Mangrove Review Volume 4, Spring 2005

Editors Neely Bates Deidre Evans Sissel W. Robertson Ray Schaefer

Faculty Advisor Jim Brock

Design Sam Walch

Printer Whitehall Printing Company Naples, Florida

Cover Image Daniel Curtis Boyd “cloudsquares”

2 Mangrove Review

Mangrove Review is the student-edited literary and arts magazine for Florida Gulf Coast University, showcasing the work of FGCU students, faculty, staff, administrators, alumni, and members of the community. The views and opinions expressed in Mangrove Review are solely those of the individual authors and do not necessarily represent those of the editors and staff of Mangrove Review, employees of Florida Gulf Coast University, or the Florida Gulf Coast University Board of Trustees.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 3 Acknowledgements

Mangrove Review is made possible by support from the Student Government Association.

The editors and staff are thankful for President William C. Merwin, Vice President Joe Shepard, and Dean Vincent June for their guidance and support.

We would also like to thank David Vasquez and Lynne Garcia for their constant and helpful assistance. Also thanks to Dr. Jim Wohlpart, Chair for the Divison of Humanities and Fine Arts, and to Diane Stewart, Theater Program, for allowing us to use their time and resources along the way.

Also in recognition is the help we received from the FGCU Art Club, and we hope that our work with them continues to prosper in the future.

Mangrove Review, in its effort to serve the FGCU community and present original works of literary and visual art, invites financial contributions from individual and corporate sponsors. Please contact Dr. Jim Brock at [email protected] or the FGCU Foundation if you wish to direct specific support to our literary magazine.

4 Mangrove Review Mangrove Review will consider submissions of poetry, prose, and artwork from current FGCU students, alumni, faculty, staff, administrators, and the general community. The reading periods are from December 1 to February 1 of each year.

Please do not put your name on the manuscript or on the diskette. Instead, include a cover page with the title of your piece, your name, and e-mail and other contact information.

Poetry: Submit no more than four poems per reading period.

Prose: Submit up to four narratives, but no more than 10 total pages (3000 words) typed double spaced for any one reading period.

Art: All artwork must be submitted via an electronic format (either as a jpeg or gif image). We will consider no more than five images by any one artist per reading period.

Submit your materials via e-mail to [email protected]. Or you may drop off your materials at the submission box in Reed Hall, Room 220. Or you may mail them in care of :

Dr. Jim Brock Reed Hall, College of Arts & Sciences FGCU 10501 FGCU Blvd. S., Fort Myers, FL 33965-6565.

Please note that we cannot return materials.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 5 Contents

Acknowledgements ...... 4 Mangrove Review Awards ...... 8

Images

59 Corvette - Kristen Pautzke ...... 10 Broken - Kristen Pautzke...... 11

Poetry

In a September of Muggy Twilights - Aimee Allard ...... 12 Requiem for Bubbles - Dana Angeloro ...... 13 Artifacts - Nina Corwin...... 14 Out of Balance - Jacquelyn Crumbo ...... 16 A Boy and His Cactus - Deirdre Evans ...... 19 Failed Expectations - Deirdre Evans...... 20 Boundaries of Limitations - Aurthell Furlow...... 21 For Braces and Miami Beach - Scott George...... 22 After You - Amanda Hall...... 23 What her t’isn’t - Amanda Hall...... 24 Fifth to Third - Emily Johnston...... 26 A Life Unlived - Emily Johnston ...... 28 After the Hurricane - Rachel Kazor...... 30 Primal - Rachel Kazor ...... 32 Face of Rain - Jennifer Lane...... 34 Rotation - Claire Liparulo ...... 36 To Texas - Claire Liparulo ...... 37 Survivors: Hansel and Gretel - Joseph Pacheco ...... 38 Me - Amanda Pointelin ...... 41 Death in the Everglades - Wilfredo Miguel Reyes ...... 42 Girls, Demons, and Gambling Dens - Wilfredo Miguel Reyes...... 43 Ibis on Ice - Sissel W. Robertson...... 44 Uncle Sam Stole My Belt - Anthony Salvo...... 45

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Daisy - Ehren Gerhard...... 46 One's Direction - Jennifer Lane ...... 47 Rising Giant - Jennifer Bothas ...... 48 Melancholy Self-Portrait - Amber Delaini...... 49

Prose

What Money Won’t Buy - Nina Corwin ...... 50 One Person’s Threat Is Another Person’s Pleasure - Amber Delaini...... 51 All That Remains - Jane V. Donovan ...... 52 Glamourama Dreamin’ - Jane V. Donovan ...... 54 Spoils - Jane V. Donovan...... 57 Wicker on the Run - Scott George...... 58 Rush Limbaugh, Telepathic Candidate - Jonathan Glover………..60 Lizard Crossing - Ron Hefner ...... 67 Jacaranda - Rachel Kazor ...... 70 Little Whirlpool- Rachel Kazor ...... 71 The City - Claire Liparulo...... 72 Stops - Claire Liparulo ...... 73 Two Moths - Claire Liparulo...... 74 The Table - Darcie Porter...... 75 Peacetime - Parker Smith ...... 78 Smothered Memories - Amanda Watkins ...... 83

Images

Milkweed Denizen - Charles O'Connor ...... 88 Six Miles Boardwalk - Sissel W. Robertson ...... 89

Contributors...... 90

Volume 4, Spring 2005 7 Mangrove Review Awards

Faculty judges for the Mangrove Review Prize determine the most accomplished achievements produced by currently enrolled (Spring 2005) FGCU students that appear in Mangrove Review.

For her poems and prose pieces Rachel Kazor

For her poems and prose pieces Claire Liparulo

For her artwork Kristin J. Pautzke

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Kristen Pautzke, 59 Corvette

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Kristen Pautzke, Broken

Volume 4, Spring 2005 11 Aimee Allard In a September of Muggy Twilights you remembered the promise I made to you over the chilled mango smoothies, with ice floating on the orangey surface and synthesizer music trilling in the smoky air, whose tempo swayed and sang and moved with the cracked sienna of your skin as cologne swirled over our heads until it stopped and went on to the next tune, when you of the 12 pm sharp lunch meetings spoke to me about commitment and you said this place wasn’t good enough for me, the artist who painted on canvas with a prayer that someone would hire me or at least give me a job instead of smiling and saying, “We’ll call you soon,” when what they really mean is you have no hope in hell of ever making it, I said thanks for the advice but I don’t want to leave this place, I grew up in the sawgrass and at Wilhelmina’s Coffee Shoppe which has the best coffee and smoothies, Since 1979 the sign boasts to anyone who cares and you have an 8 to 5 job that pays your bills but I paint on the veranda at 3 am, hearing the whippoorwills call their lovers and the raccoons slinking through the palmetto on the hunt for the perfect midnight snack and I look at your packed leather suitcases, and my promise that I’d go and smile because I’m coated in paint and so what if I am a liar

12 Mangrove Review Dana Angeloro Requiem for Bubbles

Smiles from the sun are the colors Of your skin. If I squint, summer dances On your body. I held you once, But you slid from my euphoric grasp. Shame You barely kissed my fingers; a Kiss from the orange juice drops.

Water distorted your reality. Did I Look funny through the golden rings You created day by day, with nowhere else To go? Glass, your single fortress, magnified The purple castle I longed to Swim to. I could have saved you.

The sun still smiles from Your skin. Just upside-down, as The glowing ember setting into Oblivion. Your rays never to shine again once They fade tonight.

Your new home is not as Transparent. It sucks you from life, From sight, like a black hole of solace; of Solitude. There’s water here too. Only You will never know.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 13 Nina Corwin Artifacts

When Suzy checked out, she left her sister, Cookie, stranded in the Mt. Greenwood Nursing Home with no one to visit, a brother living somewhere in Montana and a boyfriend held in county lockup, “on suspicion.” She left two Neil Diamond posters from the years before he started losing his hair, a stack of Elvis LPs with no turntable to play them on and a few stray pieces of her mother’s silver service. Not to mention a paper flag taped to the living room window with the words “Support Our Troops” stencilled below, a bottle or two of stale Coors Lite on the dinette, and a half-eaten can of Spaghettios next to the carry-out menu from Pandora’s Bar and Grille. After Suzy was found in the front seat of the Pontiac with a needle in her arm, having gasped her heavy last in the pre-dawn mist of morning, a small cadre of stunned and somewhat pissed-off cousins is left wondering how to pay the funeral expenses and what to do with the clutter that holds little of interest to make it worth the trouble. That Sunday, a collection is taken at church in her behalf, and at coffee after the service, Rev offers as how, since her mother, rest her soul, was a good church-going woman, he’d cut his fees in half and still give her a eulogy everyone would remember. With only nine shopping days left until Christmas, her best friend from high school and a couple of the cousins come to the apartment carrying sponge mops, heavy-duty trash bags and bottles of ammonia. They find the box of sterile needles under the sink and some insulin vials in the refrigerator, a journal on the night stand with spiritual aphorisms penned in the margins and a pile of wrinkled clothing on the bedroom floor.

14 Mangrove Review Which reminds them how their mothers would warn them never to leave the house in dirty underwear, that men are only after one thing, and to be careful not to pout because your face might get stuck that way. But they never tell you to watch out for the men you meet in hospital wards, how some of them are only after your disability check and whenever you score, to make sure you know where your heroin is coming from. And it seems the things we know become relics faster than no time flat. Outdated as sideburns, turntables and black and white TVs. At best, quaint; at worst, tomorrow’s candidate for the trash heap who’s only hope of rescue is the random dumpster diver with the sentimental eye.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 15 Jacquelyn Crumbo Out of Balance

Nature, Nature, You, we will conquer!

Nature, Nature, Your forests, we will cut down And your trees, we will burn to the ground

Nature, Nature, We will pollute your water And your animals we will slaughter

Nature, Nature, You are wild and free

In your world, who wins and looses, Is not chosen democratically

Nature, Nature, You, we need to tame You, we will make lame

Nature, Nature, From you, we roamed By escaping into our man-made home And then we wondered why we felt alone

Of you, we feared You are beyond the capacity of understanding Because an education of you was not necessary An appreciation of you, was an impossibility

This is how we played the game,

The game of teeter tauter, teeter tauter We sat up there at our end, And you sat down there at the other

16 Mangrove Review You, we see and breathe, But, in you, as a mother, We don’t believe

Your animals, rivers and leaves, We do not treat brotherly, Because your nature is not a part of our family

This is the way it was perceived And this is the way, some still see, unfortunately

In this game of teeter tauter, teeter tauter, We saw you sitting there, at the bottom, And we thought, the more we take from you, The higher we will become

But for you, we did not sympathize That the less we left for you, The weaker you became

And we didn’t realize, That the weaker you became, The weaker we will become too

Through processes of progression (A.K.A. destruction) We thought we made it to the top We thought we conquered you

We thought we drove you into the ground But, why were all of us not parading around?

Because, as we learn from history, We can see that gradually, We threw away a knowledge of how to live sustainably And, now we realize, That our past, has put our future in jeopardy

Volume 4, Spring 2005 17 Nature, Nature, Now we can see through your eyes, That when you are falling, We are falling too Because now we see us, as a part of you

Nature, Nature, Will we learn how to balance this teeter tauter Before we all fall down?

18 Mangrove Review Deidre Evans A Boy and His Cactus

She still played with him last summer, splashing in the concrete pond under a cloudy sky. Uninhibited. Free. She forgot the pool’s secrets as fall and winter hibernation changed her from child to Other. He seizes an inflatable cactus, scolding it. She passes him while parting the water with her strokes. The pool no longer a rainforest or desert valley. A pool. Just a pool. A brother. Just a brother. He clings to the cactus, whispering her name into its plastic arms. The girl living in his sister’s changing body starts butterfly laps. She divides the water. Her wave carries him away. He and cactus floating

Volume 4, Spring 2005 19 Deidre Evans Failed Expectations

You dressed me up, a china doll in lace and Southern silence. I rose up on porcelain legs and wiped away your imposed destiny with a tiny, sculpted hand. I am your contradiction – all you never wanted in the package for which you prayed. God’s cosmic joke. A girl, so cute, so fragile, too smart, too loud, too tough, too much. A mutation, perhaps, or deviation… Not what you asked from God. My painted mouth refuses silence. I speak vile words of truth and pain. Yours. Mine. Ours. Your prayers shaped my formation. My destiny broke the mold. I shatter your porcelain dreams with a college degree and a vacant ring finger.

20 Mangrove Review Aurthell Furlow Boundaries of Limitations: “A Constant Pulse”

The question is why? I question myself to understand how a fool’s heart is beating Every moment, of every hour, of every minute, of every second, of every breath, Of every moment, The question is why? Beauty only depends on whose eyes are talking, The reflective of the definition depends upon the interpretation of the reflection, The question is why? The sun heats my flesh on the side of my empty void, Only two of us remain, one solid and the other multi, The boundaries of limitations are closed so tightly, Thoughts are trapped against there will, tortured, and suffocated, The question is why? As water creates a river to the music of a constant impulse, I can’t hide what is forever frozen in the ice-cubes of time, The question is why? The night protects me when reality is not under my control, Flying threw the diamonds the defy all emotions & feelings, Which is the temporary happiness because darkness only is permanent sometimes, Like wise to the sun, The question is why? Why did the lips, the hand, and the touch get invaded by an alien, Which invaded my home that was deep with you, The question why?

Volume 4, Spring 2005 21 Scott George For Braces and Miami Beach

Maybe we were the ulcers in Dad’s stomach, or the stones that turned Mom yellow or the disease that bent our grandmother like thin copper wire.

Maybe we shouldn’t have ran to them each time we cut our fingers. Maybe we shouldn’t have played at night in busy streets. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone all the way to South beach, leaving them behind at barely seventeen.

Maybe we shouldn’t have drank the whiskey in their closet, the good whiskey, the wedding present whiskey, too young with flushed cheeks. Maybe they didn’t have to drive that stupid green minivan so you could live in Miami and I could smile with straight teeth.

22 Mangrove Review Amanda Hall After You

Were my skin glass, Windex wouldn’t suffice.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 23 Amanda Hall What her t’isn’t

I’m not sure these bonds qualify—you see, even my pain isn’t poetic enough, not that suicidal. I can’t claim monumental angst as a lesbianfolksingerenvironmental Zen Buddhist from the Corn Belt, not even the kid who got himself whipt after school. It’s as though, all my life, I’ve been eyes. Never a participant, never a part. Eyes and Ears: The Observer. So that’s why I

24 Mangrove Review don’t expect you to understand when I tell you I see myself out of myself. When I tell you I put myself in context. Instead of living the situation, I’m situating it, ever the director staging a scene. Though by now you’ve caught the rhythm of this poem which isn’t a poem. Namely, me in the role of a poet assessing myself in the poetic role.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 25 Emily Johnston Fifth to Third

I gripped you with my hand, Smooth, yet rough at the same time. I shoved you forward and back, While waiting, I twitched you side to side.

Your boot was slipping off, The tape from changing you to metal held no more. But you were still so beautiful.

When I held you, Everything else became blurred. My breath got short and quick And Northdale was just around the bend.

As we breezed through My neighborhood in fifth, I glanced quickly passed the shadows. Praying for no cops.

I could never hold back, I constantly had to do it to you. I forced my hand passionately, Downshifting you into third.

Our bodies moved together, And I realized I loved you. You were so simple, yet so tricky to learn.

Regardless of the dirty creases or the lines of character in your face. I wanted to hold you forever. I wanted to move with you for a lifetime.

26 Mangrove Review Time brought us closer. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and R, became slightly worn, but in my eyes, you were still so radiant. You always glistened with perfection.

I honestly wanted to cling to you Until death did us part. I cried that day. Sobbed when you left on your death bed.

You and the rest of your family Left me that day longing for more. Nothing can take your memory from me. Because of the times we had. And I will always remember The dirty creases you had, The power you held to control me And the beauty you showed me.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 27 Emily Johnston A Life Unlived

What if a five-foot needle was forced into me, right between my ribs? Like when Courtney and I went back to being “just friends” and not sisters anymore. It felt like he was worth it then. But I would hold the knife now if I did it all over again. Would I realize the pain I caused?

What would it feel like to hear a voice say something so full of pain and spite? It would be just words, right? Could it hurt like when the frame’s glass fell on my foot and left me with four stitches? Or would it hurt like when my father rolled his truck? When my stomach dropped to the floor And was soon trampled on by twenty hundred elephants.

What if a whir of water took me under? What if my spirit left on a cloud that day? The undertow might’ve killed me. If I never fought it on my own, If I succumbed to the waves, If I was four and not five years old, Would I have drowned that day? I never would have met any of you.

What if I told my mother all of it? How much more I love my dad. Could she handle it? Or would the pain push her off the edge of the cliff I have created for her through my mean words. I will just stay silent, And simply save her the pain.

28 Mangrove Review What if I never hurt Cori like I did that day? I never met him and I stayed the same. I moved my foot from under the glass. The girl in the red car never cut off my dad. I didn’t fight the waves that took me under. And spilled every painful thought to my mother. What if my life never happened and I was just another half thought out plan?

Volume 4, Spring 2005 29 Rachel Kazor After the Hurricane

We stood with our backs turned to one another, our eyes falling still and unblinking against the raked valley of the property where the pines had snapped at the middle toward the North and the oaks slipped out from the ground, their roots spread thin and wiry against the clear grey sky each tentacle painted gloriously in the coal-black soil now split and bleeding in the gap where the trunk had stood; this muddy earth, weak and soft drying along the bark, the roots, becoming black roman candles bursting from a dying fuse.

We do not look at each other for fear of seeing the same thing. If we walk with our backs turned away we will not see the broken fields under our feet, the blankets of fresh green pine needles, swaths of speckled roof shingles, tar paper, a silver flute off my mother’s wind chime that hung above our back porch, the porch screen draped down the mango tree dipped low in the shallow end of the pool, a sandy beach of green and yellow turpentine mangos, tipped like sea-shells half-buried beneath the dirt and standing water. We won’t recognize the shattered windows along the bedroom, the collapsed lanai, or feel the crushed lavender Catlia orchids opening underneath my shoe, pass by the dead chickens hung by their tie cords as if they were always meant to sway gracefully in that pendulous motion coloring the empty horizon a brilliant string of red and gold and green. They are the boxed Christmas lights drowned in the attic, the nativity fallen open; baby Jesus cradled in a bed of pulpy stucco ceiling,

30 Mangrove Review pasted to the garage floor beside a pink cotton infant’s dress I don’t remember wearing.

It is all still there unless I see my mother to the East holding the trunk of her Gumbo Limbo, My brother counting the mango trees left standing in the grove, The grandmother describing this sight to her blind husband, And I am not listening to a father Down on his knees, choking Gone, gone. Lychee trees, Gone, Cuban Laurel, gone, Grandfather Oaks, 37 Pines, Coconut Palm, Bogain Villia, Pointsiana, Asian Cherry, Gone. Bananas, Tangelo, Grapefruit, Caranbola, Frangipani, Bismarkias, Cypress Australian Pines ....Key Lime. If I do not hear him cry, It is not gone.

As we stand with our shoulders folded into our chests, one hand collapsed over the heart, or the silent mouth, the other gripping the dead air, we become the surrendered trees, our limbs flickering under the rain. I wonder, Are we too old, too long settled in this piece of earth gripped at the roots, holding cold sky. We will bend with wind or be split at the center.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 31 Rachel Kazor Primal for Terry

A month before I knew you would leave me I wandered the halls of her hospital tracing a map under my fingertips above the white plastic crown molding, some thoughtful track darkening grey-blue under my touch so we could find our way back through the sterile corridors, if the hours left us sleepless and numb like the patients quiet in their beds gumming ice chips and pain, watching me pass their open doors, noticing over IV needles and tarnished bedpans the stark glow of agility and youth burning under the hall’s bleak yellow fluorescent lights. I could’ve been jumping over fires for all they saw in my simple step; two bare legs walking without command.

There is something familiar here. Something primal and understood, like the fierce pumping of the heart, fisting itself into a writhing animal alive and wild inside the body. No one speaks and life continues under the skin, the blood coursing, boiling in the vein, hot breath fills hollow lungs. The way you cup two hands into one, as though you will hold a damp new chick to your skin, let them fill with soft water, And bring it to your lips to suck through a halo mouth, forgetting again, this is all we’ll ever know.

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An old woman upstairs places a hand upon her chest, waits to hear the life inside, and you appear from your mother’s room a pallid version of the darker man I recognize as my own. She wants to meet me, you say, And I stand there before her bed, a child again, listening to the words she speaks. I don’t know what is said under her shallow breaths, I don’t speak Spanish, and I look over this woman that grew you inside her, lighter skin than I had imagined, small lips, unlike yours, thin and pale like a rose surrendered of its color, my ears pricked to hear what secrets she whispered.

She takes my hand and I awake, lacing her fingers over the deep place you touched inside and took as your own. You know this place, watching me tired and unwilling from the open doorway, and as your mother is dying beneath us in her bed everything comes to life.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 33 Jennifer Lane Face of Rain

The rain is a pesky next-door neighbor that drops by unexpectedly and forces you to put your plans aside and visit. Forget the pile of soiled laundry in the corner, the sour smell resonating through the house, and the crusty heap of dishes in the sink. Forget laying in a striped bikini, the sun-unable to do its damage. The peanut butter and jelly packed picnic basket will remain on the kitchen counter and the dog leashes will be hung back up over the yardstick in the garage. While the neighbor tells lengthy stories of distant relatives, you’ll glance down every couple of minutes at the big hand on your watch like you glance out the window to see if the sun has reappeared. The rain borrows your time like the neighbor borrows your cordless drill; neither of which will be returned to you.

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To me, the rain is an old pal I haven’t seen in months. The initial sound of thunder is like the first glance of that familiar face that drives me to run outside in my bare feet and embrace it’s presence. A gust of wind wraps it’s arms around me while the raindrops kiss my face and pat me on the back. I dance around in the puddles and twirl about as the water washes over me and my hair begins to part in the center from the force. The water clings to my eyelashes like the words that hang on my friend’s lips; secrets only my hears can hear. The time disappears, as do the clouds and I am forced to bid farewell after what seemed like only minutes. I leisurely turn around and trudge back inside, where I will anticipate the rain’s return.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 35 Claire Liparulo Rotation

Ophelia and I fought again, Our patterned spats in constant Rotation-woven in our common conversation- Tense-tongued and stiff-jawed Wearing telephone arguments like An olive drab bed rolls.

She pulled apart pansies That bloomed from her brainwaves- I'm crowned with them. She dresses older, uses words like, "fathom," And, "contend," just to use them. Tattooed daisies around her waist Vining like ivy on brick. Dissonance pervades old harmony And home is less homey .

So, vexed in violet-temple fury I went out without her, Left the hurried blaming of the bitter river For wave-heaving rhythmic ocean Rue perching Quietly in its sorrow After a calming car ride- Cracking the window I lowered tired feet from speeding, braking Pressing them bare into cold, beaten sand My stable legs swathed in northern air.

36 Mangrove Review Claire Liparulo To Texas

Croaking his smoke coated Throat, the trucker spoke Stoking dead wood cinders The snapping orange-red Shedding gray ash His dry arms like burnt Tree trunks, one slung low left The other crooked, hand A leafless tree branch Held his wet amber glass right And under his breathe drowned in Miller Lite, "I could take you to Texas ." I clutched the cold chrome Latches and black plastic That protected my guitar Suddenly aware of every Exit in the open mic bar.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 37 Joseph Pacheco Survivors: Hansel and Gretel

Some witch of a sister you’ve turned out to be, cackling and complaining about everything, the new house and neighborhood, Pop’s latest wife, my girlfriend --- now that we’re rich and famous it’s almost as if you wish we were back in the trailer park, starving and shivering, listening to that bitch stepmother con Pop into losing us all those times in the Pinelands so that they could cash in on the insurance our dead mother left us --- we kept fooling them and getting back and they kept acting like they were really glad to see us … that last time back was the last time we held hands and were close, all those times before when we slept together to keep warm and finally near the end when we lost control and actually made real love because we were getting older and colder --- the witch stepmother saw us and when you and Pop weren’t looking, dragged me into the bushes and forced me into her stinking body, threatening to tell Pop on us if I didn’t …

38 Mangrove Review then you found out, cried and screamed at me, even worse than the way you’re cackling now, I grabbed your hand and took you deep into the woods and we lay down on the cold pine needles, and planned the way to rid ourselves of that witch forever … true, it was my idea all the way, that Halloween night, luring her into the abandoned IHOP, the pancake house where we used to beg for eats, by promising her a special trick or treat,

but it was you who conked her with the skillet, poured gasoline and syrup over her lit the fire, closed the oven on her and began singing: “Crackle, crackle woman louse, Baking away in Pancake House.” everyone believed our story: the child abuse, hunger all the time, abandonment in the woods --- the forced sex part really put it over, and we went real easy on Pop, claiming he had been fooled into most of it;

Grimm Brothers paid a million for our story and before you know it: a best selling book, blockbuster movie, even an opera; endorsements galore, clothing, toys, food like ginger snaps, all with our name, our reality TV show “Survivors: Hansel and Gretel” number one, ahead even of CSI …

Volume 4, Spring 2005 39 Gretel, we’re rich and famous, living in luxury on a gated island where it’s never cold; we’re part of Western legend, cultural icons, eternal symbols of innocent goodness triumphing over adult evil, and still --- you’re unhappy, sulking in silence for days, then coming out of it cursing me and calling my girlfriend a bitch, and Pop’s new wife “The Lucky Hooker,” snap-crackle-popping about everyone and everything, especially me… lighten up, Gretel, and stop your cackling and yelling. before you turn into a real witch, no one will believe now the part we didn’t tell but I want you to remember a few things:

I kept you warm when you were cold, led you when you were lost, loved you first --- and I helped you get away with murder.

There is nothing more a brother can do for a sister.

40 Mangrove Review Amanda Pointelin Me

I pointed and laughed at Sally McFate, 'cause her hair was curly and mine was straight. I snickered and teased Freddy Lee; 'cause he walked with a limp while I ran free. I mimicked and taunted Curtis Meads; 'cause he stutters every time he reads. I criticized and insulted Maria Bot; 'cause she was fat and ate a lot. Years went by and I continued to tease, all the people who weren't like me. Now I'm older and I see, I didn't hate them, I hated me.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 41 Wilfredo Miguel Reyes Death in the Everglades

Orange peels and fish heads coronate the velvet pomp of glades morning glory, as bone dust and turtle shells silently observe the sinews snapping and bones cracking; deer feeding crocodiles

Rub my belly against a riverbed of broken shoals. Run my hand over the bleach of vacant cow skulls. Rust my bones with alcohol and the stench of diesel fuel. In the Everglades, dying stars are our midnight movie.

42 Mangrove Review Wilfredo Miguel Reyes Girls, Demons, and Gambling Dens

When was the death of our American spirit? Wide open sky and sweet bourbon freedom, girls, demons, and gambling dens.

Cowboys and Indians, saxophones and violins Cherry blossom chocolate bars, sandstorms blowing through the lonestar.

When did music become the accompaniment ? When did dead living become a product packed into tin cans alleys for mass consumption?

Where are the ghosts, haunting the living reminding us to live streetcar dreams? Flirting with the painted face of death reflected in a crystal glass.

Girls with eyes painted neon black Are snakes shedding innocence like old skin and coiling so closely to death that we must cling to life.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 43 Sissel W. Robertson Ibis on Ice

Morning rays exposed a breast to sky and men -- an object in the road caused passers-by to slow, and then continue on.

Roaring steel and rubber whirled to miss a casualty: sunset legs and new moon beak, perfectly intact.

I could not leave, a body still-- warm from blood or sun. Feathers clean, alive with wind.

“Was it West Nile virus, immature white ibis?” In my arms, his weight was like a puppy.

I called the ornithologist: “What should I do with him?” “Until tomorrow -- freeze him. We need this specimen.”

My Ibis on ice Reshaped. Conformed to space left over. In a makeshift morgue rigor mortis sets in -- between peas, and corn, and venison.

44 Mangrove Review Anthony Salvo Uncle Sam stole my belt

Lapping the fast lane The “above the dirt” way Shaving off seconds Every day I sit on the couch Whilst they train I salute a green flag Whilst they train Uselessly intact Whilst they train I feel ashamed Some father’s last name Engraved in marble For too few to see

I’m sorry for being a pussy And speaking the double speak And not being there to help Hands empty and busy A timid hawk Oh, that’s too bad I’d go But I just can’t find nothin’ to war Uncle Sam stole my belt My spine and my spear

Volume 4, Spring 2005 45

Ehren Gerhard, Daisy

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Jennifer Lane, One's Direction

Volume 4, Spring 2005 47

Jennifer Bothas, Rising Giant

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Amber Delaini, Melancholy Self-Portrait

Volume 4, Spring 2005 49 Nina Corwin What Money Won’t Buy

This morning at breakfast, I heard that Harmony was for sale. It was a few years back, according to the woman down the hall, and only a million dollars, a bargain even when adjusted for inflation. I got a glimpse of Harmony yesterday afternoon on the drive up Highway 101 from LA. Almost missed it, whipping by at eighty miles an hour, just a ramshackle blur of a barn or two and a sign for a Motel Six, though my neighbor says there’s more to it than you can see from the road: a restaurant, a glass-blower, even a consignment shop, all rustic and dripping with charm. The rolling hills are tawny golden with overgrown cattle grass, the cattle having wandered on to the next township – Serenity, no doubt. Overhead, birds dapple the great bowl of sky, though you have to roll down your windows to hear them. My neighbor said she and some friends tried to buy the place to make it into a center for holistic health – acupuncture, hydrotherapy and every kind of massage you can imagine. But they couldn’t come up with the down payment, and then some older gent made a better offer. Built a winery as a tax deduction; acres of California grapes just bursting with harmony and ready to be pressed. So I start thinking that if it was in my hands, I’d bring back the cows. Assemble a bovine symphony, maybe a pig chorus, with condors on woodwinds and sheep playing bongos for a bit of the exotic; their harmonies floating up to meet the lofty audience of the air. But after a year or two immersed in such idylls, I’d grow restless for the swarm of the city, the continual discord of those who live in too close quarters. Unable to sleep through the cricketing night from missing the rumble of the Elevated train, I’d pack my homesick bags and return to the sudden screech of tires and sirens squawking their raucous melodies of rescue.

50 Mangrove Review Amber Delaini One Person’s Threat Is Another Person’s Pleasure

Dark clouds roll in on a strong breeze, erasing shadows that hung only minutes before the bright sun was masked. Lightening seeps through the cracks of the burdened clouds lashing out at things just beneath its grasp. Thunder shakes the earth and rattles window panes; the pace picks up. There is something about a dark sky and deep echo of thunder that ensures a state of panic. Cars accelerate, a relaxed pace becomes a brisk frantic jog to a shelter away from the electric claws. But not me. I welcome the thunder, the lightening, the morbid sky; loving each roar that echoes in my ears. The first drops of rain almost tickle in a way but as the down pour increases speed, within seconds I am drenched in the cold tears of the sky. Planted in a firm stance, the leaves dance around my feet as they are carried off in the wind. Nothing feels better than the chill that runs up my spine as the rain begins to penetrate my skin, seeping into my bones. Harder, yes, harder it falls, clumps of my hair sticking to the sides of my face and neck. What a joy it brings to dance in the rain! Will people think I am mad? Dancing about in this threatening weather that everyone seems to be hiding from? To hell with them! I shall dance about barefoot, splashing in puddles, feeling the rain pound against my body. Why run from nature-it is such a beautiful thing. Why couldn’t it just last longer? I dread the moment when all is dry and the sun peaks out from its dark curtain. I wish I could throw a rock and knock it back behind the veil that covers it so nicely. Wouldn’t it be nice to stand naked in the rain, to curl up against a wall and feel the wet pavement under your skin? Clothes are such a restriction; a pathetic costume worn to hide who we are or create who we think we are. My mind is clouded like the sky; maybe that is why we get along so well…

Volume 4, Spring 2005 51 Jane V. Donovan All That Remains

I take a deep breath and open the refrigerator door, almost afraid to look. I knew it. “Dad, you’re not eating. You didn’t touch your dinner.” I pull out the plate still covered in clear plastic wrap. “I made your favorite. Pot roast, just the way you like it. No?” Over the clamor of ringing bells and a screaming audience, a voice rises above. “Not now, Carol. This idiot from Idaho is going to price the car.” I walk through the kitchen doorway into the living room. “Dad, you need to eat.” He waves me off. I sit down on the couch and wonder if he has moved from his chair since I saw him last night. I notice that he’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday. I study my father as he pumps his shrunken fist in the air. “You’re too high,” he yells at the television. The studio audience begins to chant. He turns up the volume and hollers, “It’s a Jap car, for crying out loud. You’re too damn high. Ah, go back to the potato farm, you idiot.” I retreat back into the kitchen and sit down at the table. Looking out of the window, I notice that the leaves on the oak tree are beginning to turn. An empty 4-H bird feeder I made years ago for Mother’s Day dangles from a broken branch. They predict an early fall this year, and a colder than usual winter. I look beyond the tree at a backyard I barely recognize. What once seemed like an endless wonderland of hanging potted ferns and rows of meticulous flowerbeds now seems impossible. The weeds have taken over the garden and patches of dead grass cover most of the yard. Dad didn’t put out the lawn furniture this year. He had no interest in the outdoors, never did. Mom was the happiest when she was outside. As long as I can remember, she included me in her garden rituals: planting, watering, and when I was cantankerous, weeding. She said that weeding was the cure for just about anything. When I was in junior high, I would sit beside the roses reading to her as she pruned. Murder mysteries were our favorites, but every summer, she would insist on having me read a classic. The summer we read Moby Dick, it rained a lot and we spent our afternoons on the front porch glider, sipping iced tea, reading aloud and waiting for the

52 Mangrove Review mail. Mother loved catalogs, which got us through the endless days of winter. A broken clothes-line waving in the wind catches my attention, and my heart sinks. Growing up, I never appreciated how hard she worked to make our home so beautiful, so welcoming. The barren field that once gave my mother a great source of pride now reveals just how much she is missed. I lightly touch the window pane and whisper, “Sorry, Mom.” I pull my sweater around my shoulders and rub my cold hands together. “Dad, would you like a cup of tea?” I know he can’t hear me over the T.V. I also know that he won’t drink the tea. Blue and white porcelain cups hang on a rack over the counter. One of the few remaining treasures my grandparents brought with them from the Old Country. I fill the kettle and unhook two cups. While waiting for the water to boil, I open the pantry. Only a few jars of bread and butter pickles remain on the shelves that used to be lined with our canned favorites: early sweet peas, stewed cherry tomatoes and apple butter. I smile for a moment, thinking about the summer she experimented with endive. Dad usually ate his supper in front of the television and we would set a nice table in the kitchen, just for the two of us. She would go on and on about some new recipe and how I had to at least try it. As a kid, I couldn’t think of anything worse, creamed endive, but as an adult, I’d probably like it. I dust off the tops of the pickle jars with her apron that I find hanging on a hook. The sturdy white cotton reveals faded stains from summers past. I wish she were here so that I could hear her stories, or accept just once the advice she so freely gave, and I seldom took. The emptiness of the pantry seems so appropriate. I hold the apron to my face and cry.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 53 Jane V. Donovan Glamourama Dreamin’

“Well, I can tell you, her Buick was loaded to the gills.” I move from my bed to the floor, straining to hear. “Can you believe she just left him a note? Packed as much as she could and left town, just like that.” The muffled voice filters up from the basement. I press my ear against the vent. It’s Ms. Booker talking. It’s Tuesday, Ms. Booker Day, and she’s been a regular at the Glamourama for nearly twenty years. Julia Mae Booker has a standing appointment, and every Tuesday, all of the ladies gather downstairs in my mama’s beauty shop. Mama says they like to look their best, but truth be told, like me, they just want the latest dirt from the town gossip. I now hear my mother’s voice. “Rest your head right back in the sink and I’ll check your color.” I can hear Ms. Booker’s high heels click across the cement floor. “Oh, Julia Mae, tell the girls about Earl.” The sink is directly below my room and I am forced to fan the air in front of my face as the chemicals rise up through the vent. Ms. Booker talks louder; Mama must have stuffed cotton in her ears. “Earl saw it on Friday on the road to Thompsonville, the wicker love seat, right out there, straddling the center line.” A choir of muffled voices harmonize, like only southern women can do, with exaggerated “oohs” and “ahhs.” “Your color’s taking read good this time. Let’s give it ten more minutes. Coffee?” I hear my mother offer drinks to the rest of the ladies. Ms. Booker continues. “Earl stopped to see if he could help, of course.” I can hear Ms. Booker’s Zippo lighter click twice. I count the seconds until I smell the smoke. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three – there it is. Last week it took only two Mississippis. I take in a deep breath and exhale with pursed lips, holding a pencil between my fingers, flicking it over an empty glass on my nightstand. “But she didn’t need Earl’s help. No sir, she had all the help she needed sitting right there in the passenger’s seat of her car.” “Lordy, Julia Mae – he was with her? And Earl saw them?” “Sure as the world. But let me tell you, ladies, Earl gave them a good spook. He walked over to the car and asked if they needed any help. She was in the driver’s seat, looks up at Earl, then back at her lover boy. Earl said she looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

54 Mangrove Review I move from the floor and stand in front of the mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I slip on a pair of mama’s high heels and pile my hair on the top of my head, Ms. Booker continues. “Earl said that he was sitting next to her in the front seat of the car fussing with a tangled bunch of bungee cords. I guess he didn’t do such a good job strapping down that love seat.” I lean over my dresser and outline my lips in red lipstick. I take another drag from my #2 cigarette and watch myself in the mirror practicing blowing smoke rings. I hear Ms. Booker walk across the floor and I try to imitate her sway. My weak ankles slip and slide as I try to strut in mama’s heels. Mrs. Shaver’s voice filters up from below. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why Charlie didn’t divorce her, or at least throw her out. With her cheating on him all this time, just made Charlie look like a damn fool.” Doris Shaver is our local Avon Lady. I stuff tissues under my T- shirt and study my silhouette in the mirror. I pull my shoulders back and stick out my chest as far as I can. More tissues. I watch my red lips in the mirror as I whisper, She made Charlie look like a damn fool. Still listening to the voices below, I lie down on my bed and think about Charlie’s wife. I wonder why she did it. How she’d meet another man when her husband was away. I think about their heated kisses and I squeeze my pillow tight. I close my eyes and pretend that I am in the passionate embrace of my lover. I too have sinned. I couldn’t help it. At first, it was all so innocent. Our eyes meet, the brush of his arm, small talk at the A&P. But not long after, secret meetings behind the Circle K, We kiss, our tongues touch and he reaches for my – “Claudia Jean, can you hear me?” I scramble off the bed and trip in my high heels, catching myself on the corner of the dresser. “Is everything all right up there?” my mother calls up the air vent. “I’m okay.” “Honey, bring down the tray of macaroons, would you please?” “Yes, ma’am.” I pull myself up in front of the dresser and pull the tissues out from under my shirt. I use them to wipe off the red lipstick, which is now smeared all around my mouth. As I pull the pins out of my tangled hair, I stop and look at myself in the mirror. I wonder what I’ll look like. Probably not as pretty as she is. “C.J., are you coming?” Mama calls again. I can hear the water run in the sink downstairs. Ms. Booker’s color is done.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 55 “I’ll be right there.” I return the tube of lipstick into the nightstand drawer and slide my high heels under the bed, hidden by the pink and white dust ruffle, until next Tuesday.

56 Mangrove Review Jane V. Donovan Spoils

All of her life she worked hard, and nothing came easy. Got married and gave birth to her first child at the age of fifteen. Raised five children and buried two husbands, she felt older than her fifty years. She worked on the line at the Bee-Mo potato chip factory long enough to see it change hands four times and eventually go out of business. That was all that Beauford had, and all that remained was crime and welfare. She had little food or money, and with spring she planted a garden. Canned vegetables would see her through the winter. Digging on her hands and knees, working the spade, she hit something deep in the dirt. She dug down with her bare hands; it was a small metal box. She brushed off the dirt and took it into the house, and after jamming it open, she was puzzled by its contents. A list of names scratched on a yellowed piece of paper. She recognized her first’s husband’s handwriting. Under the paper she found jewelry. Two wedding bands, a diamond engagement ring, two bracelets, gold and silver pieces intertwined. She studied the paper and was sure it was his. He was a ruthless gambler, shot dead in a bar for it. He never gave her jewelry, not even a simple wedding ring. These were the prizes from men that came up short. She picked up a gold band, rubbed it between her fingers and hated him all over again.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 57 Scott George Wicker on the Run

We saw it on the road out of Thompsonville, the wicker love seat, right out there, straddling the centerline. We should’ve just swerved around it, but Jessie said she didn’t want me scratching up the paint on our new truck trying squeezing by. I knew she just wanted to get out and take a look. My wife would pull over to inspect a hubcap on a twelve-lane highway if she thought she could make use of it. But this turned out to be way more than just some piece if junk in the middle of the road. To her, this was a sign. “Oh my God honey, can’t you see? We’ve gotta take this with us.” She looked at me as if she had seen Jesus himself in the fraying intertwined threads of the wicker seat. She was convinced that we were meant to find this thing, that this seat was a symbol of our love, of our new life together. “Why else would it be here, dead smack in the middle of the street, just waiting for us to come down this way?” she asked. She thought it only fitting that this be the first piece of furniture that we put in our new home. I knew better than to argue. My father had told me that marriage was about two things, smiling and nodding, and I was coming to understand this quickly The U-Haul on the back of the Dodge was already full of all our stuff from the old apartment, so I had to throw the love seat in the truck bed. Jessie helped strap it in, yelling at me whenever the wicker crackled from pulling the ropes too tight. I couldn’t help but laugh at the way she was babying this old, broken chair. Parts of it were frayed so badly I could’ve used the ends of the threads as paintbrush bristles. The whole seat was off balance too, never sitting right on all four legs. There wasn’t much mystery behind why someone would just dump it. I was hoping we would eventually do the same when Jessie realized how bad of shape the seat was actually in. But my wife is a difficult woman. We drove out on to the interstate, heading south to Arcadia. Her parents had just bought us a house there for a wedding present, a nice little two bedroom with a patio. We hadn’t seen it yet, but it looked great from the pictures. Jessie was already starting in on how she wanted to decorate it. “And then we’ll paint the living room white, wait no, that’s too much white, how about periwinkle, or”

58 Mangrove Review “Baby slow down, we haven’t even seen the house yet. And I hate periwinkle. Too much blue makes me sleepy.” “Well we agreed on blue and white for the main colors. You wanna change them?” “ No, no, blue and white are fine, “ I didn’t feel like battling her over colors speeding down I-75, trying to navigate safely with an 1200 pound steel box trailing me at 80 miles an hour. Periwinkle would be fine for now. “Just think Larry, our own house. Our own home to grow old in, not some shabby little one bedroom apartment,” Jessie said, staring out the tinted window at the trees flying by, and then down to the road, her eyes following the yellow dashes that blurred together. “I’m still in shock from the wedding, thank God it’s actually all over with”, I said. “Why? You have a problem committing your soul to me, forever, in front of everyone we know?” she said, giggling afterwards and latching on to my right arm. “Well, when you put it like that. . .” She let go, shooting me a look that could’ve frozen water, or melted ice, either one probably. “I’m just playing sweetheart,” I said, putting my hand on her thigh. She smiled. “But forever is a long time.” She spun around, punching me in the arm. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding”, I said cringing against the driver side door. “You better be you jerk. Pull over at this exit, I have to pee.” I must have sat in the parking lot of this little Citco station off 75 for twenty minutes waiting for this woman to urinate. However long it was, it was just long enough to hear the strangest news on the radio. A throaty voice read the report. “Police are looking for anyone with any knowledge of the museum robbery in Thompsonville. Items totaling almost five hundred thousand dollars were stolen early this morning, including thousands of dollars of art work and priceless items such as an old wicker love seat, formerly belonging to the famous literary mind, Ernest Hemingway.” I didn’t want too turn around. I now knew what was in my truck bed. I realized that leaving that God awful seat right out there in the back was like painting a big red target on the back of our truck. I jumped out and opened up the U-Haul, grabbing some blue garage blankets from the storage unit. I threw them over the love seat, hiding it as best I could. I had to gather my thoughts. I felt like everyone was staring at me, like all the people at the gas pumps knew everything. I was like a transparent overhead slide, posted up for everyone to stare

Volume 4, Spring 2005 59 right through, and I could’ve sworn that I heard my heart beat over the gas pump loudspeaker. I saw Jessie pushing open the glass exit to the store. “Hurry,” I tried to whisper to her when she got close enough. “Sorry, I know were in a rush, there were just a million people in there and. . .” “Just get in.” She opened up the door and slide in. I was already inside. It turned to her and tried to think of the right way to tell her, but I just spilled it. “We gotta dump the love seat.” “What? Why?” “It’s stolen. I just heard it on the radio. It’s some museum-piece back in Thompsonville, and it was stolen this morning. Whoever robbed the museum must have dropped it off the back of their truck or something, and we found it.” Jessie just stared at me for a second. She started to laugh. “Of all the excuses you could’ve came up with to not keep the seat, and you chose that one? Classic, Larry, really,” she said, rolling her eyes into the back of her head, brushing me off. “No I’m serious,” I said fumbling through the radio stations to hopefully find the report being read again. “You know, if you really didn’t want to take the damn seat with us, you should’ve said something back in Thompsonville, not a hundred miles away. I can’t believe you, what do you. . .” She cut off. I found the report just as it was ending. “Priceless items, such as an old wicker love seat, previously owned by the great, late Ernest Hemingway were also stolen. If anyone has any information, please call the Thompsonville sheriff’s department immediately.” Her jaw fell to the floor mats of the Dodge. “Oh my God, “she said, her eyelids peeled back, glaring at the radio dial. “No way.” “Yes way,” I said “and were getting rid of it.” Jessie was silent for a moment. She started playing with her hair, twirling it with her index finger. “You know,” she paused, “we’ve already got it back there, and no one know that we have it.” “No Jessie,” I looked ahead at the storefront. “But baby!” she looked at me with her best puppy-eyed expression. She was right; no one knew we had it. If we could just make it to Acadia, we might be able to just put it in the house with no one knowing the better. Just then, I heard a tap on my window.

60 Mangrove Review “Oh my God, it’s a state trooper,” Jessie said under her breath. I was praying the trooper didn’t hear that. I rolled down my window. I was shaking like a Chihuahua on a cold morning. “Can I help you?” I said, trying to control my voice from cracking. I could see my goofy expression in the man’s mirrored sunglasses. “Nice truck, new?” The trooper said, looking toward the back. I was sure he saw the seat. “Yeah, just got it last month.” “I saw the just married sign on your back window, just thought I stop over and say congratulations.” The trooper smiled as a he rapidly chewed his gum. “And, uh, there’s a glass bottle behind your U-Haul. Wouldn’t want ya’ll to get a flat.” “Oh,” I said, a little less nervous. “Thanks, officer.” “No problem. You kids have a safe drive.” “Thanks,” Jessie managed to get out right before I rolled up the window. I shot my wife a heavy look. “What?” “Fine, we’re keeping it. But you can forget about the periwinkle.”

Volume 4, Spring 2005 61 Jonathan Glover Rush Limbaugh, Telepathic Candidate

“No, please. No more pills.” “Take them.” “No. I beg you. I can’t take this anymore. It hurts.” “You must take them.” His hand was the color of mucous, the phlegmy digits connected by a thin layer of webbing. In its open palm lay another bottle of oxycotin pills. Rush prayed that the hand would retract in compliance with his protests. Years of consuming oxycotin had handed him over to the claws of chemical dependency, but there were other effects that scared him even more. The pills that Medeas held in his hand were an altered form of oxycotin: a blend of hillbilly heroin and nuetrexia, a psycho-pharmaceutical that enhances the human brain’s responsiveness to telepathy. The telepathic messages were overpowering at first. They came as loud voices that drowned out Rush’s own thoughts and left his brain with no other commands to follow. Rush still remembered the first time, how the urine ran down his leg, and his mouth flapped in obedience to an internal monologue that was not his own: “Title IX is nothing but affirmative action for jockette, feminazis who should stick to the cheerleading, folks. It’s this kind of radical left-wing nonsense that is tearing the great traditions of this nation apart.” Rush wondered where those words came from as his pulse echoed in his skull. Not even Rush Limbaugh could create resentment for the women’s movement and warp the intention of a liberal educational policy that quickly. Or could he? This would be the question he asked himself, until he met Medeas months later. “Do you like the pills?” Rush turned in his leather office chair to see who had broken into his personal study: “How did you get in here? Who let you in?” His resolve quickly diminished as he sized up the intruder. The figure was nearly seven feet tall, thinner than a high school track star, and wrapped tightly in a black trenchcoat. Its face was cloaked in shadows by an oversized black fedora.

62 Mangrove Review “Do you like the pills?” “How do you know about that?” “I make them for you. I make the pills. I make your words.” “What do you mean you make my words?” “I am the voice that speaks in your mind. I am Medeas.” Rush felt his stomach tighten, and his pulse began to boom in his head. Medeas continued speaking, but this time through telepathy. “You are one of the dividers. There are many of you. We use your mouths to spread our words of mischief. We divide humanity through you, through the propaganda we plant in your minds.” “But why? I don’t understand? And why me? I speak the truth.” “We manufacture truth. Your personal truth complies with our manufactured truth. That is why you are a divider.” Rush leaned an inch forward in his chair, trying to get a better look at Medeas’ face, but the shadows kept their secret. Inside Rush’s mind, logic and common sense crept out from their hiding places as fear and shock, roused from their slumber by Medeas’ intrusion, returned to their own. He knew how to rid himself of this trespasser (who was probably just another oxycotin dealer that somehow found out about his recreational habits). Rush slowly leaned back in his chair and pawed the antique leather, looking for the hidden pocket where he kept his revolver. “You’re not really speaking in my mind. That’s the dose of oxycotin I just took playing with my head. I guess this is what a bad trip is like. Sir, you can leave.” Rush pulled the revolver from its pocket and aimed it at Medeas’ chest. “Shoot me and you will see my face. The result will be nightmares.” “I’m giving you a chance here. You can leave now, and I won’t hurt you.” Rush’s hand began to tremble, and his palms became slick with sweat. Medeas stood there and Rush’s gyrating, perspiration-drenched hand grasped for control of the revolver until his finger slipped and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the brim of the fedora and continued through Medeas’ forehead. His head jerked back, knocking the fedora to the floor. A pale, webbed hand emerged from beneath the trench coat and clutched the entry wound above his pupil-less left eye. Rush began to vomit in the back of his throat as he watched Medeas pull the bullet out of his bald, veiny head with long fingers.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 63 “You are a divider. You create confusion, suspicion, division. The earth judges, condemns, and conspires against itself, turning its eyes away from the ancient enemy in the sky.” Medeas warned that the result would be nightmares and it was. Every night for seven straight years Rush awoke from the same dream, relived his first visit from Medeas. Since then the voices in his head had multiplied. It felt like a space had been opened up inside his head by the growing presence of their voices. When the space was empty, his pulse echoed, spreading waves of pain through his skull. The oxycotin helped but only for a few hours at a time. Throughout those seven years, Rush also awoke to the same questions. How could this be? The inhabitants of Ephegria, the planet Medeas said he was from, have a vested interest in the politics of Earth? The idea that he was aiding in a conspiracy to create conspiracies turned Rush’s thoughts to suicide. He tried taking his life on several occasions. First he tried filling the empty space where the voices meet in his head with a bullet from his revolver. He awoke the next day on the floor of his study with Medeas standing over him, a new bottle of neutrexia-laced oxycotin dangling in his hand. He continued trying to fill the void in his skull with knives, bullets,electricity, water, carbon monoxide, but it didn’t matter what he used or how maimed his skull became in the process. Everytime Medeas put him back together and prescribed a new bottle of oxy-neutrexia to kill the pain. Bound by drug addiction, physical pain, and mental trauma, Rush was a slave to the Ephegrian agenda. He was always ready to seize an opportunity to break free, but none came. During his radio broadcasts, he would think of ways to cry out for help, but somewhere between the red glow of the “On Air” sign and the salty fragrance of the studio’s saliva-ravaged microphone, Rush would always lose his train of thought, and another voice would find it for him. Rush wondered about the other dividers. Had any of them broken free? All Rush could gather from what Medeas had told him was that the Ephegrians needed the dividers to perpetuate the political polarization of the Earth’s governments. The covert activities of the Ephegrians could then go unseen or be covered up as political conspiracies. Medeas never revealed the nature or purpose of Ephegrian activities on Earth, and it left Rush looking for otherworldly fingerprints in everything he saw. On good days, Rush was able to forget about the space in his mind, the voices, Medeas, and do what he loved: conservative talk radio. As Medeas had pointed out, the truth he manufactures for Rush

64 Mangrove Review is very close to the political truth Rush had already manufactured for himself. This made Rush the perfect divider. Even when Ephegrian voices were not speaking through him, giving him that extra edge of conspiratorial venom, Rush Limbaugh was doing a fine job of spreading mistrust and confusion already. “You must seek presidential office.” “No. I can’t help you anymore than I already do. Please, I don’t want any part of this.” “You are the top divider. You can forward our agenda from the most powerful position in your country.” “And if I refuse?” “Nightmares and echoes.” Rush knew there was no real way to refuse a creature that could bring him back to life after numerous suicides and speak directly into his mind, so instead he decided to ask for something in return for his service. “Okay, but there is something I would like in return.” “Name this thing.” “I want to die.” “To be president, you must be alive.” “After I serve as president. Even if it’s two terms. I just have to know that there will be an end to this. What you’ve done to me, I can’t live with it forever. It hurts too much.” “Very well. There will be an end for you.” That night, Rush was released from his nightmare. He dreamt of his presidential campaign and the glory that awaited him at the end of it. He would be President of the United States, and better yet, he would finally be free once he was done. He finally understood Doctor Kevorkian, the man he had railed against as a murderer for helping people in unlivable pain end their lives. In his dream, he made peace with the Doctor, and Kevorkian agreed to be his running mate. The banners read: “Limbaugh and Kevorkian, the Freedom to Rest.” Rush rolled in his bed, enjoying his first peaceful rest in nearly a decade. He envisioned himself and Doctor Kevorkian in front of his bedroom mirror tying their ties in preparation for the campaign trail. Rush’s tie comes out too short, and the Doctor leans over to help him. As a doctor, he has lots of tie-tying experience. “Rush…everything’s going to be great. The Ephegrians aren’t so bad. They’re actually conservatives.” “You think so, Kev?

Volume 4, Spring 2005 65 “Yes, I do. And even so, you are going to be able to rest soon. Once all this is over, you’re going to die like an American…free.”

66 Mangrove Review Ron Hefner Lizard Crossing

Henley cursed the driver in front of him and chewed his eleventh antacid tab of the day, a cherry-flavored one. On the seat next to him was a swatch of wallpaper Marsha had found somewhere and it was, of course, imperative that he deliver it downtown for the decorator's approval. Like the decorator actually needed her help. And he had to get it there by one o’clock. Today. Saturday. His day off. It was imperative that the house be redecorated, imperative that wallpaper matched furniture. Everything must coordinate. If he could make it back home in 45 minutes, he could still catch the beginning of the game on the TV out on his lanai, beer in hand, enjoying what was left of his Saturday. In his mind, he saw himself doing that, 45 minutes from now, and it made him anxious. His stomach lurched. He blipped his horn at the idiot in front of him and pulled right up to his rear bumper. The idiot glared at him in the rear view mirror and shot forward, leaving a haze of blue smoke. His brake lights flashed briefly as he slowed to swerve around something. And then, Henley saw: a hundred feet away, an alligator, slowly traversing the blacktop. Henley squinted in the glare of the Florida sun, slowing the car. No, it wasn't an alligator; it was some kind of lizard. A big one, nearly four feet long. It turned its head and looked at him, pausing in the middle of the road. Henley screeched to a stop, twenty feet from the creature. An iguana. It stared at him impassively for a few seconds, then resumed its journey. Henley had seen these things in pet shops; his kids had begged for one. It looked for all the world like a miniature dinosaur, with a big, bristly crown on its head and a ridge running down its back, all the way to the end of its tail. Its skin was green, red, brown, yellow, black; amazingly ornate. A horn blared behind Henley, making him jump. He rolled down the window and waved for the driver to pass--which he did, shouting something rude. Now, the lizard was off the road, sliding across the sandy shoulder and into the grass. Where was it going? Henley looked down at the wallpaper sample on the seat, then back at the lizard. Then, he pulled over, parked the car in the grass, and got out and sat on the hood. He wondered about the gender of the creature. It seemed determined, resolute, as it headed toward the wooded area that

Volume 4, Spring 2005 67 bordered the neighborhood golf course. It's a male, he decided. Under the shade of a live oak, the iguana stopped at the end of a hollow log and peered inside. He seemed quite interested in it. What was in there? Worms or bugs? No, Henley seemed to recall that iguanas were vegetarians. Maybe the log contained mushrooms or plants or some other kind of delicacy. Henley looked at his watch: twenty after twelve. The decorator was closing at one o'clock because he had to leave to go out on a job. He unstrapped the watch from his wrist and stuffed it in his pants pocket. The lizard was now halfway into the log, his green and black tail protruding, slowly swishing back and forth. What was going on in there? Minutes passed. Finally, Henley went over to the log, knelt down, and peered into the opposite end of it. The lizard wasn't eating anything; he was just lying in there. When he saw Henley's head, he backed up a little. Henley stood up and looked around. Maybe I should try to catch it and take it home, he thought. The kids would love it. But no, Marsha would have a fit. Plus, he'd have to buy a cage and put food and water in there, and some tree branches so he'd have something to crawl around on, and maybe a piece of a hollow log for him to hide in. Besides, why screw up an iguana's life by putting him in a cage? He seemed happy enough just as he was. Well, not exactly happy; you couldn't really tell if an iguana was happy or not; but, you know, he seemed fairly contented, crawling around, looking for stuff to eat. And, he had made it across a busy highway without getting smashed. That had to mean something, didn't it? Why, I could have just kept on going, thought Henley, and flattened him for good. But I didn't. I saved his life! This, he told himself, was significant. The iguana had now disappeared entirely into the log. It's probably cooler in there, Henley thought. He went back to the car and looked through the window at the wallpaper swatch. It was silver and black, an abstract print; he didn't much care for it. It would go in the dining room. He went back to the log and sat in the grass. After a minute, he lay down on his stomach and again looked into the log's opening. The iguana blinked at him. It was cool, the way he blinked. He had two sets of eyelids--one set kind of filmy-looking, the other set, on top of those, opaque. He's not going to come out because he's scared of me, Henley realized. I'd better move away from the log. Reluctantly, he sat up and looked around for another place. There, under a pine tree. That would

68 Mangrove Review be a good spot. He plopped down under the tree and took off his sneakers. As he leaned back against the trunk, the iguana peeked out at him. When he saw Henley, he quickly withdrew back into his hiding place. That's OK, thought Henley. It's my day off. I can wait. Everybody can wait. He took another antacid tab from his shirt pocket and chewed it, savoring it. This one was lemon-flavored. Not bad.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 69 Rachel Kazor Jacaranda

On the hour before my daughter was dismissed from class, we’d take Collier Road to the elementary school, turning the corner where Middlebury cut through Rose Bay, and the Blue Jacarandas fall open to the street, branches full and bowing like lavender parasols lining the avenue to Phillips Park. We once stopped there each day after school with the girls. We take a moment to recognize the late spring flashing in cicada-green leaves; the oaks are bursting a green canopy across the California suburbs. Susan and I stand staring into the deep-violet blossoms. Her eyes are fixed on the Jacaranda tree bending over a park bench, the one set beside the tire swings. We look, gasp at the flames of lavender trumpet blossoms firing in high bloom, and Susan sits on the maple bench waving me away. “Go, Anne—pick up Joanie.” My face, guilty, because my daughter can breathe the scent of nutmeg-lily carried in the air from a blossoming star jasmine. Susan strokes her bare shoulder where the bone now fingers through the skin. There is something kindred beneath these purple trees for her. Something I cannot grasp in my hands even when the blossoms fall, coating the ground, for weeks, a bluish-grey. Their beauty is a short season, she knows, a brief wonder. She smiles at me, in spite of the Jacaranda blossoms’ return to mark another season, another year she lives without her child, and I leave to find my daughter at school, forgiven for today.

70 Mangrove Review Rachel Kazor Little Whirlpools

She knew I was there, knew enough to turn from the waves and look up the beach. I would be sitting at the farthest hill, maybe, across the dunes where the saw grass thinned at the sand’s edge. She would see the blue cooler, the cotton bed sheet spread thin atop the beach, her mother huddled underneath the wide-brimmed straw hat, scorning the sun, guarding juice boxes and peanut butter and jelly. I waited for her to need my presence, waited almost three hours as she danced in the shallow upon her toes, cupping sea foam, grinning wickedly as the hollow pearls dissolved into her salt-laced palms. I waited for you to stall at the shore, looking back at me to defend your endeavor, and I, waving you on as the tide swirls hopefully in little whirlpools around your ankles. I sat still, confident a wave would soon roll over you. I would be summoned to wrap a towel, wipe seawater tears and hold a yellow straw in apple juice as you bring the tawny liquid to your lips, my voice crooning under the rush of water meeting land; drink, rest. I settle you in my lap, breath in the lotion and six-year-old sweet on the nape of your neck, cradle the moment of need. I wait for you, but you do not turn, and soon I am calling for you, wailing over waves and falling sun, lost and crying like a child. You look at me and wave me on.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 71 Claire Liparulo The City

There were seeds in the air. Cottony and frail looking. It was about 78 degrees Fahrenheit outside and Angie was sitting in her front yard next to an ant hill. She sipped at an etched sweating glass of water with unblemished ice cubes. Watching the ants, she wanted to step on them for biting her last week and injecting their sting and annoyance. If she had a magnifying glass, she might have singed them, or she could sprinkle some poisonous yellow pellets of retribution. Instead, she scratched the bumps they caused peaceably for six days and now there were scars where they opened and scabbed on her fore arms and elbows. Angie hadn’t seen the anthill last Thursday afternoon. She didn’t see that stupid drone city of venomous workers that only knew to build the hill up. She laid her blanket down and smoothed out the wrinkled pewter wool over it like a coat of smog on a city. Stretching herself across it, she dug her hips’ impression into the crabgrass, enjoying the sound of wind through the stocky oaks. She didn’t pay attention when she felt wind-blown blades tickle her skin. She adjusted herself up onto her elbows and felt the first sting. “Damn it!” her eyes enlarged and her heart beat blood and adrenaline through her ant covered arms. She slapped and ripped at her sleeves, franticly striking them like she was on fire. She stopped, dropped and rolled until the ants were either smashed or delirious in the dead grass. Her first impulse was to pound the rest of the hill into a sand trap, but she ran inside to put damp clumps of baking soda on her arms to suck out the poison. Angie sat today, towering above their meager city, but only sat and drank her water. She marveled at how darkness crushed their metropolis and even though they lost some men in the battle, how eager they were to rebuild.

72 Mangrove Review Claire Liparulo Stops

I watched the end of Magnolia last night through metal bars in front of a television store. When the frogs started falling from the sky, rain fell on my thirsty jacket soaking it into a patriotic blue. Rita, my sister with the dark glasses—she was talking to the guy in the padded jacket. He opened the pudgy parts from the inside, sliding plastic baggies out like placentas. He transferred them like track batons to Rita while she simultaneously sifted through lint and meaningless pocket space for enough cash. His name’s Vinny. Our father knew a Vinny when we were younger—he was bad news. Rita saw his bloodshot eyes through our soot-covered thermal paned window once in Florida when we were all alive there. We left together when our parents’ eyes turned to marble. Rita’s hands shake here when she pleads with me for cash because she can’t seem to find it tonight. Aching as I hand over a few wrinkled bills, my arthritic body wants to curve in like a dead spider. It’s gauze on a knife wound and we both bleed through and off this sidewalk steam and onto the L train platform. I hate how often it stops, but Rita smiles at strangers when they board…I just want to see her smile.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 73 Claire Liparulo Two Moths

There were no bugs in Chicago when I came here other than the cockroaches feasting on the scum that grouted slick restaurant tiles. A few months later, I became a blackened city moth—acclimated to the scent of Michigan Avenue and the clicking stilettos on the cement, across the crosswalk and over to the cobblestone courtyards. My stretched, peppered wings brushed Joseph’s cheek outside the café where I worked. He was tossing, gliding and writhing on his back over greased floors—baring tomato stains on the black and white that Buca Di Beppo required. They refused his piano playing, but paid him $2.50, daring him to earn tips. I wiped table 8 clean and lifted the dying candle to offer bleach reeking dampness to its bottom and Joseph stopped my hand before I took his drink order. “I don’t want anything.” Looking at my poorly maneuvered hairpins and smelling like my mother’s kitchen, he pushed back his iron chair with the backs of his knees. Days of stubble gripped his cheeks and our reddened glass eyes gripped each other. Joseph wasn’t anything special, but I knew he’d be kind.

74 Mangrove Review Darcie Porter The Table

It had been six weeks since her last cigarette, but nevertheless, this called for a smoke. Diana pulled out a Parliament Light, held it between her fingers then placed it between her lips. The flame from the lighter caught her attention for a second then she lit the cigarette. She put the flame to the cigarette and inhaled slowly so she could feel the smoke fill her lungs; damn it felt good. Setting the lighter down, she took another drag and sat thinking about her predicament. Looking around at the Café Fleur she noticed just how ritzy it really was. There were real flowers on every table. Exotic flowers like orchids and birds of paradise. A different bouquet on every table, something she’d never had the privilege of seeing till tonight. She was a simple girl, daisies were her favorite; Brad had never bought her daisies. The bastard never did anything nice for her. Yet, here she was, in a dress ($11 dollars at Target), sitting in the nicest restaurant in town waiting for her asshole of an ex-boyfriend to walk through the door. Diana stared down at the glass table with the perfect matching dinette set and the 10 pieces of silverware that served no purpose. Her mind wandered to thoughts of things her and Brad had done in the past: their trip to Key West, the Christmases with her family, moving to Naples, the sex. He may have been the biggest asshole out there, but the sex was awesome. When they made love the world stopped to watch. It had been two years, what did he want now? After two years she thought he had moved on, but maybe not. The ashes from her cigarette were getting blown around the table in every direction. Looking up she saw the ceiling fans, silver centers with glass-like blades, this place was way too nice. But, they weren’t on. Looking down she noticed her hand was shaking. So hard it looked like she was a drug addict. She controlled her shaking, but she was still nervous. What would be said? Why did he want her here, especially at the most expensive restaurant in town? At that moment, “I’ll have a Bloody Mary” came out of her mouth without thinking. The waiters here wore tuxedos; there were a couple of hot guys that worked here. She’d have to get a phone number or two before she left. Her heart was pounding. She felt the blood being pumped through

Volume 4, Spring 2005 75 every vein in her body. It was almost nine o’clock, that’s when he was to meet her. Five minutes. Heartbeat got faster. Even the clock was nice, imbedded into the wall, glass hands, a fish tank for a face. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes and slouched a little in the seat. A headache was coming, she could feel it. Putting her hand on her head she massaged her temples. Taking a few deeps breaths she tried to calm down. Four minutes. She sat up and took a very long drag, held in the smoke for a few extra seconds, then exhaled. Smoking was good, for a second she forgot why it was she had wanted to quit. Here’s her Bloody Mary. Without hesitating, half of it is gone. Nothing like her favorite drink to get her calmed down. She could feel her toes relaxing, and her shoulders drop. She still had knots in her shoulders from being so stressed about tonight. With her free hand she tried to rub her neck, but with no luck. Three minutes. She was a fish out of water here. She didn’t fit with the glamorous couples that engulfed this type of establishment. Her table was against the wall, a mirror on the right, the old retired couple romantically enjoying each other on the left. How nauseating. The walls of her booth went almost to the ceiling, but half way up the wall it went from blue velvet cushion to blocks of transparent glass. Two minutes. Her drink was gone, her cigarette was about to burn her finger, and the spoiled child sitting at a table in the middle of restaurant was staring at her. He stuck out his tongue, she returned the favor and then his mother foiled their fun and made him turn around. She took one last drag on her cigarette and then put it out. Her leg began to bounce up and down. Without thinking, she began to chew on her nails. Nasty habit, but it was better than smoking. One minute. The suspense was drowning her. She imagined herself trapped inside the fish tank clock, watching it all happening in slow motion unable to change the outcome. What did he want, and why did he insist on walking in right at nine, or worse, to walk in late. She motioned to the waiter for a refill on her drink. She almost lit another cigarette, but decided against it. She tried to rub her shoulders again, both hands this time. Putting her elbows on the table, she rested her head in her hands, rubbing the temples; since the headache, without fail, had come. It was nine o’clock. She looked up hoping to see him walk through the door, but no brad. That bastard, he was late. She pulled out her compact and checked her make-up; still good. As she put it away she

76 Mangrove Review noticed the spoiled kid staring again, this time she just looked away. Her cigarettes were looking really good right now. But, she restrained. Bloody Mary number two. Closing her eyes, she took a few drinks and allowed herself to just enjoy the spicy tomato drink she loved so much. As she opened her eyes, her heart dropped into her stomach. There he was standing in the doorway. She adjusted her bra, and checked her breath in preparation for his arrival. Then, there she was in the fish bowl again; here he comes.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 77 Parker Smith Peacetime

I'm here but I'm not. My body, it's here. My bones, my organs, my freckled pasty white flesh. All here. All present and accounted for, Sir. Except Private Self. Where the devil is Private Self? Report in, soldier! To your post, on the double! The bitter wind shrieks against the snow. He won't be returning. AWOL, they call it, he hopped the fence in the black of night and fled the base in an unknown direction with nothing but a tube of toothpaste and an extra pair of socks to put his hands in when they couldn't take the cold any longer. It's been five hours since then and his intestines have probably already made a nice tray of hors d'oeuvres for a hungry pack of wolves somewhere. What was he thinking, anyway? He forgot to take me with him. If I have to do one more pushup, my arms will break. They'll snap like popsicle sticks when all the flavored ice is gone, and I'll die amidst the shards of my own broken bones, and no one here will even care. They'll send a form letter to my mother and she'll cry for a spell, then it will be over. Had I really felt this way once? It must have been very long ago. There was a time when I actually gave a thought to my life and my wellbeing, before my body and consciousness separated like a monsoon giving way to this miserable Siberian winter. Not anymore though. My only reality now is the fact that seven thousand, two hundred and forty-eight pushups later, I'm still alive. My arms aren't broken, in fact, I'm stronger than I ever was. Should I care? I don't. I'm here but I'm not. The standard-issue uniform I wear does little to keep the subzero temperatures out of my veins. I've always hated the cold. It will not affect me today though. Nothing can affect me anymore. I am invincible. I stand at attention, waiting for roll call to end so I can begin the obstacle course. My time on the course will be spent waiting for lunch, which will be spent waiting for marksmanship training, which will be spent waiting for dinner, which will be spent waiting for recreational hour, which will be spent waiting for night patrol, which will be spent waiting for sleep. There's no anticipation for sleep, it's just the next phase before roll call

78 Mangrove Review the following morning, the cycle starting anew. A life of waiting. The only way to exist in this place. “At ease, men,” comes the cry, but there is no ease on this base, never. Just the same routine, day in and day out, no escape. How long have I been here? Does it matter? What's the point in counting the days if they simply replay themselves into oblivion? Time is like two mirrors facing each other: the illusion of an infinite adventure that goes no deeper than a pane of glass. The same image repeated over and over and over. Why distinguish between a million identical days, I ask. I haven't seen a calendar in years. Fists clenched, I march into the field. Head up, shoulders back. Right, left, right. Soldiers don't slouch. Up ahead is the rope ladder, dangling from a twenty-foot wooden platform. I'll be up and over it soon. Long ago, when I was still soft, I would dread the rope ladder climb. The fibers would cut into the palms of my tender hands until they bled, every day. My feet would slip through the holes and I would sometimes hang upside-down for thirty seconds or more before tumbling to the ground. I was often the last one in my squad to complete the course, thanks to that stupid rope ladder. But I have overcome. Those thoughts are foreign to me now. The obstacle course doesn't take long. It's simply a string of finely calculated movements committed to memory. Climb the rope ladder. Run through the tires. Scale the wall. Crawl through the tunnel. So often practiced and well memorized that all strategy has faded away and the “obstacles” no longer hinder anyone, even me. This has ceased to be an exercise in field survival as it was perhaps once intended, becoming a ritual ballet in combat boot slippers and camouflage tutus, devoid of any feeling, music, or emotion. Utterly impractical, but then again the chain of command is corrupt. It must be. Why else would I be here? Some pompous money-hungry general probably got too wrapped up in his booze and aristocracy and forgot about all of us out here. Not that it would surprise me. There's nothing particularly memorable about a group of ninety-five men living without purpose in an endless frozen tundra, I suppose. The dance is over and I'm no better off. So it goes every day. I stand at attention and wait for dismissal to the mess hall. Instead, I get a letter. Report to Major Wilkerson immediately. A break in the routine? I haven't been summoned like this since my first day on the base, long, long ago. What do I do? I don't know how. Private Self, where are you? Come back, please, I need you again.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 79 Every muscle in my body is pulling me toward the mess hall, routine engraved into my deepest parts. Not a single independent thought passes through my head; I am empty, as usual, the hollow shell of a soldier. I'm here but I'm not. Major Wilkerson's office is in Alpha Bldg., on the far east side of the base. I've never been summoned by him before, but I know where to find him almost instinctively. In a short time I'm standing in the hall in front of his closed door, wondering what to do now. It's warm in here. It figures the offices would be heated. It feels so good on my frosted hands and face. I may never leave. I knock. “Private Walker,” addresses the figure behind the door as it opens. I stand to attention and salute. “Sir!” “As you were, come in. Have a seat.” He motions toward a long red couch that sits against one wall. A psychiatrist's couch. Suddenly the snow outside seems inviting again. “Sit down, soldier.” I sit. “My name is Major Wilkerson,” he continues, staring at a notepad in his lap, “and I'd just like to talk with you briefly about your time here on Outpost 23. How do you feel? Are you enjoying life in the military?” “Affirmative, Sir.” My voice is strong. “Have you been getting along well with the other men in your squad?” “Affirmative, Sir.” “Do you know how long you've been here?” I stare out the window at the glistening hillside and see not warriors in combat gear, but children bundled up in snowsuits and knit hats, hurling snowballs and hauling a toboggan up to the top of the slope. I recognize these kids. One of them is me. “Answer the question, soldier.” I turn my gaze toward Major Wilkerson. “Negative, Sir.” “You have served on Outpost 23 for thirty days today, Private Walker.” He looks up at me from his notes. “I have received reports that indicate you are not handling the isolation of this remote region as well as expected. Therefore, starting now, I am placing you on leave of duty until further notice. You are dismissed, soldier.” Thirty days? Leave of duty? I should be feeling something, anything, but all I can find is emptiness within, utter disconnection between body and soul. Am I a mental case? Surely not. Someone got my papers confused with another Private Walker, that's all–I've been

80 Mangrove Review here as long as I can remember. My performance on the obstacle course is impeccable. I march in perfect step, not a fraction of an inch off- course. I feel no pain, never. This place cannot get to me. Major Wilkerson certainly can't get to me. I am a well-oiled fighting machine. I am the perfect soldier. “You are dismissed.” I close the door behind me as I step into the hallway. Am I a nutjob? Maybe so. It hasn't always been this way, though. Only since Private Self ran away. He fled into the wilderness late last night and took my sanity with him. I must get it back. I must get myself back, it's the only option. I can't live like this. Not any longer. I'm going after him. I break into a run. Down the corridor, around the corner, straight for the outer door which I throw my body into and sprint into the frigid wasteland outside. My feet sink into the snow with every footstep, crunch crunch crunch, I don't stop. Are there people behind me, chasing me down, I don't know, I don't care. I vault up over the perimeter wall easily, after all it's just the rope ladder all over again, the same meaningless routine, actually serving a purpose for me today, and I dart past the startled guard on the other side, my feet beating an erratic path in the general direction of away from the base. I hear the patrol shout at me, and draw his weapon. I will not look back. Snow all around. Crunch crunch crunch. Which way am I running? The sky is gray, obscures the sun, I am lost out here. My unit is chasing me down, trying to stop me. They actually care about me? No. They are shooting at me. Just another rebel cadet jeopardizing the security of Outpost 23. They do exactly what I'm trained to do when I'm on guard duty, proper procedure, always by the book. It's a dehumanizing butcher machine, this base, a mechanized meat processing factory for the fat cannibal generals sitting at the dinner table in their plantation mansions in a world where nobody really gives two dice about who I am or what happens out here. Well they won't eat me, I'll see to that. It feels good to run without a leash. I am a steer breaking out of the slaughterhouse. Where is that thief Private Self? I have a bone to pick with that coward. I hope he died after fifteen minutes out here, trampled by a musk ox. He always was the weaker one. Better yet, I hope I find him alive so I can kill him myself. Thanks for nothing, you ungrateful pig. Stay with me or take me with you, but don't abandon me here, today, alone on Outpost 23.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 81 A bullet whistles past my right leg, throwing me off balance, and I tumble into the snow. Is he not out here? Will I never find him? I must. I cannot return until I have my identity back. Then again, even if I do find it out here, they'll never allow me back onto the base. I don't belong with them anyway, dancing in their stupid ballets and trying always to please the beady-eyed generals with yes-Sirs and no-Sirs and thank-you-Sirs until my entire life is stolen away from me in a sea of blind obedience. It wasn't Private Self, after all. Even if I do find him, I'll never get my mind back. It's already been eaten, raw, by a roomful of bloodthirsty generals who refuse to use silverware. The cause is hopeless, isn't it? No need to even ask. I try to climb to my feet again but I can't rise out of the cranberry snow. I've been hit. The red crystals are beautiful to me, the bloody gash in my thigh is beautiful. I can't feel it. What a lovely rosy color on this gray-and-white winter day, what a contrast to the barrenness of the frostbitten wild. My death is upon me, and I don't feel a thing, all I can do is gaze upon this broken body of mine and wish that I could know its pain, and experience the torment of being torn apart alive, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing. If it weren't for those animal generals, I wouldn't be in this situation. I made a mockery of the system and the system made a mockery of me. Private Self collapsed long ago on this very hillside, and now it's my turn. I'm here but I'm not.

82 Mangrove Review Amanda Watkins Smothered Memories

“Mom,” I cleared my throat and tried to speak again, this time taking the tears out of my voice. “Hi, Mommy. I’ve missed you. I really wish you were here with me; I have so much to talk to you about. I have a new boyfriend. I know I have one almost every week, but I really like this guy, he’s different Mom. His name is Justin, he’s a senior, and he’s on the swim team. Dad doesn’t like it that he’s older than me, though. “My birthday is next month. I want a car, but Dad says I need to get an after-school job first and then he might help me get one. Having a job will really blow, oh sorry Mom, I mean it won’t be fun. Anyway, he’s just trying to be tough. He actually wants me to have a car, so I can help him run errands. Oh yeah, he also wants me to start picking up Madison from preschool,” I said to her and started to get choked up again. I paused and tried to stop the tears, but it was no use, my vision was getting blurred and I could barely make out the familiar sight of my Mother’s headstone. “Mommy,” I whispered around a sob. “Why did you have leave? Why did Madison make you go?” I ask her these two questions almost every time we talk. “I’m sorry. I know that Madison didn’t take you away, but Mommy that’s how I feel. I can’t stand looking at her; I hate the sound of her voice. I don’t want her to be in our house, and you to be here, alone. I just need you to be here, Mommy. I need you here, for real.” I lost what was left of my composure and began sobbing uncontrollably. I stood up on shaky knees and started walking towards home; I have to watch Madison tonight.

I arrived at my house a little after five; I was late to watch Madison. My Dad was waiting for me at the door and when I started up the wide staircase on our front porch, he ran out of the house. I was soaked to my bones, but he barley noticed as he breezed by me, giving me commands on what to make Madison for dinner as he went. He told me a hasty goodbye and ducked under the collar of his jacket into the pouring rain as he ran to his car.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 83 I slammed the front door in frustration, liking the way the sound reverberated in our empty house. I leaned my head against the door and tried to relax and forget about the task I had at hand; watching Madison. As I stood there in our foyer, I strained my ears to try to hear where my little sister could be. I walked upstairs, and headed for my bedroom, to change out of my drenched jeans and T- shirt, when I heard the blaring sound of the TV coming from her bedroom. Madison was watching another one of her ridiculous kid shows, no doubt. I leaned my head into her room, “So, what do you want for dinner?” Madison tore her gaze from her latest cartoon obsession, and fixed her wide blue eyes on me. She looked like a sweet, angelic child, but only I knew better. Looks are definitely deceiving when it comes to Madison. She still had her school clothes on, and her blonde hair was stringing about her face. I’d worked hard that morning getting that mop of hers into French-braided pig-tails. “I want a Popsicle; I’m not hungry for dinner,” she told me in her irritating, pouting tone. “Well, I’m sorry Maddy, you can’t have a Popsicle for dinner. Dad will kill me.” I noticed a slight glimmer in her large cornflower blue eyes as I told her that. “How about a hotdog, and then you can have a Popsicle afterwards?” “No, Abby! I want a popsicle now!” she yelled as her face began to turn red, and her small hands formed themselves into fists. “Whatever, don’t start. You aren’t getting it until after dinner. Now, let me change and I’ll make us something to eat, all right,” I said and started towards my room. “I can get it myself. I don’t have to wait, like you said,” she said to my back. I’m tired of fighting Madison already and it’s only five-thirty. I know that I am in for a night of hell with her tonight. I heard her stomp out of her room and down the stairs, but I lacked the energy it takes to wrangle the evil little four-year old back into her bedroom. “Why does she have to be the bane of my existence?” I said to my raspberry toned bedroom walls. Once I had changed into dry clothes, I ran downstairs to make sure Madison hadn’t eaten the entire box of Popsicles for dinner, like she has been known to do before. Sure enough, she had wolfed down three in the short time it had taken me to change. She was such a pain. I knew that she would be bouncing off the walls all night, which

84 Mangrove Review would make it nearly impossible for me to do my mountain of homework. “Great. Look what you did to your nice, new dress,” I said to her as I pointed out the rainbow of syrupy stains on the front of it. “Take it off, and put on something old. I’ll put it in the laundry, so maybe the stains won’t be set in.” I cursed her under my breath as she noisily ran upstairs. I knew that if my Mom were still alive, I wouldn’t be stuck watching this loathsome brat almost every day. I also knew that Madison wouldn’t be nearly as horrible as she was if Mom were around, because my Dad let her get away with murder. My thoughts were interrupted by Madison’s shrill scream, followed by the sound of her crying. I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, hoping it wasn’t anything too serious. I knew from experience that if it was, I would get blamed for it. I rounded the corner and took in the scene in Madison’s room. She had a huge, goose-egg bump on the right side of her head. She was still crying loudly when I stepped into her room. I reached under her tangled hair to make sure it wasn’t bleeding, and luckily for me, it wasn’t. “What did you do?” I asked her. “I hit my head on that,” she told me around a sob as she pointed to her dresser. I shook my head, and wondered what else was in store for me tonight. I took advantage of Madison’s weakened state and ordered her to lie down on her bed and watch her TV for the rest for the evening. I fixed her a hotdog, and brought it to her room; of course she didn’t eat much of it, and demanded another Popsicle. It was a trying night, and only got worse once my Dad got home. I was sitting on my bed trying to figure out my math homework, when I heard my Dad calling from downstairs that he was home. Unfortunately, Madison heard him too, and was quicker than I was at getting downstairs to greet him. I heard her annoying voice telling him about the bump on her head, only she told him that I put it there. My Dad saw me at the bottom of the stairs just as Madison made this false revelation. He looked at me with disillusionment in his eyes. He was quick to accuse and belittle me, telling me that if I couldn’t be respectful and tolerant of an innocent little girl, then I definitely wasn’t mature enough to take on a job and subsequently receive a car from him.

Volume 4, Spring 2005 85 Having been in this situation before, I knew it was futile to try to explain my side of the story, or to try and make my Dad see that I was really the innocent one, and his precious Madison was the spawn of Satan. I took my bogus punishment and the disparaging remarks that came along with it, and skulked up to my bedroom, where I could freely cry my eyes out, and fantasize about how different my life would be if I still had my Mom in it. I flung myself onto my bed, crawled under the covers, and began to cry. I hugged my pillow tightly to my chest, and wondered to myself why my Father was so deceived by Madison. Didn’t he know me any better than that? Did he honestly believe that I would hurt a little child on purpose? Just knowing he thought that way about me, made me want to hurt Madison, so his presumptions about me would be true. For the millionth time that day I longed for my Mom to still be alive. Her voice was so sweet and assuring, and I missed it terribly. I wished she were there with me in my bedroom to stroke my hair and tell me that everything would be alright. She was always doing this to me. Madison could turn anything around and blame it on me, and my Dad believed it. I wish that my Father knew of the living hell that she had made my life into. I wish he knew of all the times that Madison had behaved like a hellion behind his back, and an angel to his face. I also wished he knew how overwhelmed I was. I needed my freedom, I needed my space. Watching Madison was becoming something that I had to do more and more frequently, and it was really getting to me. My eyelids began to get puffy and heavy, and I felt myself getting groggy. The emotional workout that I had received throughout the day was taking a toll on me. I drifted off to sleep.

Madison’s room was dark and still. It was obvious to me that she was asleep. I silently crept towards her toddler bed. The light that was streaming through her bedroom windows made eerie shapes of the pictures on her wall. In the darkness of the night, even Mickey Mouse can look sinister. I stood over her bed and looked down at my little sister. She looked so sweet, lying there, completely silent and sleeping peacefully. She made my life hell, but she was a pretty little girl. Her right thumb was in her mouth, while she held onto a stuffed animal with her left hand. The bump on her head was visible, since Madison slept with a night-light next to her bed.

86 Mangrove Review She must have tossed and turned a lot since she had fallen asleep. Her head had come off of her pillow. I reached for her pillow, and I hoped that I could lift her head without waking her. I grasped it firmly in my hands, and paused to look at the scene on her pillowcase, Mickey and Minnie in some kind of convertible car. I look pointedly at the jury, and I try to make eye contact with one of them. Any of them, but no one will meet my gaze. I take a deep breath of the stagnant courtroom air. I no longer hear the woman frantically typing, the woman that has been hanging on my every word for the last hour. I turn to my Father; he’s wearing his best suit, the dark gray one. The one he wore to Mom’s funeral. He has his face in his hands, and he’s shaking his head. He looks like he’s asking himself, “How can this be happening to me?” Now he truly has no one. Mom is gone, Madison is gone, and I’m pretty sure that soon I will be gone as well. I feel tears well up in my eyes as I think about that possibility. I quickly drop my head down and stare at my hands. I’m nervously twisting a hanky in my lap and I watch as my initials that have been sown into it disappear and reappear with my rhythmic twisting. When my eyes are dry again I look back at the jury. Everyone is watching me now. The judge, the jury, my lawyer, my Dad, even the stenographer is looking at me. They all seem to be sitting on the edge of their seats, waiting for my last statement, the final sentence that I must say that will change my life forever. I turn to my left and notice the solemn faces of the jurors. Everyone is in pressed clothes, starched white shirts, and dark, somber-looking suits and dresses. I turn one final glance on my Dad. He is looking at me with questioning eyes, and I know that I must go on with it. I clear my throat, and it echoes loudly in the small courtroom, the stenographer has her hands poised above her typewriter. I turn to face the jury one final time. I open my mouth to speak. “I would really like to tell you that I was sleepwalking.”

Volume 4, Spring 2005 87

Charles O'Connor, Milkweed Denizen

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Sissel W. Robertson, Six Mile Cyprus Boarwalk

Volume 4, Spring 2005 89 Contributors

Aimee Allard is a senior majoring in English at Florida Gulf Coast University, where she is very active in campus organizations. She will graduate in spring 2005 and plans to pursue an M.A. in English. Her poetry explores the beauty found in words and in the environment.

Dana Angeloro is a freshman and was the Editor of Cape High's literary magazine, Expressions, last year. The magazine gained national acclaim, placing first in the country in 2003 and 2004. She also was one of three finalists in the writing category of the Edison Youth Theatre Awards last February.

Jennifer Bothast is a senior in the Health Sciences program. Her painting, "Rising Giant," reflects the aspiration to rise against what can sometimes seem like an oppressive daily grind and find an outlet for the desire, spirit and creativity within.

Daniel Curtis Byrd is a Fine Arts major at FGCU, anticipating to graduate in Fall 2005. He operates his own web design and vinyl graphics business, VariableVisions.com.

Nina Corwin is the author of one collection of poetry, Conversations With Friendly Demons and Tainted Saints (Puddin'head Press, 1999). Her work is published or forthcoming in such journals as Spoon River, Nimrod, Poetry East, Cider Press, Evansville, Wisconsin and Lullwater Reviews.

An Environmental Studies major, Jacquelyn Crumbo is deeply concerned with how humans are impacting the quality of life on earth. These concerns and education that she has received at FGCU have given her the reason for writing “Out of Balance.”

Amber Spahr Delaini was born on a farm in her parents' bedroom on Thanksgiving Day, during the reign of Jimmy Carter. She has lived in six different states and two different countries. She shares blood with the famous pirate Jean Lafitte, so don't double cross her. She is young and idealistic and hopes to always remain that way.

90 Mangrove Review Jane V. Donovan draws her inspiration from her two wonderful daughters, husband, and ever-faithful dog. Countless hours of monotonous driving on I-75 and vivid memories of natural childbirth supply her with an endless amount of writing material. Jane aspires to be a writer, teacher, and future winner of the Florida Lotto.

Deidre Evans is a graduate of Florida Gulf Coast University. Currently, she is working extensively with FGCU's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, and she plans to pursue graduate studies in English.

Born unto a Cherokee mother and an African-American father, Aurthell Dishonta Furlow (lo-lo) was raised in the city of Fort Myers and the town of Willacoochee, Georgia. Poetry is the music of life that has no boundaries and no limitations of expressing love and every aspect of the human existence. He is thankful for the blessings that God has given him to share with the world. Currently a junior Communications and Philosophy major at FGCU, he enjoys meeting new people and beautiful women, traveling, reading, writing, all sports, shopping, laughing, being helpful, thinking, daydreaming, and just about anything he does. His ultimate goal is to be called Great in God's Kingdom.

Ehren Gerhard is currently enrolled in FGCU Art Department working on drawing and various independent projects, concentrating on the art surrounding life and revealing art in everything he does. In the future, he hopes to conquer processes inspiring growth by using the therapeutic wonders art provides to build a successful lifestyle.

Scott George is a junior at FGCU going for his B.A. in English. Unsure of his exact plans, he just knows right now he’s here doing what he loves–writing.

Jonathan Glover is a senior English major at FGCU and a member of Golden Key International Honour Society and Sigma Tau Delta. His publishing credits include music criticism for Panel-house.com and artist interviews for Status Magazine. He will begin working on an M.A. in Literature at UCF this August.

Amanda Hall is a libertarian / neo-objectivist / atheist / FL vagabond. She would here like to spout propaganda in the form of praise to

Volume 4, Spring 2005 91 Margaret Sanger, the woman who severed sex and reproduction, a necessary dichotomy in the quest for woman wholeness.

Ron Hefner earned his living as a jazz drummer for 25 years before becoming an English professor. He has also worked as a music journalist, newspaper writer, and editor.

As a Communications major, Emily Johnston plans to continue writing and creating anything and everything she want out of her life, “Life is what you make of it.” Because of her parents, she has been able to easily express herself throughout her entire life; writing is just one of her expressions.

Rachel Kazor is a sophomore English major at FGCU. Her work has been published in WGCU’s Expressions Magazine and Mangrove Review Spring Edition 2004. She is active in FGCU's Theatre Department.

Jennifer Lane came to FGCU from St. Petersburg. She is an undeclared sophomore, still considering possible majors, possibly in Communications or English, but nothing has been decided quite yet.

A native Floridian, Claire Liparulo has always written--whether it was music or poetry. She plays guitar and sings professionally, writing her own music for about six years. She cut her first full-length cd of original songs, Like a Handshake, in July of 2004. She likes to think she has made a lot of progress since high school.

Recently featured on Morning Edition of NPR, as well as on Latino USA and WGCU, Joseph Pacheco published his first book of poetry, The First of the Nuyoricans/Sailing to Sanibel in 2002. A retired NYC superintendent living on Sanibel, he will have a second and third book of poems, Mr. Bypass Five and Bilingual Rican forthcoming soon.

Kristin J. Pautzke is a senior at FGCU and will graduate in December 2005. She is an Art major with strong emphasis in photography and ceramics.

Amanda Pointelin received her bachelors degree from FGCU in 2003 in Special Education, specializing in emotional behavior disorders. She was also co-captain of the FGCU women's basketball team. She is

92 Mangrove Review currently working towards her masters degree in both Reading Education and Mental Health.

A Theater major and Philosophy minor, Darcie Porter has been involved in five productions at the FGCU black box including The Art of Dining, As You Like It, and Metamorphoses. She works full time doing production work at Florida Repertory Theater. Darcie would like to take this opportunity to thank the late Dr. Hank Diers for his outstanding support and inspiration; he has truly changed her life.

When not attending to reality, Wilfredo Miguel Reyes enjoys shooting guns, reading books, laughing at songs and screaming poems into the fire. Future plans include a descent into terminal freedom and the reaping of grossly disproportionate sums of financial excess.

Sissel W. Robertson is a founding editor of Mangrove Review, former staff writer for The Eagle Newspaper, Communications Chair for Friends of Six Mile Cypress Slough Preserve, member of FGCU’s Environmental Club, Naples Press Club, and President of Gulf Coast Writers Association. She is a recent FGCU graduate and is working on her first novel.

Anthony Salvo is currently studying at FGCU to become a teacher in secondary education, and he has aspirations to be a published author. It started with the phrase "Let's see you do better," from his proud musician friend last year, and he’s been writing (no longer out of spite) ever since.

Nancy Sena has been dabbling in writing most of her life, more seriously since moving to Naples in 1996 where she lives with her husband Ted. She has been published in a number of venues and appeared in several previous issues of Mangrove Review.

Parker Smith is FGCU's most illustrious nobody, a Communications major who loves to write, speak, shout, whisper, sing, draw, mumble, and even type occasionally: anything to get his point across. He blames his inexhaustible mother for home-schooling him all those years and making him turn out the way he did.

A junior Communications major, Amanda Watkins is planning to be a print journalist, and she is an aspiring novelist. Writing has been

Volume 4, Spring 2005 93 something she has enjoyed since childhood, and she hopes to do it for the rest of my life.

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