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Southern Voices Table of Contents

Volume XVII Spring 2005 Short Stories Ashley Jefcoat Elizabeth Wayne Staff Judges Dear Boy ...... 6 Making Waves ...... 3 Addie Leak Caitlin Wolfe Beautiful ...... 13 Ends of Goodbye ...... 31 WillowEditor Nero ArtShawn and Photography Dickey Judge Essays Assistant Professor of Art Farshad Chowdhury Willow Nero ElizabethAssistant EditorWayne Division of Fine and Performing Arts Hint of Frugality ...... 42 The Longest Road to Home . . 40 Mississippi University for Women Rebekah Garrison Klint Peebles KristinArt EditorKlaskala JamesPoetry Everett Judge Dinner Table Church Service . 36 Feline Philosophy ...... 9

René and John Grisham Fellow Trey Lyons Khadijah Ransom Playin for the Sanctified . . . . . 46 The Blues Is Alright ...... 29 QuinnonStaff Members Taylor Master of Fine Arts Program Emily Williams University of Mississippi Ashley Mackay Elizabeth Wayne Simple Rain-walk ...... 27 Hair ...... 11 ShortJonathan Story and Essay Odell Judge Slip Slidin’ Away ...... 34 Emma AdvisorRichardson Emily Williams Author of: Rodney Morgan Eating Balled Chicken The View from Delphi A Closed Mouth on a Boht ...... 17 KristinCover DesignKlaskala (MacAdam/Cage, 2004) Don’t Get Fed ...... 19 Jimmy Williams “Give It To Me, Son…” ...... 45 ArtAngie Contest CoordinatorJones Poems Laura Chaires Willow Nero Sweet Nothings ...... 23 Sarah May ...... 38 The Last Lament Larry Hawkins of the Little Mermaid ...... 39 1+1=1 ...... 10 Passion ...... 44 Funeral of a Wave ...... 47 In Memoriam Kristin Klaskala Cotton Picker ...... 8 Klint Peebles Judith Anne Morris Echoes From the Lake ...... 26 Addie Leak 1942-2005 Les Yeux ...... 10 Quinnon Taylor Stains ...... 28 “And gladly would she learn, and gladly teach.” Ashley Mackay One Once Again ...... 44 March of Waves ...... 24 Waterfall ...... 25 Elizabeth Wayne Yellow House ...... 21 Hayley Maxwell Dauphin Island, Alabama . . . . 16 Emily Williams On Display ...... 38 Sister (after Ray Young Bear) . 39 Cassandre Man-Bourdon Broken Nets ...... 47 Le Debut, Watercolor Bess McCafferty Core of the Jacie Williams Contemporary Character . . . . 22 On A Summer’s Day— ...... 8 Mexico ...... 23 Caitlin Wolfe Broken Seal ...... 7

Making Waves

Art Amanda Dew Kristin Klaskala Elizabeth Wayne Cocker Spaniel ...... 21 The Hunter ...... 23

Jonathan DuPont Addie Leak First Place, Short Story Competition A Desert Scene ...... 35 Spirit ...... 13 The Chris Read Award for Fiction A Reflection on Taj Mahal ...... 43 Madison LaFleur T he clock strikes 7:30 a.m. as Charlene panorama to be the first thing her customers see Rebekah Garrison Elisabeth ...... 11 turns on the neon “Open” light illuminat- when they walk into her shop. Mesmerizing A Certain Shade of Green ...... 22 ing the space around the window of the New Starman ...... 22 Cassandre Man-Bourdon waves. It had been six years since she bought a lip-gloss boost in your America ...... 27 Le Debut ...... Front Cover Image Beauty Salon. It won’t be long before her own hair salon, and though it is modest, she Desert Star ...... Inside Back Cover Rhonda comes—her first customer of the day. couldn’t have loved it more. Andy Guan Reflections ...... 23 Charlene grabs a mirror hanging from a nail Charlene always wanted to do hair ever Faith ...... 15 Patches of Reason ...... 28 near the door and checks her hair and makeup. since she was little. She remembered those vis- Marilyn Feeling Sexy ...... 44 “No one wants their hair done by a woman its to the hair salon as a child and how excited Missie Smith who looks as if she’s been through the storm she was to see her beautician, Sherry. Sherry Clarence Holmes Geometric Shapes Still Life ...... 47 and back now, do they?” She looks down at was a mystery. She was slender with long wavy Car ...... 18 Trudy, her collie who whimpers at her feet. hair that fell like fluffed flapcakes well below Katrina Vizzini After a few adjustments to the scarf tied her back—a trait she got from her mother who The Blue Girl ...... 28 around her neck, Charlene takes the broom into was a Choctaw Indian. But that was all anyone Photography her arms and sweeps the linoleum floor of her really knew about her. A few of the townsfolk Hannah Bruce Willow Nero shop, removing the discarded hair from the day said that Sherry once saved a boy from drown- Rover ...... 12 Fall ...... 21 before. With motherly care, Charlene tidies the ing by letting him hold onto her hair while she Bee on Flattened Coneflower ...... 24 Green Oranges ...... 24 neutralizing shampoos, pulled him to safety— Bumblebee on Shiny Flower ...... 24 The Cows ...... 41 scented conditioners, rat- “ ‘The world though Sherry herself would Buzz ...... 24 trail combs, curling irons, would be a bet- never talk about it. She just Spring ...... 24 Amanda Novotny oil sprays, and styling gels walked to and from her View through the Stone Window ...... 24 California Waterfall ...... 25 that clutter her hair station. ter place if we all salon, stopping at the gro- Popsicle Sticks ...... 26 Half-dome ...... 37 She uses the last of the win- cery store for canned goods dow cleaner on the large just made waves, or extra conditioner. Christy Dyess Ashlee Oliver mirror hanging in her stall Charlene had Crowded Beauty ...... 8 Ford Daisy ...... 6 and makes a mental note to admired Sherry from the Away from Here ...... 10 Flower ...... 24 Charlene, not buy more. Noticing their [ ] moment she met her. She Abandoned Chic ...... 16 Grapes ...... 24 Bleeding with Season ...... 24 Pansy ...... 24 dull appearance, Charlene storms.’ ” loved the way Sherry Ecstasy ...... 24 Violet ...... 24 moves across the room and strummed through her hair Reaching for Roots ...... 24 wipes all three of her dryers and washed it with her Sturdy Erosion ...... 39 Jennifer Sloan until they glisten. Though the dryers are old favorite scented shampoo. Ocean Breeze. Then The Serene Disturbance ...... 4 and tearing, she doubts any of the newer mod- it made Charlene giggle when Sherry dried her Addie Leak Oblique ...... 20 els would be as trustworthy. Next to the dryers hair off with a towel and let it droop over her The Merits of a Long Hike ...... 24 Clandestine ...... 24 is a wooden door with the word “Bathroom” eyes so she couldn’t see. Charlene felt so safe Water Babies ...... 24 stickered on it in fancy calligraphy. Charlene once Sherry began talking that it didn’t hurt Summer on the Lake ...... 26 Ryder Taff ducks her head in to make sure there is enough when she combed the tangles out of her natu- A ...... 7 toilet paper and liquid soap. Seeing that there rally kinky hair. Sherry seemed to possess a is, decides to water the plants that hang in the power of mind, as if by combing hair she freed Laura Beth Moore Memory Lane ...... 24 front of her shop. Last, she plugs in her most Charlene from her deepest of fears. prized possession: a motion panorama of a Charlene even visited Sherry when she was- beach scene which, whenever she plugs it in, n’t doing her hair. She helped Sherry around makes soothing noises as the animated ocean her shop, sweeping the floors and bringing splashes onto the shore. Charlene wants the magazines to her customers while they waited.

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Then after hours, Sherry told stories while grass to the yellow sunflowers that lined the Charlene listened intently. There was rarely a sidewalk leading to the stairs of the front door. silent moment between them. What Sherry liked best about the beach house But Charlene remembered one occasion was the backyard which was an open stretch of THE CHRIS READ AWARD FOR FICTION when Sherry was unusually silent. There were sand and ocean. no giggles or towels drooping over her eyes Despite the glamour, the Utopian getaway The Chris Read Award for Fiction, instituted with the 1994 issue of Southern Voices, hon- that day, only the sound of Sherry’s comb plow- couldn’t mask her parents’ unhappiness, ors a member of the Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science’s Class of 1991. ing through Charlene’s hair. Charlene grew Sherry told Charlene. Sherry never under- Christopher David Read was an active leader at MSMS as a member of Emissaries, the Debate fidgety but was too afraid to say anything. stood why they were so angry at each other. Club, and the Southern Voices staff. Chris’s first love, however, was writing. Southern style. Finally Sherry spoke. Perhaps it was from the alcohol which they Chris often wove his Southern tales late at night. Chris would compose either on the com- “Do you know how tides are formed?” always drank before they started yelling. At puter or on (his favorite) the old, brown Royal typewriter he had bought from the pawn shop Sherry asked. There were few lakes in Neshoba any rate, Sherry retreated to the ocean when- County, Mississippi, let alone an ocean. ever they drank, spending hours making sand down 13th Street South. Faking sleep, I would watch the grin on Chris’s face as he worked Charlene had only read about tides in her sci- castles and letting the water tickle her sun- out the next great story. When he finished, Chris would always “wake me” and excitedly read ence book. burned toes. his new story to me. He never knew that I had been hiding, watching his creative process But Sherry had seen the ocean. When she Charlene sat quietly, listening to Sherry’s with admiration. I was not the only one to admire Chris’s work. This award stands as testi- was twelve years old, she said her family had words. She didn’t care much about tides but mony to the admiration that we all held for Chris and his work and as a memorial to the won a radio contest, and as a prize they’d spent longed to break the silence. Southern writing tradition which Chris loved. four weeks rent-free in a beach house on the “Well, as it turns out, the Sky and the Mississippi Coast. Ocean are brother and sister,” Sherry, had said, Chris had the potential to become a great writer. Unfortunately, Chris never reached this The house looked as if it were cut out of a still combing Charlene’s hair. “That’s right. potential: he was killed in a car wreck on January 17, 1993. Though Chris will never attain his House and Garden magazine, then magnified and Sky is big brother and Ocean is little sister. dream of writing a great novel, all of those who loved and respected Chris hope that the pasted into the middle of the street. It was a Now, Sky and Ocean are attention-seekers and recipient of this Award, as well as all the other aspiring writers at MSMS, will achieve their blinding white beach house balanced by four hate to be outdone by the other, especially dreams. equally white ten-foot stilts that came with two when it comes to getting attention from us bathrooms, four bedrooms, and friendly neigh- humans. So they fight like pirates over a gold- Michael D. Goggans bors. The front yard was alive from the bladed wrapped chocolate bar. Now how silly is that!” Class of 1991

Sherry laughed at her own joke and then better place if we all just made waves, Charlene, became solemn again. not storms.” “Sometimes Sky was winning. That’s when The shop bell rang, startling Charlene back Ocean was away from the shore, away from us to the present. Rhonda bustles through the shop humans.” door, bringing her children along with her. Sherry had parted Charlene’s hair and “Hey, Ms. Charlene, how ya’ doin’?” She began to French braid her hair row by row until slumps into the nearest chair while three figures her head looked like a field of cornstalks. fly past her to sit on the spinning chairs. Sherry called them “cornrows.” “Then Ocean “I’m fine,” Charlene says, still thinking threw a fit and told Earth, their mother. Now, about her long-ago conversation with Sherry. Mother Earth was no one to mess with! She sent After chastising her children, Rhonda directs one of her Earthquakes to reprimand Sky. Sky her comments to Charlene. “I hope ya’ don’ was so upset that he carelessly pushed his sister mind I’m a lil’ late, but I’m exhausted! I been back, causing her to rush onto the shore. That’s working all day every day, and Willie ain’t had a hurricane. For weeks, people were afraid to a job since that last downsize.” She eyes her come outside. Needless to say, neither one of kids. “And they won’t act right. Put that them were happy.” down!” Rhonda’s boys hide Charlene’s hot Sherry had stopped mid-braid, and then curlers which they’ve been using as swords continued. “So then, they made a truce. Sure behind their backs. Rhonda looks back at did. They said, ‘Why don’t we share the atten- Charlene and puts her head into her hands. “I tion?’ And you know what they made?” She just wish I knew what to do.” had looked intensely at Charlene. “Waves. Nice Thoughtful, Charlene motions Rhonda to sit Jennifer Sloan waves that soothed your whole body and made at her station and begins combing her hair. The Serene Disturbance, Photograph you feel all warm inside. The world would be a “How about waves?”

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Dear Boy Ashley Jefcoat D Second Place, Short Story Competition ear Boy, your clothes. I want to give you the earth, and I thought you’d like a letter. let you rule if it would so please you. It breaks Your girlfriend hates you, and you won’t my heart when you cry, because I watched you pick up your cell phone because it’s pulse- gather yourself before class, and I’ll watch you pulse-pulsing at you in a rhythm that means pull yourself apart afterwards. “Yes, I hate you, come get your clothes.” You I’m afraid of this inspiration, and I’m afraid haven’t heard the message I left you, the invita- of you, but I don’t know anything else to be tion to a walk, a hug, a friend, but I didn’t besides in love with you, and I’m scared of that, expect a quick reply. You’re afraid to check the too. I’m scared of love and kisses but if I get caller ID, because the responsible part of you them, if you give me, maybe I won’t be so will make you return the calls. As long as you frightened, and I can be happy and make you don’t know, you’re safe, and your ignorance likewise. I want to give you the heavens Ryder Taff will protect your carefully constructed frame of because you deserve to be a god among them. A, Photograph mind. Just thought you should know. The ignorance reflected in that soft smile and careful body language is interrupted by your absent eyes. You are my inspiration. Did you know that for every star you’re staring at, every twinkle white, there are a mil- Broken Seal lion moons and a thousand planets, but our lit- tle Earth is the only one with you? I want to A give them to you, those solar system babies, t first a pretty package and show you why they aren’t so great, that Frozen in cellophane you should look at me from time to time and Untouched; untainted; untarnished stop staring out the window. Most of those stars Defenseless could be gone, flashed out of existence a million But you broke the seal years ago, but I’m right here and so are you. If And got less than expected you want to watch a blinking (something that’s Disappointed I’m not perfect not your cell phone), then there are fireflies fly You try to wipe off the grime under the moon and they’re doing a mating Is it so hard to believe in stains? dance just for you. I’ll give you them too, if you In scars? want, and a jar and a smile. Instead of radiant diamond I don’t want you to be afraid to answer You got a cheap crystal ball your cell phone. I don’t want you to come get Out the window, flying, falling Shattering I hope the shards of my heart Give you a flat tire Caitlin Wolfe

Ashlee Oliver Ford Daisy, Silver Gelatin Print, Second Place Photograph, Art Competition

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Cotton Picker Feline Philosophy M y fingers bleed And the cotton king— Klint Peebles Keeps pushin’ us on, But my fingers Ain’t nothin’ Compared to my beatin’s So I’s ignore the pain— On A And keep my back bent over And my face—from the sun “F ancy Feast! Fancy Feast!” I announce, escapade may sound peculiar, probably absurd, I can only stand straight in church and a dozen purring felines suddenly it indeed pays off in the long run when he leaps Summer’s Even then—my dress’ll pull dart out of the woodwork. Pouring thick, sliced onto the piano stool, nestling beside me while I On my beatin’s beef and gravy from a tiny round can, I notice play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in the late Day— each furry tail quiver with excitement. I spoon evening. My fingers bleed— the delicacy into tiny bowls stamped with cat Bounding onto my bed in the early morn- And the cotton king— faces on the bottoms as each of my cats fights to ing, Tiger once again meows into my ear while F Keeps pushin’ us on lowers Bloom lick the dribbling gravy from my fingers. My pawing at my hair under a fluffy pillow. Long white bags I wear…like a wedding dress Siamese, Sam, lunges at the waiting meat as if it Despite his attempts to wake me from my sleep, Up out of the ground they That I ain’t never had— were a prize from one of his nightly prowls. An I simply roll over onto my stomach and drift off push The bags get caught in ol’ cotton stems— orange ball of fur, Pumpkin, quietly chews each to my dreams. Finally, Tiger’s efforts fulfill their In the sun And snags and tugs, like my chilrin’s delicious morsel, making certain to savor every purpose, and I get out of bed only to be tripped hands bite before another sly feline gulps it down. by another cat weaving in and out of my legs as Jacie Williams My chilrin’s faces—what keep me goin’ Taking note of each individual personality with- I try to walk. Through Tiger’s meows, I obtain a Keep me goin’ every day in all of my unique pets, I marvel at the puzzled wealth of information about the status of break- I put up with the man expressions on each whiskered face while utter- fast, cleanliness of the litter boxes, and an And pick his cotton ing nonsense as I clean the mess left by the assessment of how many strokes on the back of In the sun-the heat empty can of Fancy Feast. the neck I owe to each cat to fulfill my daily I’d die out here Although language is considered to be quota. In many cases, I hear more talking from If it weren’t for my chilrin’— unique to the human race, it is definitely a reali- my pets than I do at the local hair salon or from So I ignores the pain ty in the world of cats as well. Gleefully friends at school. Even though I may not under- Cuz I serve—the cotton king singing, “Punkin’ Skunkin’,” to the tune of an stand all of the distinctive phrases voiced by Kristin Klaskala unknown melody, Pumpkin gazes at me with my cats, the unique language of my felines does sharp, penetrating green eyes, no doubt hearing not go unnoticed. Finding myself murmuring the nickname with distaste, and focuses once words I wouldn’t normally speak, each again on his lunch. Frosty, a beautiful white encounter with my pets turns into an interest- feral cat rescued from a nearby hospital, casts a ing, and often awkward, situation. Through my quick glance at me and then to the sink while steadfast, furry friends, I learn about everything chiming a soft “mew,” telling me that he wants in life: from death and sickness to joy and the water, or that the water already in the dish isn’t reasons for existing on Earth. Owing more than Christy Dyess quite up to his standards. With a swift swish of catnip and a devotion to animal welfare to my Crowded Beauty, Photograph a tail or a chorus of meows, I immediately cats, I learn more from them than many indi- become a makeshift butler, serving the needs of viduals glean in a lifetime from sources outside my pets in response to their ability to speak. of the animal world. Nevertheless, through all of the chores Removing the shiny metal top from yet crammed into each day caring for my charges, I another can of Fancy Feast, the resounding echo never tire of the labor, enjoying the company of of breakfast attracts each cat to his own dish. a cat on my lap as I read a French history with a With a broad smile and a throbbing heart, I look rhythmic purr in the background. Sometimes, down at the herd in front of me, grateful to be a however, my cats can be quite frank in their part of their antics and daily surprises. Later, wishes. As I play Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag, during a fascinating history class at school, I Tiger saunters to the base of the piano. As he glance at my shirt sleeve and notice a solitary hisses an aggravated meow, I know to cease my clump of fur. Suddenly, I can’t wait to go home. 8 music so he may sleep peacefully. Although this 9

Hair Christy Dyess Away from Here, Photograph 1+ 1 = 1 Elizabeth Wayne T he intensity Third Place, Essay Competition of the connection of being intertwined to one entity I spent many tearful Saturday nights as a shaped berets that matched the itchy, uncom- yet separation young girl while my mother combed my fortable seven-layer dress that she also picked continually looming hair. On those dreadful nights she would wash out for me to wear to church that Sunday. I felt over the entire situation my hair and afterwards use her sturdiest comb like one of those dolls people put on display. makes one to untangle my matted hair, then plait it while Worse than washing and combing my hair contemplate… my hair was still wet. I was a tender-headed was when Momma would press it. Starting at the severity of losing soul, and pain went through my head at each five o’clock in the morning, Momma led me to another yank. Most times, however, I was lifted by the the kitchen where two chairs set near the yet the same, comb. Other times, Momma’s comb would stove. She lit one eye on the stove and placed a the half that break from the tension, but unfortunately for metal comb on it, allowing it to heat. My stom- makes whole me, she carried extras. It hurt so much that I ach sank from watching vapors rise from the the void unfilled begged and pleaded for my Momma to cut off comb. Terrified, I watched her pick up the for an eternity all of my hair. But she only said, “Now you comb and wave the comb in the air. Although I that when finally don’t want to do that! Besides, there are only knew she meant no harm, she reminded me of supplied with the mold three more to go.” I sighed, knowing the only lion tamer. Blowing on the comb, she ran it of the perfect combination, relief would be whenever she finished. Then the through my hair, turning my natural kinks the attraction… next day she decorated my plaits with odd- into straight strands. I was afraid for dear life, so intense fulfilling the need the want of both beings perhaps being too much blindly consuming Les Yeux the unmatched strength of the merging C of the two into one razy curls hiding glasses, hiding eyes— where maturation was so Brown eyes, kind eyes hastily found The strength of a thousand years hastily applied Buried in a measured glance hastily used Someday— that separation When I have lived as much, could be the complete Loved as long demolition of As my mama— the minds that were I want eyes like hers. connected by chance and… Addie Leak Elisabeth, brought together for PenMadison and Ink the complete alteration LaFleur of them both… Larry Hawkins

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squinting my eyes and hunching my shoul- heat. It didn’t. In fact, it was one of the most Beautiful ders whenever I sensed the intense heat from painless hair procedures I’d ever experienced. I the comb on my head. Despite my Mom’s con- remember looking in the mirror and instead of fident tones, I crossed my fingers whenever seeing the familiar mass of wool on my head, she came close to eyes or the back of my head my hair hung loose, straight and free. I jumped where I couldn’t be guaran- for joy at the thought of no teed of her movements. To “…a pressing more nights of untangling Addie Leak ease my fears, she told sto- and hot combs. What my ries about when she was comb hit her eye mother neglected to tell me Honorable Mention, Short Story Competition younger and her mother was the constant upkeep pressed her hair. This only and made her that it required. I found made things worse seeing as [ ] myself spending hours sit- “S o what do ya think about The Return “Mhm. She’s quite the little romantic.” He legally blind.” one of her stories was about ting under an uncomfort- of the King? Pretty nifty, huh?” paused and nervously flattened his thick, how a pressing comb hit her able hair dryer. My hair It was a deceptively sunny afternoon. A curly, dark brown hair. “Now—I have a ques- eye and made her legally always did have a mind of sporadic breeze whipped through the bitter tion for you.” blind. After an hour and a half of pressing, its own. cold and ruffled the long, brown hair of the “What’s that?” Momma would be finished and I would be Over the years, I have grown an apprecia- rosy-cheeked girl who strode casually along “What about this—” safe for another week. tion for my hair. Though it has been a great the cracked sidewalk next to Main Street. Tess waved at a passing car, beaming. When I was older, my mother finally decid- task to keep it in order, I have grown fond of “Yep. I liked it.” Her companion, a tall, “Huh?” she asked absentmindedly, still look- ed I could get a perm, something that would the memories that are connected with my hair. I solidly built boy, nodded bemusedly. “Not as ing after the car as it turned a corner. permanently make my hair straight. By then, only hope that one day, I have a little girl with good as the book, of course...” He tried again. “...the situation with my only question was would it hurt or involve unruly hair too. “Well, of course, but that Orlando Tristan—are you okay?” Bloom— whoo!” There was a pause, and Tess’s face dark- George laughed, and Tess smiled. She ened with hurt. She jammed her hands into liked making him laugh. the pockets of her pink woolen trenchcoat. “I “Yeah...” don’t know. I guess—well, he still hasn’t real- They were only friends, but to look at ly spoken to me. I’m trying so hard to forget them, one would never guess. George was him. I’m just so tired of feeling used.” extremely shy; Tess was one of the few close “I’m sorry,” George grimaced. “You friends he had, and those friends he had, he shouldn’t have had to go through all this.” treated with the utmost care. He was always Tess nodded sadly. “I wonder sometimes if telling Tess how wonderful she was. It both- maybe he doesn’t like me anymore because ered her sometimes; she didn’t think he liked I’ve gained weight. I hate myself for thinking her—she certainly didn’t want him to, so she determinedly ignored it. He looked over at her, his gentle blue eyes hidden behind the glare on his thick glasses. “Legolas. Right? That’s what Mom and Jen said. I had to listen to them through the whole movie.” He grinned. “Every time he came onscreen they’d sigh dramatically. Katie is Hannah Bruce starting to do it, too. I guess even ten-year old Rover, Photograph girls aren’t immune to crushes on movie stars.” Tess giggled. “Right. I remember the whole Harry Potter thing. And the Ron thing. And the Ewan McGregor thing.” Addie Leak Spirit, Encaustic 12 13

She felt as though she’d just been pinched— without a boyfriend for her; the card attached hard. She did have her own problems, but did had called her “Evenstar.” He knew she’d be that mean she shouldn’t care about her friend’s? feeling lonely; and that flower, more than any- it, but—I can’t help but wonder. Is there some- mittened hand. It had lost almost all feeling; it George’s jaw softened a little when he saw thing, had cheered her up. But what had she thing I did that made him change his mind was definitely about time to start heading the expression on her face, and he spoke contributed to their friendship? about me? Am I not pretty in his eyes any- back to someplace with central heating. again, “But really... Don’t worry about it. I’m George let her think for a moment. He more?” George shrugged indifferently. “Why not sure everything will be okay. I can write you shoved his hands in his pockets, and stood George frowned and glared at the side- MIT? You have a 4.0, better than I could say from Pasadena. Just focus on getting into the silent, watching the cars crawl by. Finally, he walk as they walked, finally looking up at her for me...” college of your dreams, okay?” He took a spoke again, impulsively: “I love you.” with frustration in his eyes. “That’s why I’m so “Oh, but you never had to worry about it, deep breath and smiled for her. “I know you’ll Tess whipped her head back around, star- upset with the boy. He is manipulative, Tess. did you—just a year at the community col- make a fantastic chemical engineer.” tled and slightly panicked. Now was not the Even if he wasn’t an irresponsible party ani- lege. You’re not even in school this coming Tess’ gaze wandered to the weathervane time for mushy romantic revelations! mal, I’d worry about your getting involved semester.” on a nearby roof, and she stared blankly at it He didn’t mean it that way, though; she with him. He twists your thoughts; he’d wind “I might be going back next fall.” He for a moment, lost in thought. What would could tell immediately. She gave him a shaky up hurting you. Dangit—he is hurting you. glanced at her, his blue eyes cool. she do without George? He was the one who smile; maybe she should quit being so para- Look at me.” He reached over to pull Tess’ “Really?” There was something in his always made it to her math tournaments, the noid about whether he liked her or not. She chin up. “You are beautiful. And don’t you ever voice that made her pause. one who always volunteered to babysit for her didn’t deserve a friend like him. To be perfect- think otherwise, okay?” “My parents’ divorce will be finalized by when she double-booked dating and a job. He ly honest, she’d probably never find someone Tess stepped back onto the grass, dislodg- then. Mom, Jen, Katie, and I are moving to would never take any money for it, either; she to marry that would treat her as well as he ing herself from his grip, and shoved away Pasadena. I’m going to start at CalTech as a didn’t know anyone else who would do that did. Maybe life was like that, though. irritation. “Okay...” What else can you say to sophomore in August.” for her. He was the one who had sent her a “I love you, too...” that, really, she wondered. She’d always been Tess’s insides felt as numb as her carnation that year Valentine’s Day came able to talk about guy prob- “ ‘You don’t nose. “I didn’t know your lems with George, but in the parents were getting a past few months, he’d need to worry divorce.” become a lot moodier. She He looked at her for a thought there was some fami- with my long time, his expression ly stuff going on that he unreadable. “I told you.” might be worried about, but problems; you Tess stopped walking surely—whatever it was— abruptly, and there was wasn’t that big a deal. She have your another awkward pause as shrugged it off and changed [ ] she digested this informa- the subject. “So how about own.’ ” tion. “Oh.” She didn’t know college?” what to say. She felt horrible; “How about it? You mean, how could she have forgot- where should you go?” ten something like that? And how could he be “Well, yeah.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s leaving? She’d always expected that he’d still only six more months till I graduate.” be at home when she came back to visit. It “I don’t know, Tess.” Suddenly he sound- was bad enough that all her other friends Faith ed very tired. “Wherever you want to, I sup- were leaving for college too. “I’m—I’m sorry, Oil pose.” George…” Second Place “Hmmm... Maybe Dartmouth. Or MIT.” “It’s okay. You’ve been… preoccupied.” Painting, Art She turned to him, playful again—not notic- There was only a slight tinge of bitterness in Competition ing his lack of enthusiasm. “Whatcha think? I his voice. “You don’t need to worry with my Andy Guan bet I could do it!” She rubbed her nose with a problems; you have your own.”

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Eating Balled Chicken on a Boht

Emily Williams Christy Dyess Abandoned Chic, Photograph Honorable Mention, Essay Competition

Dauphin Island, Alabama H ave you ever eaten “balled chicken?” indiscernible. Suddenly it hit me, and I was What about a “veggietabel?” Or per- holding onto the countertop for support haps taken a ride on a “boht?” Do you say, while laughing. I managed to gasp out, “Yes, sir,” even when your dad is being a pain “Uncle William, he’s saying boiled chicken.” rigid wood 2x4’s, likely of the staunch in the neck? If you answered yes to all of these Of course, Uncle William is not without swanky Trees, born ‘neath loose soil, shell questions, you are hereby declared mentally his own strange pronunciation. People from and sand, latent with moisture unstable and will be immediately transferred the Cayman Islands have quite an unusual to a secure facility with soft white rooms on a accent: British mixed with Jamaican. He on cycle. Now, conceal, or attempt tiny island in the middle of the Antarctic always asks about eating some “balled chick- To—this Mother earth. As my hooker boots Circle. Well, maybe not, but you would be en” whenever he calls, but we just reply by are caught in the cracks. Winds close enough: you would be a member of my asking about “deh boht.” This is his way of family. saying the boat. He says “Machew” when call- howl, as if to laugh, cunning, tho’ Only my family members outside of ing for his son Matthew, and his oldest son, playful. My legs are crossed, jeans pressed- Mississippi have identifiable accents. All of Willie the Third, is “Willie da Tud.” hair gone to frizz by this…Ocean. my Mississippian family lives on the devel- My grandmother is also from Grand oped Gulf Coast, so we do not have much of Cayman, but she has lost most of her accent. I’ve given up in pursuit! Locals, goiters an accent. We do, however, Even so, she is particular sand soaked Skin, scrawny limbs and find certain words or “What is this in her pronunciation of dialect more British than Southern. phrases that are unique to certain words. She says one or two members of the balled chicken? squirrel as “squirr-ehl” and Distinctive in talk. Acting with tender precision family. One such phrase is enunciates every syllable and lack of haste. They rock while “balled chicken.” Uncle Do you ball of vegetable, making it Tearing crab cakes, breaking lobster digits; William, my mom’s cousin, [ ] sound like “veggietabel.” it up?” was visiting from the She also makes up her could ever I take comfort— Caribbean island Grand own words to songs when in the earthly, humble Arms of coastal Cayman and heard Dad she cannot remember the scalawags, pirates by my weak Eye— talk about the food he was preparing. He real lyrics, which is most of the time. I remem- then asked incredulously, “What is this balled ber once when we were playing old songs on Verses, well fed Bible-belt rednecks, with chicken? Do you ball it up? Or is it bald chick- her record player, she sang about “Sister Rita- their gurgling truck pipes and smug, en, and you cook it without any feathers? smarter-than-you” instead of “Sister Bertha- boiling Testosterone? But all chicken that‘s being cooked wouldn‘t better-than-you” and that she was “hooked on Hayley Maxwell have any feathers…. Do you cook it without a meaning” instead of “hooked on a feeling.” [seasonings]?” For a moment, everyone was My sister also has a tendency to do this; she confused; his Caymanian accent had made used to “play for Him on ‘flat’ tambourines” the “balled chicken” comment even more instead of glad tambourines in an often-sung 16 17

“A Closed Mouth Don’t Get Fed”

church hymn. Of course, neither will admit them dazedly for a few moments before I final- that she is wrong in her choice of words. ly realized what they were talking about, and I Aunt Diane’s parents moved to Michigan told them that manners had been drilled into when she was young, and her children are me since I could talk, as with most people in the Rodney Morgan growing up there now. While I was visiting in South. I believe to this day that they still have the summertime, I met my cousin’s friends. no clue what I was talking about. Second Place, Essay Competition They were all between sixteen and nineteen The way people speak can reveal a great years of age, my generation, and found my lack deal about their lives, whether it is by the My throat was swelling and it was get- trouble to laugh heartily as I would attempt to of a Southern accent highly unusual. After a words they say or how they say them. The ting harder to breathe. My vision talk to him. He would then try to make me feel few hours, they became used to the phenome- spoken word can reveal much about personal- blurred as I fought away the tears of shame; I better by saying that he had once stuttered and non, only to lose composure again when I final- ity and culture. From the Caribbean Sea to the heard the mocking laughter. This wasn’t a new that I would grow out of it. I never was the type ly said “y’all.” They were even more incredu- Great Lakes, my family exhibits a lot of both. experience. Shame and low self-worth always of person to put my faith in false hope. Even lous when they heard me talking with my dad followed my chronic stuttering. Being called on the constant speech programs and exercises I because I kept saying, “Yes, sir,” and, “No, sir.” to speak in class was the greatest fear in the was thrown into did little good. Since I was the They asked if he was very strict. I blinked at world, because before the words could pene- only child in my household and didn’t have trate the bottom of my esophagus, my tongue many friends, I mostly kept to myself. would stall and vibrate in the middle of my Compound my isolation with a chronic stutter, mouth as it struggled to produce a coherent and you get a shy, scared-of-the-world little boy sound. who never speaks to anyone. My mother made it a habit to enroll me in As he and I both grew older, however, my any speech therapy program that she could brother started to take me places with him. He find. I hated going to those sessions. It made me always noticed when I would find an out-of- feel as if I had a disease that needed to be cured the-way place and hang my head low to avoid or a severe physical handi- “…my name didn’t any verbal interaction with cap. During those long anyone. If I talked to peo- sessions I was shown come out as ple, then they would sure- “mouth drills” and ly find out my terrible learned somewhat helpful ‘Rodney’ but as secret and make sounds of tips on how to control my [ ]sputtering cars and stalling idling tongue. My prob- ‘r-r-hod-ney.’ ” engines to humiliate me. lem was mostly words My brother would then that began with R’s and have to run in and play the S’s. The word drills and rolling tongue exercises role of the protective big brother. After one never truly helped. It was spontaneity that such occasion he decided to share some of his caused the stutter to occur; during the sessions I vast knowledge with me: “A closed mouth was constantly prepared and ready to speak. It don’t get fed, Rodney,” he said to me, “and was in the classroom that I couldn’t say my you can’t learn to talk good by not talking. own name. As the words slurred I would try to Like anything, getting rid of a stutter takes breathe, and my name didn’t come out as time and practice.” “Rodney” but as “r-r-hod-ney.” The best advice It took a while for this concept to soak into I was given was to clench my hands as tightly my mind, but I soon decided to drop my Clarence Holmes as I could and concentrate on looking into the shroud of self-pity and fear. In class I volun- Car, Stipple/Ink, Second Place Drawing, Art Competition person’s eyes. This proved helpful once I actual- teered for every question, joined in every con- ly started to talk to people. versation, and refused to keep my mouth The greatest antagonist to my stutter was closed, so much so that I was soon sent home my brother, who lived with our grandmother. with reports of talking too much. My mother He somehow found time in his busy schedule didn’t care; she was just happy that I had decid- of pulling ladies, ditching school, and causing ed to speak at all. 18 19

Yellow House

W ith her hands, she built a house Nail by nail, Years later, I no longer attend any speech ing a presentation. I have discovered that mov- Board against board programs and have managed to stay in a social ing my hands and arms as I speak makes the Until all was finished, nothing left but paint circle. Talking to people without fear has been words flow smoother, as well as clenching my She chose yellow, hard, but I continue the fight and can truly say I hands together. I visualize that my words are “So the sun will never set on us,” she said. have won more battles than I’ve lost. “A closed being wrapped around my arms as I speak mouth don’t get fed,” so I make sure that I get them, and then I give them to my audience. With her knees, she bent, plenty of food. I attend the Mississippi School During my younger years I was afraid to ask Cleaning Mrs. Christine’s clothes for Mathematics and Science, where conversing for help from a teacher, fearing that I would with others plays a pivotal role in life; in fact, stutter too much. Now that I am at MSMS I see Then leaving through the back door to cook at gaining invitation to the school entailed a per- that learning depends on conversing with the Mr. Washington’s sonal interview which I got through without teachers. Whenever I need help I do not hesitate Never complaining, only praying incident. Delivering presentations is also a key to make an appointment with a teacher to dis- component to most of the MSMS classes. These cuss the day’s lesson. As my tongue continues With her heart, she loved her seventeen chil- presentations are graded not only on the mate- to pester me, I try to grin and bear it, but I dren, rial being delivered but also on how the infor- refuse to keep my mouth closed and deny the mation is given to the audience. Fluent and fulfilling nourishment that I deserve. Helped them grow, become strong AmandaCocker Spaniel, Dew Pen and Ink proper pronunciation of words is a must to giv- With her voice, she commanded life into The family garden, The mailman, The neighbors, Even the animals

With time, she aged, Her steps slowed, The yellow paint began to chip away

Her knees sank—couldn’t bend Her heart, though patient, Had been hurt many times; Her voice craved a tall drink of water

But with her mind, She willed those around her to go on, Gave security in her wisdom Fall With her last steps, she died, Third Place Photograph,Willow Art Competition Nero Burning in the yellow house built so long ago Jennifer Sloan On the day when the sun Oblique, Photograph Gave way to night Elizabeth Wayne

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Reflections A Certain Shade of Green, Acrylic Sweet Nothings Watercolor, Third Place Painting, Art Competition Rebekah Garrison w First Place Painting, hisper CassandreArt Competition Man- you hypnotize me, Paris Bourdon I love you at dusk your starry, luxurious, prickly rain the bells of Notre Dame, my Quasimodo and I am Esmerelda

Core of the you deceive me, love I kiss you at sunrise Contemporary your wind in my hair I feel your grass between my toes Character and I am falling A“ you are ruthless in your silence ll we need is love,” the astute voices sing, you glitter So we’re busy reading Playboy magazines. you are my infinity, darling Paris Undiscovered is Solomon’s lovely Song, I vanish sweetly We replace lust for love we immensely long. and I am twirling in your arms All the pretty flowers wither in the sun, Despite the diversions of all the great fun. I am coming back to you, Paris Proverbs from Great Kings of Ancient Golden Times, you are my Sacre Coeur Come after fortune cookies and nursery rhymes. you pulse never-endingly Mexico Just remember to take your pill every day, along the banks of the Seine Don’t trip really hard, just slowly waste away. and I am floating G Speak poorly of your sisters to heal the pain, rassy mountains hold me in That comes from your jealous pursuits, all in vain. always With the valleys of cool fruits, Let the shallowness sink ever so deeply, Burros and dark-skinned children, Though the birds and the bees call out so sweetly. I am your indigo Happiness—no earthly cause. Beautiful children, their smiles soon fade away, Laura Chaires Illogical, I forget They cry at night and remain quiet at day. The paved American streets, Bess McCafferty For the golden barrios With deeply broken windows. Realizing my beauty Because of the compliments Of handsome, hard-working men Who smile in the pick-up trucks And find time every Sunday To worship the Lord at Mass. I’m filled with humility— Finally, I’m finding time For Sagrada Biblia. Using Miguel’s guitara, I sing sweet Spanish praises. Bess McCafferty

Honorable Mention, Poetry Competition RebekahStarman Garrison, Acrylic

Kristin Klaskala 22 The Hunter, Acrylic 23

Hannah Bruce Hannah Bruce Ashlee Oliver “Natural Color” KristinPage Designer, Klaskala View through the Buzz Violet Stone Window Hannah Bruce Ashlee Oliver Ashlee Oliver Photographs from left cor- Bumblebee on Shiny Pansy ner, continuing Flower Flowers Laura Beth clockwise: Willow Nero Addie Leak Moore Ashlee Oliver Green Oranges The Merits of a Long Memory Lane Grapes Christy Dyess Hike Addie Leak Hannah Bruce Hannah Bruce Ecstasy Water Babies March of Waves Bee on Flattened Jennifer Sloan Spring Christy Dyess Coneflower Christy Dyess Clandestine Reaching for Roots t Bleeding with Season orrents of tiny escapes of air clear and blue grey Waterfall blue green b finger-like protrusions ehind a curtain of water with their frothy white collars lacy creeping up spray the rough sand hills shining diamond drops materialize stealing the golden flash the sun and leaving blinds a dull brown line through his extending shakily almost crystal across stretches —- stretches magnifiers of seaweed littered land dazzling punches Ashley Mackay of light roar deafened blinded soaked evening caves are safe cocoons of rapture behind liquid doors worlds lie calm pools complimenting hissing eternity drips dash!ing splash blunt knives echo (ping) echo (ping) onto surprised cheek turning lakes

chaos exhilarating into mermaid (siren lullabies) California Waterfall of calm First Place Photograph, Art Competition Ashley Mackay Amanda Novotny 24 25

Summer on the Lake,Addie Photograph Leak Simple Rain-walk

Echoes from the Lake Ashley Mackay T he eerie song of the loon, Drifts across the black expanse. S treets shine and shimmering pools col- and my hands never stopped shaking as they lect in the gutters. Rain dances to the held the trombone. The audience was alive and Silent waves echo back to my heart, tune spun by itself in a world veiled in misty we responded to their enthusiasm. We learned Weeping willows caress the violet sky. grey, and I walk slowly spinning, drinking in a so much walking those New Orleans streets. symphony of images and half-forgotten memo- Jazz came to life before our eyes from the pow- And the song of the loon ries. der sugar-clouded air of Café du Monde to our Fills the night air. Family and friends slip before my mind’s last glimpse of a saxophonist in front of the eye, tripping eagerly, helping the parade of me- great Mississippi, silhouetted against an orange A compact boat—wooden and strong, shaping memories along. sky. Breaks the perfect rhythm of the water. The Mississippi air hangs heavy, dripping Soft, plunking raindrops bring me back tropically from the leaves reminding me of foot- from New Orleans and I realize the poetry all Clouds overhead are full, ball games in 100 percent wool band uniforms around me. There are soft lines written by Reeds sway in the moist, thick air. and soccer tournaments where you have to nature evident in the slim birch lines ahead of swim through the air. me, the lone joyous voice of the songbird, and The thump of a beaver in the distance— I slip out of my flip-flops and childishly the depth of the surrounding forest. Fragments Trees collapse and disturb the marsh. splash through the chilling puddles, purpose- of e. e. cummings and my own unfinished orig- fully ignoring all I know about bacteria, because inals fight for attention in my cluttered mind. A loon can still be heard, in simple pleasures ignorance is definitely bliss. Feelings accompany each remembered line. Its family diving under the water. My mind wanders, meandering through the sci- “pity this busy monster, manunkind,” cum- ences as I realize the hold they have on my life, mings reminds me. I’m never too busy to walk My dreams glide atop a glassy surface, bacteria being only a small portion of it. in the rain. Alone, my thoughts accompany me. As Sobek’s shimmering reflection appears. Physics’ grip is especially strong with free-fall Zephyrs whistle through the collection of rain, evident in the rain and force displayed by the and I walk on. Dew gathers in whimsical clusters. wind. The natural world is not subtle about its Croaks are heard for miles. physics applications. Once again, football mem- ories crowd in reminding me of when I tried to A chorus of nature figure out the distance traveled by the football Celebrates another passing of twilight. as it was kicked at a certain angle with a set ini- tial velocity before I realized what a nerd I was Re’s chariot escorts the sun, being. Now though, the memory brings a gold- Silence overcomes exhausted life. en moment. As I slide back into my shoes, the colors The loons fade into the golden rays. shift—a kaleidoscope of rainbow images. The And my heart waits for dusk. rain becomes a prism. Mental pictures float by Klint Peebles of a New Orleans jazz ensemble trip. The city was its own pinwheel of color. Sights and sounds meshed together to form a whole city Third Place, Poetry Competition alive with music and electric with jazz. Jazz competition for our little band was exhilarating

HannahPopsicle Sticks, Bruce Photograph a lip-gloss boostRebekah in your America, Garrison Acrylic

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Stains T he clouds were my eyes On that rainy August morning The Blues Dropping water On my perfect black suit and my heart Pierced Is Alright By the acceptance of the fact that he was gone As he lay asleep Surrounded by family and friends Covered by the grief stained Star Spangled Banner he fought for Khadijah Ransom I remembered how true of a soldier he was For his country and the Lord So I smiled and kissed him goodbye Forever staining his cheek with my memory… Quinnon Taylor I t’s 7:20 a.m. on a Saturday morning and my momma yelling, “Come on in the house, all I can hear is the ear-piercing music Spank, before you catch a cold.” Knowing that traveling from my daddy’s radio. At first listen, I’m usually a very mindful child, she only says Katrina Vizzini it sounds like “The Thrill is Gone” by B.B. King; it once believing that I will listen; but something The Blue Girl, Acrylic but when my ears fully awaken, I realize that in the music seems to run away with my soul it’s really “Soul Heaven” by Johnnie Taylor. and I am too weak to fight it, that is until the Why must playing the blues as loud as his ears bloodthirsty mosquitoes attack my caramel-col- can stand be my daddy’s “It’s the blues ored skin and I have no Saturday morning routine, choice but to run inside. when all I want to do is bury that makes me A Kodak moment of myself deeper into my bed of willing to bake in my momma and me juking cotton? I get out of bed to see at the B.B. King if my momma knows about the hot sun just Homecoming Festival is this craziness, only to find also permanently engraved to get a plate of that my parents are both in my head. We are sur- dancing blissfully away in fresh catfish or rounded by this huge the kitchen. I stand watching crowd of people, many of them twirl, and I wonder if [crawfish with an] whom are under the influ- the Mississippi Blues will ice cold Coke.” ence of Budweiser, have such a profound effect Michelob, or Corona. My on me someday, but once I momma tries to shield my feel my foot involuntarily keeping pace with virgin eyes, but I know that these drunken peo- the beat, I realize that it already has. ple are just as much a part of the B.B. King Fest I have been listening to the blues ever since as we are. Since I was eight years old, I can I could wobble on my own two feet. Every now remember them being here, drinking, juking, and then I even have flashbacks where I can see and just having a dirty good time. I wonder Cassandre Man-Bourdon myself as a little girl dancing to Bobby Blue why momma drags me out to see B.B. King, Patches of Reason, Watercolor Bland’s “Member’s Only.” I am outside stand- who I simply think of as this old fat black man ing in the soft Delta dirt with my arms flailing who got bored and decided to name his guitar crazily around me. It has just begun to rain but one day. I remember saying to her, “Momma, I 28 as long as the music plays, I dance. I can hear give my dolls and teddy bears a name all the 29

Ends of Goodbye

time. Why ain’t I famous for it?” I didn’t under- n’t really like the blues, but there was some- Caitlin Wolfe stand why a grown man who played some thing about that particular song that uplifted raggedy guitar was so famous. my spirit and made me feel like my old self Third Place, Short Story Competition It wasn’t until I became a teenager that I again. I could relate to its words and its tone was finally able to relate to the Mississippi was so comforting that I felt like I was no “I won’t be in until noon. See you then.” I My life seemed very confusing from then Blues. It was the weekend of my seventeenth longer miles away, but right there at home with clapped the phone down. on. This man that had left me seemed to care birthday, which was the first birthday I had my momma dancing and having fun. Wrapped in black, I stepped outside into at times, and others, to not even exist. For my ever spent away from my family while living at It is at that moment that I could finally the lonely gray morning. The shrouded sun sixth birthday, after my parents had split up, the Mississippi School for Mathematics and understand why people love the blues so much. began to glance over the trees and the frozen my father mailed me the last drawing from Science. I can remember feeling sad, angry, and It isn’t because its artists name their instru- dew glittered and danced among the grass. I our backyard afternoons, the only one I still lonely. I was sad because I missed home where ments, but it’s because the blues simply makes cranked the car and the heat blasted my frigid had. Now it was old and crinkled, the pencil all my family and friends were. I was angry people feel better when they’ve hit rock bottom legs. I hated cold weather, but even more I smudged in places. The swirl of markings cre- because my roommate and I weren’t getting and can go no lower. The blues is deeply rooted hated being alone. Though, I should have ated an image of the swing in our backyard, been used to it by now. cradling a father and daughter, like I remem- along, and I was lonely because my closest into every part of my Delta culture more than Solitude sent my mind drifting...back deep bered it once had. MSMS friends had all gone home for the week- I’ve ever realized. The blues can help me see the into my memory, my life playing over in my Stop sign. More waiting. end. Drops of grief began to roll down my face. sun through the lonely clouds, or a friendly face head like a dream it did no good to run away At first, I spent every other weekend with So I decided to call my momma; I knew she in a room full of strangers. It’s the blues that from. my father. Then it became every month or so, could make me feel better even if she was more makes me willing to bake in the hot sun just to The house I lived in when I was five was then just holidays and birthdays. Then funer- than 175 miles away. get a plate of fresh catfish or crawfish with an not very big at all, but perfect for a family of als. My father and stepmother’s house was three. And to me, at that young, imaginative small and cramped; I stayed in the guest bed- “Hey, Spank! Happy Birthday! How you ice cold Coke. It’s the blues that makes me for- age, the backyard to that house was my room when I visited. My stepmother would doin?” my momma said. “I’m fine,” I lied. I just get about the West Nile diseased mosquitoes world. It was an oasis, a gorgeous escape from have nothing to do with me, while my father couldn’t bring myself to tell her about my prob- when I sit out on the porch with my school everyday. The small garden was littered with was usually too busy. The weekend would lems, but being my mom for seventeen years, buddies to see the sun set. It’s the blues that living flares of scattered paint; the worn drag on as I sat around, watching TV, waiting she knew that something was wrong just by the keeps me out all Saturday night so that I can’t wooden fence was ancient and mysterious to for Sunday night to roll around and bring me tone of my voice. “You don’t sound like you’re go to church on Sunday morning. Some people a child that could not grasp the concept of relief. More than frequently, my stepmother okay. Let me play a song for you. Now I know refer to it as the Devil’s music, but we who have time. And the jewel of this haven was our would chastise me for some minor indiscre- wooden swing. There, I would chatter on tion: smacking my gum, getting her sofa dirty, you don’t like the blues much, but just listen to seen its true beauty and power know that it’s about the most important things to a five year putting my elbows on the table; while my the words,” she said as she turned the radio on. innocent, which is why I’m proud to say that old—losing a toy, finding a dime, inhaling a father would get it even worse. With my step- “Hang on, to me baby. Everything’s gonna be now when I listen to the blues, my foot volun- chocolate smothered sundae. My father would mother’s nagging voice rising in the back- alright girl. Just wait and pray. If you just hang tarily keeps pace with the beat, and that has sit, quietly encouraging me, and earnestly ground, I would step out the sliding back on . . . ” I heard the song say as it blasted from made all the difference. working at his latest masterpiece in the spiral door and take in the smell of the sweet pines my daddy’s radio. My momma was right, I did- bound sketchpad my mother and I had and crape myrtles with my eyes closed, hop- bought for him; he could draw anything I ing that when I opened them I would be five wanted him to. We would sit in that swing for again. hours, I pointing out things for him to draw The funeral home came into sight. A few and he scribbling them down in penciled per- mourners were dragging themselves from the fection. black parking lot into the building. As I After my sixth birthday, I never saw that parked the car, I paused. The knot in my swing again. My parents divorced; my father stomach deepened. I could leave before any- said his goodbyes and moved out. Two years one saw me, but I had promised I would later, he remarried. come. I got out of the car and walked inside. I hated red lights; I hated waiting. I felt a The casket lay open at the front of the knot of anxiety growing in my stomach with room with a line of friends and family trick- every passing moment. ling by on their way into the chapel. My 30 31

father stood beside it, the man that had rid- Dorothy must have felt when she stood beside The sun was climbing higher, but the sky “I love you, Lynne.” dled my life with questions of why and why that steaming puddle in the Witch’s castle— remained a dreary gray. “I know, Daddy.” I truly knew. I hugged not. He was a man I had never known and but there was no elation. There was nothing. A few mourners lingered to share their him once more. “I love you, too.” seemed out of reach of understanding. All my All I could think about were my afternoon regrets with the family, but most headed I started to walk away. life he had been my enigma. obligations. straight for the cars to shelter them from the “I’ll be in touch,” I said over my shoulder. He looked much older than I remembered. I stepped away from the casket and frosty air. “Call if you need anything.” There were deep bags under his eyes and a walked into the chapel. I stepped backwards to leave. My eye “Alright,” he said. “Goodbye, Honey.” He gray beard that couldn’t hide his care-worn Throughout the service my mind wan- caught my father standing alone by the casket, waved after me. wrinkles; he seemed so dered; I never had head bowed staring at the lonely shadow cast “Bye, Daddy.” The fog from my breath frail and weak. “I had expected this been too good at pay- by the pale sun about his feet. mingled in the air and was lost. As I started toward ing attention. As the He looked up as I approached. I stared I left my father and climbed into my car. him he noticed me and moment to feel like tune of some radio into his moist red eyes as he smiled again, the The sun was beginning to poke from behind smiled sadly, the wrin- song I didn’t really crinkles at the corners of his eyes now glisten- the clouds and shed a little warmth onto the kles in the corners of Dorothy must have know wafted through ing in the late morning light. winter-wrapped world below. As I waited for his eyes becoming my head, I found He was truly sad. He had loved his second the cars in front of me to leave, I reached more prominent. felt when she stood myself rummaging wife dearly and would miss her; he seemed a down and dug through the small compart- “Hey, Honey,” he beside that steaming through my purse. I broken man. ment between the front seats for my sunglass- said as he hugged me looked down and my That thought set me ablaze. All I’d ever es. When I looked up, I saw my father trudg- tightly. puddle in the Witch’s fingers held the picture wanted was for him to treat me like his ing slowly through the grass, his head down. “Hi, Daddy.” I I had tucked away in daughter, but I was just his past, another life I glanced ahead; the other cars were gone. stepped back from his castle—but there was my wallet, a photo of he’d said goodbye to years ago. I wanted to I had about half an hour to get back to the embrace and looked what my family used demand from him answers, justification for office. I started the car. into his tired face. no elation. There was to be—my father, my loneliness and confusion, to force out In my rearview mirror I saw my father “How are you holding mother, and me. every truth ingrained in that man I hardly look up at the whir of my engine. up?” nothing. All I could My eyes brimmed knew. “Goodbye, Daddy,” I said softly. I pressed “I’ll be okay. I’m with hot tears. There But I was cut short by the truth spoken in the gas and drove to the gate. As I turned out just glad you could [ think about were my ] was nothing I could do his glistening eyes. He was a broken man of the gate his image disappeared. make it.” about my family being indeed, not because his of cold wife, but It was only a few months until I saw my I smiled weakly. afternoon obligations.” broken, but still the because the shadow of his life was full of father again. His cold face stared up at me, the “Well, the service whys remained…the regrets. He was as aware of his mistakes as I wrinkles of worry and care still prominent. He will begin in a few whys always was, and felt them deeper perhaps. He want- was pressed and polished from head to toe. I minutes. You’re wel- remained. ed those lazy swing afternoons back. turned away from him as my tears dropped come to pay your respects.” He motioned I glanced a few rows in front of me and The soul of a man that had for so long silently to the carpeted floor. My enigma had towards the gleaming cherry casket. saw the hypnotic heaving of my father’s eluded me was beginning to show through his left me again, without a goodbye this time— I nodded in acquiescence and stepped shoulders. I wanted to understand, I wanted cracking shell. Suddenly, the puzzles, the rid- without the questions as well. towards it, peering inside. to forgive him. dles, the whys mattered no longer. All that My stepmother’s cold face looked up at After the service, I followed the procession mattered was the man in front of me, my me, appearing almost peaceful. Her blond hair to the cemetery where the preacher made father, who had been there the whole time. was pulled back neatly, the makeup wasn’t some final remarks. I surveyed the nearby too much. She had always had a high stan- headstones, admiring their craftsmanship and dard for appearance. She couldn’t stand grays, the unique life they brought to that dreary but preferred brilliant blond instead. cemetery. The newest headstone seemed so I had expected this moment to feel like dull beside the rest.

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the neon lights of Las Vegas and my newly beats and worked as well as a broken record acquired trombone, but my excitement wore off while I waited nervously for my turn to play. I too soon. My trombone was like a Christmas played, and this time I met the cloud-high stan- present and as time wore on, the novelty wore dards of Mr. Mullins and the standards I found off. Playing jazz would have been lost in the I required of myself. black hole of dead dreams if Mr. Mullins had I failed many times after that, but just as Slip Slidin’ Away not stepped in. It was time for a chair test, but I many times I pulled myself up. Mr. Mullins wasn’t worried. My natural ability had always tested me again and again so that my seemingly gotten me first, or at least second, chair before. impossible dream became a reality. By the end After thoroughly destroying some song of of my sophomore year I was the second-chair “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” caliber, I found trombonist out of the whole band, beating Ashley Mackay myself four seats from the end of the row. many skilled seniors. Better than that, though, I After overcoming my initial shock, I made was in the jazz ensemble and played my first friends with the trombonists around me, people solo. Keeping to tradition, I made a royal I’d never really talked to before. “This is where cacophony of jarring notes out of what should I belong,” I thought, “I’ve always belonged here have been a heart-stopping, laughing solo, but Jazz. Even before knowing the meaning of year olds among pots and pans. When my try- at the bottom of the heap.” And there I would this time it took no effort to stand up after my the word, that’s all I wanted to play. The outs came I couldn’t swallow and looked upon have stayed had I not found in myself the fall. I smiled, and no one knew that the solo sophisticated sound of the double z’s lured me our jolly Santa Claus of an assistant director as inability to just let go. I clung with pit bull was far from the perfection I should have into a world filled with swing, soft bossas, though he was a nightmare specter. tenacity to a faint belief in myself. achieved. Next time my solo was ovation wor- bright sambas, and bluesy ballads. The names First he tried me on the flute, thinking that I I practiced. That was all the demanding Mr. thy, and my feet danced among those high-stan- of jazz greats had the same slide and jump jazz was a normal twelve-year old girl. Almost all Mullins had wanted, a slight effort made to dard clouds Mr. Mullins pinned me to. In the beat that kept a listener tapping in time; Ella the girls in my class hoped to play flute. I made keep my high standards. When the next test background I’m certain I heard “In the Mood.” Fitzgerald with her dusky voice scatting storms a pathetic airy sound, hoping that saxophone came around I was ready. My heart missed Listen to those trombones play. of thunder and lightning, Dizzy Gillespie and would turn out better. I desperately wanted to his trumpet sending us on our own dizzying play the sax. The saxophone appeared to me the trips, Duke Ellington writing ballads even the crème de la crème of jazz instruments. I’d never moon lusts after, and a trombonist named heard of Benny Goodman and his clarinet or Tricky Sam. I add to this list another jazz great, Miles Davis and his trumpet. I had only seen the illustrious Thad Mullins. the tenor saxophone stand up and dance, shout- I met this steel pole man when I first ing to the heavens with joyful solos. entered the fast-paced world of changing class- My young heart was broken when Mr. es and electives. Gray hair topped off the tall, Mullins told me that he wanted me to play the thin frame of my new band director. His eyes trombone. The trombone was such a clumsy were hidden behind small metal glasses, as instrument suited only for the unskilled, high- opposed to his socks, which weren’t hidden at stepping marching bands. Mr. Mullins tried to all, but peeked out beneath the edge of his mili- persuade me, telling me that it wasn’t meant for tary-length pants. Here was my gateway into a just boys, and that one of his best players at the world of colors I did not yet even know existed. high school was a girl. I would have laughed A Desert Scene The first few weeks of band were taken up him to scorn if I had been brave enough. To Contour/Colored Pencil, with trying out each instrument to see which think that I would be intimidated by boys! I Third Place Drawing, Art Competition one we could best play. We all tried awkwardly asked only one question, “Do trombones play Jonathan DuPont to make a noise on these instruments foreign to jazz?” our small, middle school hands. Those who Eagerly I gobbled up every morsel of could not master the art of producing a tone knowledge he tossed my way. In the beginning would be as pleased with their drums as two- it was easy to focus for my goal was as bright as

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Dinner Table Church Service quitoes, or raining; outside on those days when had ever done for my childhood friends, those heaven seemed to have descended from its who often asked me, as if there could be no place in the sky. answer besides a simple name, where I went to Rebekah Garrison I would sit and listen for sometimes hours church? Against my better judgment, I would lie (long after the food was gone) to the others just to appease them and to prevent those arguing, pondering, relating, and discussing the hideous stares and the awful feeling of shame important issues in their lives, the world, the that would come with the answer, “I don’t.” I don’t go to church. I never have, really. Nevertheless, so began my spiritual journey. Bible, molecular biology, or Atlas Shrugged. I It took me a while, but these days I am not True, there was a period when I was about From the very beginning, I was taught to ques- was too young to interject my own opinions, ashamed to reveal my lack of church member- nine or ten when my mom insisted on waking tion everything. Brought up in an extremely lib- mostly, besides those conversations that were ship, although I do attend from time to time. I the entire family at 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morn- eral home considering its location in the middle created specifically for me, which didn’t happen realize now that I received my own basis of ings (our usual day for rest and relaxation). She of the Bible belt, we Garrison children grew up often. And I didn’t mind. I have never been morals, ethics, and ideals every Sunday. Only, would force me into cute little dresses and curl with a wide array of knowledge and ideas to much of an attention monger. I did, however, instead of from the mouth of a preacher, pastor, my hair into Shirley Temple ringlets, and drag sort through. My Godfather, who lived only a love to observe others: their words, their man- or priest in the pulpit of a sanctuary, from the me, my two older, even more unhappy broth- half of a mile down the road, was a retired (or nerisms, their ideas, their reasoning. Before words and ideas of my family as we sat around that’s what we called ers, and my dad to St. “…those dinner table long, I found myself formulating my own the beautifully hand-crafted maple-wood din- John’s Episcopal it) Episcopalian priest words, mannerisms, ideas, reasoning. I came to ner table set strategically in the middle of our Church of Laurel, conversations had done with an uncanny the realization that, by the definition of religion, oversized kitchen, all the better for getting sec- Mississippi, a whole knack for somewhat those dinner table conversations had done more ond helpings. more for me than most thirty-minute drive trivial, yet very inter- for me than most churches and Sunday schools from our country churches and Sunday esting, information on home. I look back on anything from the those days and laugh schools had ever done sinking of the Lusitania to the origin at my obstinance, how for my childhood friends, I used to yell and cry of the gods and god- for my mother to just those who often asked desses of Greek and let me stay home, Roman mythology. me, as if there could be please, by myself if I Besides his endless had to, if only I didn’t no answer besides a repertoire of historic have to go to church! events and witty Usually such religious [ simple name, where I ] anecdotes, Tom was also a gourmet cook. rebellion starts at a went to church?” much greater age. I He and my mother can’t give myself too would cook like Julia much credit, though, for my idealistic revolt. I Child every Sunday, and when the preparations know in my heart of hearts that more than half were complete, all six of us would gather round of my reason for hating church so much was either of the dining room tables: inside if it was those stupid dresses. dreadfully hot and the air drenched with mos-

Amanda Novotny Half-dome, Photograph

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Sister The Last Lament of the Little Mermaid (after Ray Young Bear) I F On Display Sarah May f I were to see loating in by sea breeze Her doing back handsprings from a mile away Encircling your bed, I would so quickly I watch N O Recognize the lithe form to be her. eon lights, they give Your h, Sarah May, The bride The long tan legs lavish mirror a circus, sideshow effect- Head lice queen Stir in her sleep. And the blonde ponytail. before Grandmother’s bureau, Of the second grade, You twitch, you sigh. If I felt survived WWII France— You wear Arms around my waist, A postmodern ordeal at Hand. That stained The princess, whose hair I’d know she was looking Yellow party dress Is not auburn in the sunset, For support toes curled and shoulders slumped, To school every day. And whose voice And comfort. you pretentious Thing— Your show-and-tells Does not reach the heavens, If I heard staring through the face Are so exquisite: Moves a throbbing toe A voice seemingly Just, property, of those Barbie who’s lost Towards you, Singing the wrong words who Made you. Three appendages, But her feet do not ache. I would chastise her A monster truck And attempt …by this, time, naked Cheeks Smashed in two, You lie awake, To teach her the correct lyrics, have likely moistened that A jeweled bracelet Hand across her breast, But I was ignored like rolling stool, and Mascara— That your dog chews. Eyes turned to the ceiling; Pinocchio did to poor rivers burn your naïve, Why isn’t your hair Asking, wanting, Jiminy Cricket. Barbed neck of Rose, in turning. Tied back in braids? For what I hope Mrs. Melbourne Emily Williams Words cannot tell. thick Panes and a manicured Gives you clothes. Lawn separate my Frank wisdom You never wear them. One deciding night …of too few Years, Your father is too proud, I loved you. and your aching Flesh And your mother, Did you love me not? come Be sandpaper, I steady. You say, I could not sink the dagger Is in heaven. So now the ocean it severs: It rains, Not a worry— Willow Nero A bloodless red tide. Vintage boots and a lack of Touch up, thick, unhampered But tonight you search Hair can take the rain— Second Place, Poetry Competition As I wipe away my Gaze may be Fixated Weights of misery. Instead accepting a loyal, perhaps I’ve been What you have taken. The Only loyal confidant. And biding my time, I am your Mother, Waiting for the soul Sister, I comprehend your Daughter- You could have given. I look at You… Willow Nero Hayley Maxwell First Place, Poetry Competition

Sturdy Erosion ChristyPhotograph Dyess 38 39

The Longest Road to Home The Cows through pine boulevards mimicking WillowPhotograph the highways below. Alas, as I pass Nero Willow Nero through Laurel on the last of the s- curves, I pity the chickens, wonder- ing how anyone can be so cruel to sit them by the highway like that. They huddle together, packed into Highway 45 is the first road I take to drive this cemetery marks the point of no return; tiny wire boxes stacked high on home from school, and it’s the first in a from here on out it’s straight shooting to semi-trucks with fans blowing their series of gateways to the earth’s arterial high- Meridian. The gravestones are turned every feathers out onto the asphalt park- way wherein my heart lies. Lined with scarlet which way on the hillside. They remind me of ing lot. The chicken owners might as clover and creeping kudzu vines all summer my second cousins from South Carolina. I once well just get rid of the fans. There’s and a more leisurely vine of kudzu in winter rode with them from Uncle Tony’s in Alabama no point in cooling down the of touching the marshmallow puffs; yet the months, the highway runs straight through the to Aunt Mary’s trailer on Christmas Eve. In the scrawny birds that will become nuggets within ocean can never pull the sky down to the earth. Mississippi Delta, only bulging to accommodate car they counted the horses and cows on each the next few days. This is not my highway; the The sky is free and open on the water. Each four lanes instead of two at parts. That highway side of the road. Whoever had the most animals question of the sky’s end lingers. The chickens paramount dreamscape meets the ocean in a is the most difficult to drive with its repetitive on their side at the end of the trip won, but if a symbolize a dead end. Nothing so uncertain calm agreement, finishing off the perfect photo- landscape. Northern Mississippi has “rolling cemetery was on your side of the road, all of can continue so far without conclusion. graph. hills” which can’t be more than inverted dents your animals died. I didn’t expect to see any And so, I meet Highway 603, the winding The ocean thus becomes the longest, most in the earth, and the all- “…my mind just cemeteries on the way to two-lane wonder that releases my soul and complete highway of highways. It reaches too-famous cotton fields Aunt Mary’s, but there returns to me the ocean, the point at which the without bound across the earth, charting path- are few and far between doesn’t function on were plenty. The cemeter- sky meets its equal—that relentless stretch of ways followed countless times. The wind fills on 45; however, I find the ies we passed on that car open life. Six-oh-three boasts of Brett Favre the sails of my Sunfish sailboat and pushes me worst atrocity to be the 45—the only trip look just like this one. from the Kiln, pronounced “the Kill” by the from the Bay of St. Louis to the Mississippi way the trees cling to the On the coast, our cemeter- direction in my natives. The country drivers cruise around in Sound, into the Gulf of Mexico, and to the bar- sky. On Highway 45, the ies are large and centrally rusty pickups to Dolly’s Quick Stop or the rier islands and beyond. The sea’s changing tree line, no matter how located. Little cemeteries mind is away, as Broke Spoke for a cold one, but their unrefined song lifts my spirits and pulls me in to its side. sickly and dead, always are the mark of the [ ] command of the wheel or “Pray for me, I drive I can drive west on Highway 90 or Beach hangs onto the clouds, as if boonies. My Aunt Mary’s fast as possible.” 603” bumper stickers cannot scare me now. I’m Boulevard into the setting sun. The ocean has pulling them from the sky. doublewide was on the nearly home, nearly to my ocean. no mileage, and so my car drives on. The trees just won’t let go side of a hill in Nowhere, On the open water everything inside of me I grew up with this freedom of the ocean, of the sun or the moon, but cling to them like Alabama. When it rained, feels utterly completed. I have no loose ends, and it calls me home from whatever endeavors bored children to a favorite uncle’s legs. The the orange clay got so thick and sticky that she only endless beginnings. Looking out at the I happen to pursue. When I am living in my sky is never whole and complete, but desper- couldn’t get downhill. Aunt Mary worked at beach’s infinite reach always fills me with a landlocked dormitory in Columbus, ately lacking, unsatisfying; a gap and a ques- home so she didn’t care, but I didn’t want to get great optimism whether the sky is pleasant or Mississippi, the ocean beckons my return. The tion. The sky’s intentions are unclear and hid- stuck in Nowhere, Mississippi. scornful. Some days children fly kites from the trees mar my perfect vision of a sky and tug at den; my mind just doesn’t function on 45—the Highway 59 South from Meridian does little Long Beach Yacht Club. Their fleet of brightly the clouds as if to take them from me. Nothing only direction in my mind is away, as fast as to break the monotony of 45, but approaching colored belligerents matches the spinnakers of can compare to the open nothingness of a pure possible. Laurel the landscape starts to feel more like Flying Scots racing out on the water. In Biloxi black sky spattered with teeny pinholes of As I drive Highway 45 I’m always afraid home. Tall Southern pines shoot up from the it’s always easy to pick out the pitiful tourists stars. No trees close in on this picture from the that I’ll run out of gas or find myself lost ground, skinny and sap-filled, fuller than the fending off indecent seagulls from their home- lazy life of Cat Island. No dams or rivers can beyond hope. My cell phone roams in and out dead sticks of Macon and Scooba. Their branch- grown shrimp po-boys. On days when the sky replace the long, silent scream of the wind as of service just as I pass a cemetery on the side of es don’t pull the sky down, but add to its mys- pours out rain, the heavens are the most mag- my body melts into the sea on the underside of a church badly in need of new paint. For me, tery. On nice days the blanched clouds flow nificent. Every cloud can be made out, with the Ulman Avenue pier. Every road leads to the varying shades of mauve, amethyst, and indi- ocean and the ocean calls me to its side, making go. They swirl and dance with the wind, part- me complete. ing to show a smiling sun and closing in again to meet the raging seas that reach up in hopes 40 41

this street might not be so different from one grateful I am that in return I’ve given him rea- half a world away. There, too, the humidity is son to be proud. He’s found satisfaction in my so thick that it traps the mosquitoes. There, too, grades and my awards, my red belt and my my grandfather trades saxophone, my vol- modern convenience for “His simple presence unteer hours and satisfying struggle. Now frazzles my mother my clubs. I have an Hint of Frugality almost straining to keep uncanny feeling, up, I suddenly ask him into nourisher extraor- though, that he is why he needs to read it most pleased when all, make it all, reuse it all. dinaire and sends her he sees that I utilize Without missing a both sides of a sheet Farshad Chowdhury brisk step, he questions in into powder frenzy. of paper, instead of reply, “Why should I just one. waste anything? If I can Curry powder, chili I watch First Place, Essay Competition light fire to the same wax Nana as he places again and again, why powder, cumin powder, his order. My moth- should I touch flame to a er says that his face T raveling two hours from the airport in room, the treasures return with creased spines all flying through the Jackson, Nana glides over rolling kudzu- and fulfilled purpose. His simple presence fraz- virgin candle?” And, after is etched with years covered hills until they flatten into the great zles my mother into nourisher extraordinaire an uncharacteristic stam- air, magically coalesce of wear and illness, pancake that is my home: the Mississippi Delta. and sends her into powder frenzy. Curry pow- mer, he adds, “Why but it still looks the I picture his gleaming eyes tracing the cotton der, chili powder, cumin powder, all flying shouldn’t I show you all into a delectable same to me. Maybe that I have? I can never [ ] his glasses are a little fields to where they kiss the sky. I see his thin through the air, magically coalesce into a delec- frame sitting erect, legs crossed, in the front seat table Bengali dinner. At the meal table, too, know when I will see you Bengali dinner.” thicker still, and his of our car. I hear his brilliant voice, surprisingly Nana has his quirks. He carefully takes equal next.” mustache isn’t the powerful for a man so gentle. I feel my grandfa- portions of the fragrant jasmine rice, the smooth Suddenly his perpet- prickly push-broom ther’s warm hug and push-broom mustache lentil daal, the thick eggplant bhorta, and the ual message becomes it used to be, but I before he even sets foot in the door. sweet chicken korma, and neatly layers each on clear to me: nothing, from a God-given gift to still think of my grandfather leaping up the Nana has come half way around the world his plate. Then he finishes it all, down to the last an earthly moment of time, should ever be stairs and holding the door for me, comforting to Greenwood, my hometown. Surrounded by grain of rice, before even considering getting wasted. He has passed on to me his decades of me when no one else knows I am hurting, and cotton fields, I doubt that it has changed much more. experience. His worldview has been shaped by seeing my reflection in his sparkling eyes as he since my grandfather’s last visit. As far back as My brother and I have learned to live with a British rule and its discrimination, Pakistani gives thousands of years of history new life I can remember, Nana has never arrived empty- grandfather who wastes nothing and finds a inequity and its culmination in civil war, and with his booming voice. When it comes my handed. Rather, he always brings a token scent- use for everything. Years before, on a visit to American freedom with its opportunity; I find turn to order, I decide against the Super Huge ed with frugality. This time he brings my broth- Bangladesh, our newest toys had been shells that his breadth of perspective mirrors my own. Drink; a regular sized one will do just fine. er and me two imposing paperbacks, each one from a coconut that Nana had picked for As we round the last corner, I think of how wrapped in a makeshift dustcover he fashioned dessert. When we wanted a new sketch book, from plastic wrap. To my parents he presents an my grandfather sat down on his cold terrazzo A Reflection on entire box of plums and apricots from my floor and made us one, complete with hand- Taj Mahal, uncle’s trees; I imagine it is as much a gesture of stitched binding. When we ached for something JonathanStipple/Ink fun to do, my grandfather sent us around the kindness as it is a means of saving precious DuPont fruit from going to waste. house collecting melted candle wax to recast My grandfather also brings with him a fre- and reuse. netic aura that both energizes and exasperates So it doesn’t surprise me at all when Nana my family. The air vibrates with frenzied energy decries driving and decides that we should as he scours our house in search of scrap paper walk through the Delta heat to Taco Bell. to recycle into bookmarks and post-it notes. He Wearing an old cap (his only submission to my surveys each room, making an anguished note mother’s longwinded protests), he leads the of every unread book and dust-covered maga- way. I watch him, his thin shadow gliding zine. After somehow finding their way into his smoothly over hot concrete, thinking of how

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One Once Again Passion T (after Ray Young Bear) he sweet flow of red ink I On white copy paper— f I were to see Underline, slash, rehash. The golden glow of a goddess “Give It The pen lifts itself I’d know so quickly And cries out, “horrors.” That it was you It drifts across the page To Me, Son…” The girl that everybody wants to be Highlighting errors in its wake. But nobody has the patience to be Left unguided by any hand, If I felt your It works alone in red. Soft hands caress my face The veined marks spew forth. And wipe my pain away Edits breathe life. Jimmy Williams I’d remember why I never wanted to leave you The comments pour, If I heard Pointing to the glaring errors: Or even saw your name on paper An arrow hitting bull’s-eye, I’d immediately be swept away into you A knife straight to the heart. Your presence, your soul Direct hits; those marks A s I steady myself vertically after leaning remember, but for me, it compensated for the And we would be one once again Weep from the page, against the tractor tire, I see my papa’s password needed to open my heart and my Quinnon Taylor A million battered wounds hand extended, asking me for the piece of mind, to decide what I thought was best for me Crying out for Band-Aids. paper on which I’ve written down the size of to do. Papa feels as though he is dumb, but Willow Nero the tire. Looking at my grandfather, I see many what I cannot get him to understand is that he years of wisdom, wisdom he could have only has a wisdom that only a man who did not go accumulated through the rigors of hard labor of to school could have. He had to quit school in Honorable Mention, many years. Staring at my papa’s hand, I can the third grade and go work on the family farm Poetry Competition only think of one thing that has accumulated in because his father couldn’t afford to hire hands my mind for over a year now: Thank you. to help bring in harvest or hay; so he never got Growing up on a farm, I have been to learn what most people would at that age. acquainted with labor my entire life. From the Now that he is seventy years old, he has gotten age of five, I have worked with my father on his to the point that he can read numbers and write many jobs, from carpentry, to landscaping, and his name, but he can’t do much more than that. even maintaining his trailer park. My childhood That is why he calls upon me to help him in his years were not devoid of work, and now I endeavors, at least the ones that require mathe- appreciate every single day I have spent work- matical assistance. I am always obliged to help ing by my daddy’s side. Now I have the “best my papa, for the simple fact that I love him and of both worlds”; I have my “brains and my that I would do anything I possibly could to brawn,” as my father and grandfather describe help him. me to their acquaintances who ask them how Now, as I look at Papa holding out his the “Smart Kid” is doing. hand, I feel a deep and complete sense of thank- About a year and a half ago, I had a really fulness, because I am looking at the very inspi- hard decision to make, but it was not a decision ration that helped me to become the person that that would not only affect me, but one which I am standing here, by this tractor tire, holding would also affect the very people I love. When I this piece of paper upon which I have written AndyMarilyn FeelingGuan Sexy, Oil was accepted to the Mississippi School for the very information my grandfather could not. Mathematics and Science, I was happy, but at With the deep and caring voice, my grandfather the same time, if at all possible, I was upset; I looks at me and says, “Give it to me, son,” and knew that I would be leaving the home I have as those words fall upon my ear, I simply say to lived in my entire life, and I would be leaving him, “If you ever need me, Papa, I’m here to do the people who kept house there as well. I had whatever I can to help.” I hand him the piece of a lot of trouble deciding, but my papa had a lot paper with the measurements on it and we of inspirational guidance for me to follow. begin to walk back to the house. Walking back, My grandfather’s words to me were, “Just I can only think of one thing to say to him: promise me one thing, don’t end up like me.” “Thanks, Papa.” 44 To most people, this might not be a quotation to 45

Broken Nets Playin for B right blue posts glare in the sunlight, Their broken nets swaying. the Sanctified The five munchkins Bounce up and down And up and down Until a voice calls, Funeral of a Wave “One at a time!” Trey Lyons Omniscient Mom: 1376 Munchkins: 0 W “Maa” draws their attention, aves die at the shore. And Peek-a-Boo Fred pokes his head Harmonious lullabies break Through the electric fence. Distant squawking The little abandoned goat is hungry; N“ ow it ain’t hard to see that this cat com- By the time our last tune was almost over, As the sky whispers black. He needs to be hand-fed. Crackling jars the calm. ing in to play with us ain’t exactly like I was playing my hottest licks and shaking The broken nets now sway in the wind Spatters hit the water. everybody else! But he’s gonna play his heart my hips (ever so subtly considering the situa- Instead of in time to jumping munchkins. Their slow drone carries up out for you though, so please give your undi- tion). At last we were finished and to the They have been abandoned for a crying baby The fog from cooled swells. vided attention and love to Trey Lyons!” was house we could go. We took our bows and goat. A pair of feet shuffle, the last thing I wanted to hear Willie say as I everyone clapped as we walked down and I’d feel broken too. Murmuring across wet sand. trudged down the center aisle of the Haven out of the same trail of tears I had trekked Emily Williams Acres Sanctified Church with nothing but my earlier. Willow Nero best Sunday suit and an oversized guitar case to Willie approached me after we were com- Honorable Mention, speak for me. As I reached the front pew, I set pletely clear of the masses. He looked at me Poetry Competition my case down, pulled out my guitar, and smiling, shaking my hand, and said, “Man, strapped it on, only to hear Willie cry out, you looked like you were playing the fire “Come on, brother! These beautiful people from out of that guitar, but you weren’t wanna hear us play!” comin’ through the mix. We checked at the By drawing attention to the fact that I was end of the set and it looked like you forgot to late and holding everyone up in this congrega- turn your amp on.” The rug had been jerked tion of a little over 400, Willie only amplified from beneath my feet. I worked myself up to a the tension running through my blood that nervous mess and slowly overcame my nerve- made me realize, “You are the only white guy wrenching fears, only to stand in the way of here.” As I plugged in my guitar the tension my own accomplishments by forgetting to do finally climaxed and I found myself hoping and something as simple as reach down and turn praying that the gates of hell would open up my amp on. and swallow me whole right then and there. I walked away with a sense of pride and Amazingly enough though, they didn’t and the humility that day, though. I felt proud because I drummer started up. had channeled my self–conjured tension and I started by fiddling around meekly, playing pressure into something productive and uplift- only the simplest riffs (those of which I was ing while at the same time making the most most sure). Then, the tension just seemed to juvenile of mistakes by forgetting to do some- ease up a bit. Little by little the nervousness thing that could easily be seen as the most basic was melting off of me, and I was becoming the step of any performance. guitar player I am sitting alone in my bedroom.

Missie Smith Geometric Shapes Still Life, Graphite, First Place Drawing, Art Competition

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Contributors’ Cassandre Man-Bourdon Notes Desert Star, Watercolor

Hannah Bruce (Saltillo) with a major in psychology and Kristin Klaskala (Starkville) Hayley Maxwell (Grenada) film.” Her favorite artist is Don Katrina Vizzini (Starkville) Hannah will attend the University criminal justice. “Learn from Kristin will attend Mississippi Hayley plans to attend Paulson, and his works “Calla Katrina’s favorite author is Neil of Missouri—Rolla with a major in me…how dangerous is the University for Women in the fall Randolph-Macon Woman’s Lily,” “Magnolia Blossom,” and Gaimon, and Dave McKean is environmental engineering. “My acquirement of knowledge, and with a major in graphic design. College in Lynchburg, Virginia, “Mossbrae Falls” have influ- her favorite artist. Her experi- with a major in anthropology enced her own work. ence at MSMS is described in favorite time to take pictures is at how much happier that man is Her favorite writer is John J. and an emphasis on biolinguis- “Wind” by Akeboshi: “Don’t try the change of seasons… Nature is who believes his native town to be Nance, and her favorite artist is tics. “Our thoughts, the cake Klint Peebles (Philadelphia) to live so wise. / Don’t cry ’cause art itself.” the world, than he who aspires to William Adolf Bouguereau. which sustains us — our actions, Klint’s favorite writers are you’re so right. / Don’t dry with become greater than his nature the icing which translates us.” Harper Lee, Edgar Allan Poe, fakes or fears, / ’Cause you will Laura Chaires (Jackson) will allow. — Frankenstein Madison LaFleur (Gulfport) William Shakespeare, and Frank hate yourself in the end.” Laura’s favorite writers are Sylvia Madison will attend Bess McCafferty (Jackson) McCourt. “Either write some- Plath and e.e. cummings. “Ducks Rebekah Garrison (Summerland) Southeastern Louisiana Bess will attend St. John’s thing worth reading or do some- Elizabeth Wayne (Crystal Springs) and geese are foolish things and Rebekah’s favorite writers are University in the fall with a University in Queens, New York, thing worth writing.” Elizabeth’s favorite authors are must be looked after, but girls can Madeleine L’Engle and Orson major in environmental science. with a major in international — Benjamin Franklin C.S. Lewis and Jane Austen, and take care of themselves." Scott Card, and her favorite artist “Savor every happy moment.” relations and Spanish and Italian. books that have influenced her Khadijah Ransom — Washington Irving is Walter Anderson. Her work has Her experience at MSMS is (Indianola) writing are Pride and Prejudice Thomas and Beulah been influenced by Madeleine Addie Leak (Woodville) described in Lauryn Hill’s “The Khadijah will attend Dillard and . “Don’t Final Hour.” University, New Orleans, with a expect a great day; make one.” L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light. Addie will attend Belhaven Farshad Chowdhury (Greenwood) major in pharmacy. “Good, bet- Farshad plans to attend College with a major in creative Andy Guan (Ridgeland) Laura Beth Moore (Ridgeland) ter, best. Never let it rest, until Emily Williams (Ocean Springs) Dartmouth College with a major in writing. Her work has been Andy wants to major in graphic Laura Beth formerly attended your good is your better, and Emily’s favorite writers are Sir neuroscience and international influenced by the Redwall series design and mathematics. His Tupelo High School and will your better is your best.” Arthur Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells, affairs. “Be who you are and say by Brian Jacques and Monet’s favorite artists are Van Gogh and attend The University of Charles Dickens, and Natsuki what you feel, because those who “The Houses of Parliament.” Southern Mississippi in the fall. Jennifer Sloan (Starkville) Takaya. “The brain is a wonder- Norman Rockwell; Rockwell’s don’t mind don’t matter and those To Jennifer, the song describing ful organ. It starts working the works have influenced his own. who don’t matter don’t mind.” Trey Lyons (Mooreville) Rodney Morgan (Verona) her MSMS experience is moment you get up and does not “’Cause ever since I tried trying “Tequila” by The Champs stop until you get to school.” — Dr. Seuss Larry Hawkins (Pascagoula) Trey’s favorite writer is Walt Whitman, and his favorite artist not to find / Every little meaning “because it has no words and is Larry’s writing has been influ- in my life / It’s been fine / I’ve very jumpy and crazy. Just like Jacie Williams (Iuka) Amanda Dew (Charleston) enced by his life experiences. “No is Michael Jackson. He will attend Millsaps College in the been cool / With my new golden the MSMS experience….” Jacie will attend Mississippi State Amanda plans to attend matter how many trials you expe- rule.” “New Deep” by John University with a major in engi- fall with a major in biochemistry — Mississippi State University with a rience in your life, unless you Mayer. Rodney’s favorite writers Missie Smith (Columbus) neering. Her favorite authors are major in pre-med/chemistry. learned the lesson they presented, and medicine. are Langston Hughes and Walt Missie plans to attend William Shakespeare, Anne Rice, “Stand for something or you’ll fall you’ll never be able to advance.” Whitman. Mississippi State University with and Carl Higasen. “If you don’t for nothing.” Ashley Mackay (Columbus) a major in chemical engineering. want anyone to know about it, Clarence Holmes (Cleveland) Ashley plans to attend Brigham Willow Nero (Bay St. Louis) Her favorite writer is Jane don’t do it!” Jonathon DuPont (Wiggins) Clarence plans to attend Hampton Young University. Her favorite Willow will attend The Austen. “Never let anyone stop Jonathon plans to attend The University with a major in marine writers are William Butler Yeats, University of Mississippi with a you from doing your best.” Jimmy Williams (Myrtle) University of Mississippi with a biology. His favorite writer is Dan e.e. cummings, Ralph Waldo major in creative writing and Jimmy will attend Mississippi major in mathematics and physics. Brown, whose book The Da Vinci Emerson, and Jack Kerouac. journalism. “We do not write Ryder Taff (Jackson) State University in the fall with a because we want to; we write Ryder plans to attend The major in chemical engineering. His work has been influenced by Code has influenced his own work. because we have to.” University of Georgia. His His favorite author is Walt “North by East,” H.G. Wells’ The Cassandre Man-Bourdon Ashley Jefcoat (Quitman) — W. Somerset Maugham favorite photographer is Korda, Whitman, and he enjoys the play Man in the Moon, and Jules Verne’s (Ridgeland) Ashley’s favorite authors are Neil whose photograph of Che Hamlet. Journey to the Center of the Earth. Cassandre’s favorite artists are Gaimon, Mercedes Lackey, and e.e. Amanda Novotny (Starkville) Guevera has influenced Ryder’s Walter Anderson and Leonardo Caitlin Wolfe cummings. “Say goodbye to the Amanda plans to attend Purdue art. (Jackson) Christy Dyess (Bassfield) Da Vinci. “Life has been your University with a major in civil Caitlin’s favorite authors are Ray whole wide world / We’re head- Christy plans to attend The art. You have set yourself to engineering. Michelangelo’s art Quinnon-Rashad Taylor Bradbury, Edgar Allan Poe, Jane ing off as far away as we can.” University of Southern Mississippi music.” has influenced her own. “Better (Greenville) Austen, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. — Gackt’s “Another World” Is One Day” best describes her Quinnon’s favorite artists are Tolkien. “Wait until it is night MSMS experience. Aaliyah, Madonna, John Mayer, before saying it has been a fine and Beyonce. “Creativity is a lot day.” — a fortune cookie Ashlee Oliver (Senatobia) like love. Every time you think Ashlee’s personal philosophy is to define it, you change your def- “God made this beautiful world; inition in some way.” I merely capture pieces of it on — Madonna 48