasant her daughter was?” “Especially then.” Both chuckled a little. They knew the time was short and the words left would be few. “You were there when I took my first breath,” he said. “And you are here for my last. I love you my Angel Boy.” As he cried at his mother’s last words, a warm spring breeze blew through the house that she had brought him home to. This is where his life began and, now, hers had ended. She was buried on a Saturday.

68 Photo by: Marchelle Wear

69 Thunderstorms Dannette Wright Thunder rumbling, Lightning, flashing in the sky, Peaceful napping time.

Photo by Dannette Wright

70 Photo by: Nancy Boyd

My Sister Dannette Wright

When they brought you home, you were so small You took all of their attention I didn’t like you at all. So sweet, so cute is all they would mention. It was years before I saw the true meaning; A sister would mean I would never be alone, My sister is truly my blessing! I wish I would have known before we were grown. Over the years, we started drifting apart, Our lives going in different directions Seeing this broke my heart! Then came your wedding day with great anticipations. A sister’s love; Truly, God’s gift from above! 71 Photo by Shelia Bates

Letter Poem Dannette Wright Dear Dreams, I had lost you for so long I forgot what you were You were always there – waiting Hoping I would return. One day like a bolt of lightning I saw a glimpse of you And now you are forever part of my life Guiding me and inspiring me Showing me that dreams are possible! --- A soul who found her lost dream

72 Photo by Tonya Arsenault

Repetition Poem Dannette Wright I love spring because, I love flowers I love warm days I love everything coming to life I love the longer days I love hearing the birds sing I love hearing the children play I love picnics by the lake I Love Spring!

73 Sugar on My Pillow Raina Terry There is a riot of words in my mind tonight, like every night since you’ve been away. There is bloodshed and betrayal, a fight for something gone. I’m often surprised I do not wake to a spill on my pillow. A jumbled mess of unspoken words slipping from my ears onto the cotton case. How easy it would be then to just brush them off like sugar on the counter top. But just the same…I would still feel it with bare feet. In the midst of this chaos, there are images dancing behind my eyelids. A foggy memory of you and I in another time. And just as my adrenaline begins to rush from the illusion, I can feel you breathing. I will wait for the words to meet the memory in a massacre of reality. Only to be shaken awake by the sunlight filling my room from the window. The words flee from the scene, and I’m left only with the memory in pieces. Still no sugar on my pillow.

Photo by Tasha Lowe

74 Photo by Shelby Bishop

Neyland Stadium Shelby Bishop A sea of orange & white around me Claps, cheers, & Rocky Top fill my ears The smell of fresh cut grass & concession stand food Cold chills on my arms & bleachers under me Peanuts & ice cold Coca Cola quench my hunger & thirst A way of life on Saturdays in Knoxville, TN

75 Photo by: Shelby Bishop

Forever 27 Shelby Bishop

Robie Tyler was a friend to all, and the number 27 was on his chest as he walked down the hall. A big smile and a heart the size of the sky, imagining we would never have to say goodbye. Going to prom and graduating in May, looking back and cherishing those days. He had a way of bringing all of his friends together, now those memories and his life are in our hearts forever. Feeling as if his time came entirely too quick, and after all this time, it still does not seem to stick. He is a guardian angel now and is smiling down from heaven In our hearts, he is forever 27

76 Photo by: Marchelle Wear

A Robot Named William Who Was Wired Wrong Tyler Brock My robot’s name was William William was teased harshly by his peers Every day he would come home William had tears But something changed on that day That first Monday in May William went to class And finally had a blast Peers grinned ear to ear at all his hilarious jokes His peers would even stop by to say hi to his folks William now had a best friend whose name was Gus And a beautiful girlfriend whose name was Lust Everything for William was going swell and well William ran inside to tell me all his tales The next day was school elections William was hoping to get a selection He walked to school with his best friend Gus As William talked about his last date with Lust But then William tripped face first into a bus And now William lies in a big pile of rust 77 A Day in the Life of a Mouse at the Zoo Tyler Brock

The mouse awoke with eager anticipation Because of the role it would play in the zoo’s participation A hand came down, it was the zookeeper’s The mouse jumped in his hand and remarked, “Finders keepers, Losers weepers” The mouse and zookeeper strutted down the hallway together and saw the animals The mouse hoped its face would be on a box of Danimals The zookeeper placed the mouse in its new exhibit The mouse was so excited it ran straight to the water pit The mouse was having a joyous time in its new house When out of the bushes a snake leaped out and ate the mouse

Photo by: Sarah Kirkpatrick

78 Coining Someone’s Life Tyler Brock Angels grimace and start crying At the town’s two- faced purity coin flying For one side contains celebration The other side is vituperation Inside the coin flipper is slowly dying As the coin spins in the air so trying All of the people gather for spying Anticipation lingers on the vile smile of the crowd The coin flipper fears which will make him proud Inside the coin flipper is slowly dying The coin falls slowly, no chance of tying It faces up to vituperation as he is sighing The townspeople imitate actions of verbal rippers No fate was as sure as the celibate coin flipper’s Inside the coin flipper is slowly dying The coin flipper begins prying At the possibility of maybe just fully lying The coin flipper contemplates the other side Wondering if it really would have been all that bad Inside the coin flipper is slowly dying

79 Photo by: Tonya Arsenault

Through the Clouds Tammy Trew The ground appears miles away… A deep breath and a leap of faith Out I fly as if carried on wings Spinning and flipping suddenly I find Myself submersed in cotton-candy clouds The only sound is the song sang By the whistling swishing roaring wind The snow white haze fades away and suddenly The ground grows closer details defined Landscape increasing out to infinity Pulse racing heart beating limbs aching A single pull and upwards I’m jerked By a vibrant sturdy cloth designed To tame the effect of gravity itself Gently I’m brought to earth’s tender terrain

80 For I’ve Loved You Tammy Trew Do you love… Like the sun shines upon the earth? Or as a river flows down stream? Do you love… As a newly married bride? Or a mother of her first child? Do you love… In the same way Romeo loved Juliet? Or as deeply as Aphrodite? Do you love… For I’ve loved you With every breath!

Photo by: Amanda Guffey

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