A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Photography CREATIVE

LICENSE Angel in Fountain, by Faye Sharpe A Note From the Editor

Creative License is an award winning literary and arts magazine published annually by and for the students of Georgia Perimeter College. The magazine accepts any original, previously Its mission is to provide an outlet for unpublished art form that can appear in print: students’ creative expression and to serve poetry, fiction, drama, art, photography, or musical scores. The magazine cannot pay for as a classroom teaching tool to promote material selected for publication except with a learning and unity among the various free copy of the issue in which it appears. campuses and centers of the college. For more information, contact the Editor (Humanities Dept. of Newton Campus, The goal of Creative License is to expose the 239 Cedar Ln., Covington, GA 30014) unique perspectives of Georgia Perimeter or a Campus Advisor. College students and their surrounding communities. The magazine is solely compiled of student work, and it is our belief that diverse pieces reflect the college’s unique and varied population.

We are proud of what our students have done in the past, and we hope to continue this tradition of excellence in the future. Copyright Georgia Perimeter College, 2013 Rob Watts, Interim President

Deborah Byrd Faculty Editor DEDICATION Carole Creekmore 1948 - 2013

In 2012, Creative License celebrated the 20th anniversary of its founding by dedicating the edition to founder, Dr. Rosemary Cox, and naming the four categories of prizes in her honor. This year the magazine celebrates the 20th anniversary of its first publication, so with great honor the faculty and student editors dedicate this 2013 edition of Creative License to Carole Creekmore, the first Faculty Editor.

In 1993, Professor Creekmore was the natural choice for Faculty Editor. Not only was she a published poet herself, but her article, “Creative Planning = Creative Teaching: A Visual Charting of Innovative Class- room Activities” was being published by the National Conference on College Teaching and Learning.

“Carole was completely dedicated to the growth and development of Creative License,” says Dr. Alan Jackson, also a former Faculty Editor. “She set high standards for the quality of submissions and expected sincere effort from the faculty advisors and the student editors.”

For 13 years, Professor Creekmore navigated Creative License through the unpredictable changes in college administration, the publishing industry, technology, funding, and even changes in the very definition of creativity. Her effort and example charted the course for others to follow. Thank you, Carole. It is with sincere appreciation that we dedicate this 20th edition of Creative License to you.

2 CREATIVE For Art “The Giving Tree” by Candice McKinley, page 10

For Short Fiction “The Birth of Venus” by Erika Kim Phu Nguyen, page 24

For Poetry “Drive” by Chachee Valentine, page 32

LICENSE 3 Pla-ploop, pop, pop, bloop, bloop… Will’s House the coffee percolator sings. by Martha C. Wallace Sssst, pop, pop, ssst the bacon sizzles a hot reply. Hot sticky cheese bubbles over the sides of the toast. Buttery grits pop and boil. Country music singers wailin’ and bemoanin’ love, life, and country livin’ drift from the kitchen radio to upstairs rooms. Grandpa taps the tips of his shiny black shoes. I rush to get the homemade peach and strawberry preserves from the pantry, and grandpa’s favorite coffee cup . First I blow, then sip the spicy and fragrant sassafras tea that Grandpa makes just for me.

Grandpa sleeps downstairs to protect his house- no one was “comin’ in heh” he’d say. “My family’s gonna be safe heh.” In the South’s cotton fields, beautiful, white blossoms transform, turning crimson, like the sharp cuts that the bracts made on my grandfather’s hands when he pulled the fluffy white balls of cotton . Sun high and hot, he wiped a drop of blood from his fingers and drops of sweat from his brow. “Crops gotta be picked.” Acrid smells of stifling Northern steel mills replaced those fields. Steel splattered crimson, sharp edges, massive machines, maiming, mangling fingers. Somehow I never missed them when I grasped his strong and gentle hands.

I run to his room and sit in his comfy chair Noxzema, Spearmint, and Juicy Fruit, Old-Spice and Ben Gay live in the air , Envelop me like the crocheted throw on the back of the chair. I smear the silvery white Noxzema on my cheeks and over my whole face. I smell and look just like Grandpa; reflecting his warm caramel colored eyes, and smooth pecan tan cheeks.

His mammoth, circular mirror reflects his life: me, his Farmer’s Almanac, worn Bible near his alarm clock. His footlocker at the foot of his bed holds his perfectly lined shoes, his shoe polish kit, and an old checkerboard.

4 CREATIVE I tear out of the back door, jumping down the steps, to help Grandpa in his garden. It isn’t a chore, but a treat. Grandpa is out back, making sure his transistor radio is loud enough to hear “his” Cleveland Indians baseball game. I step past perfectly round cabbages and collards tall and deep green In the backyard near the pear tree. I see Grandpa pulling spring onions and beets . Long, cool cucumbers, okra and plump, sweet tomatoes , nestled in his basket, where I place spearmint that I pulled for his sweet tea. Quietly, expertly, coaxing the earth to yield to his touch, he loosens dirt around the plant roots, and I sprinkle them with water from my tin pail. Regal morning glories boldly scale up the side of the garage, Spilling over the back fence into the neighbor’s yard. Marigolds jiggle their bright golden heads in between herbs: thyme, red clover, chives, garlic and a bush of rosemary.

Wherever there is dirt Grandpa plants something good.

A patch of strawberries lines the thin path along the driveway, and suddenly we are in the front yard. Plastic ducks border the stairs up to the front porch, filled with scarlet geraniums, black-eyed susans, and burgundy sun coleus. Fragrant honeysuckle vines intertwine with the fruit heavy, sweet concord grape vines, I appear, from the cool shady side of the house, scratching around my mouth, embarrassed through the grape vines, Grandpa laughs, seeing purple blotches of concord on my fingers and face.

The radio sputters and crackles the national anthem. We put the tools in the garage and head for the large green porch swing. The game has started; he looks off into the sky. I suppose he is watching the game in his mind’s eye. C-r-a-c-k-k-k of a hit from an Indians bat, my arm around his neck, His face crinkles into a loving smile.

He takes his white handkerchief and holds it under the water spigot wiping the sweet purple tint off my sun bronzed face. We sit on the swing and he pulls his pearl handled pocket knife out and very carefully cuts a piece of sugar cane, and shares its sweetness with me.

LICENSE 5 Singing Annie’s “Tomorrow” by Tatiana Cadet

In the pitch dark, I stand alone center-stage. Taking deep breaths as I recite the lines to myself over and over again, like a scratched CD stumbling on the chorus. I close my eyes savoring the darkness as the curtains spread apart, like the doors of an elevator. The beaming light hovers over me as the music begins to play. Avoiding the staring iris of the spotlight, I close my eyes, then allow myself to peek at the hundreds of people fidgeting and whispering but all I can see are the silhouettes. Instead of trying to make out the owners of the shadows I stare at the glowing red exit sign beaming brightly in the back of the room. Another deep-breath and I bellow before the crowd announcing that the sun will come out tomorrow. The words strum my throat And resonate to the ears of every audience member. I skip across the stage with Sandy’s leash in my hand, As the red curls of my wig bob along. I end the song on a ‘C note’ And the thunderous applause cues me to take a bow. The curtains close like the doors of an elevator, I close my eyes and exhale deeply. Standing there in the dark, center stage.

6 CREATIVE Flowers, by Amanda Anderson

LICENSE 7 Today I got an F by Steve Keller

I ignored I left early I kept on driving I didn’t say excuse me, bless you, please, or thank you I left the seat up I didn’t call back I haven’t exercised I left the dishes dirty I haven’t I couldn’t I wouldn’t I hadn’t I didn’t I should have I could have I would have Upon a Mighty Giraffe Instead by Miranda Hagans Today I got an F. The sky bleeds vermillion hues Mending with purple, opals and aquamarines. The wispy clouds stretched out And a cool ocean breeze dances on my skin. As I ride upon a mighty giraffe, round and round. The late summer sun slowly fades away The roar of roller coasters blends with the squeals of pure happiness. In all my two years, this is it, That moment of complete bliss. Found hiding in the corners of Orange Beach, Revealed through a mesmerizing carousel ride. I was once that small smiling little girl. Hair tousled by the wind and sunshine beaming from my eyes. Now those are the only found memories. Captured in photos and hidden away, like that happiness I once knew so well.

8 CREATIVE PIÑATA GIRL Dressed as paper dolls in paper gowns by Chachee Valentine we hang from lopsided shoulders This is our masquerade. dangle and turn as mobiles do You harmonize identical frequency visitor as we become the dark. are the uninvited. We dance like bumper cars We are dead in here. nibble on party favors Your white knuckles disturb the entrance door. pretend to be having a good time Our lives resonate slow motion in turtle back ears because we do not know any different Gregorian chant for the unsound. and because time From the cathedral ceiling in the smoking room is all we have. hangs a dead girl Someone hands me a stick for my turn. disguised as a piñata To the beat of white knuckle bass where lungs submerge on the entrance door that will not go away in institution issued I beat Piñata Girl chicory cigarettes as everyone witnesses her kamikaze sunrise of the rat tail kind. for the last time - Three legged table how with every strike to stuffed flesh wobbles bravely in the corner the girl’s insides burn into delicate stars offering cans of liquid cheese disappear before they hit ground. dates expired Before the Keys unlatch heavy metal doors adding zing to unsalted crackers rush in their tired miracles devoured party wafers. I hear her favorite music taken with her. Stoned on fruit punch spiked with Stelazine Being the dead we know we are through my opaque mask we savor as much as we can I watch Piñata Girl’s body sway frenzy to gather her parts sway softly before the Keys play God - wildly drug induce a revival for Piñata Girl crazy as a stray hair. leaving us behind. Ruptured vessels surface My mouth packed with sugar drops over her anemic face in bloom I find my way into the lounge confetti twinkles turn on Saturday morning cartoons between the slits of her eyes because they feel as Piñata Girl cracks a wink at me. like home.

LICENSE 9 10 CREATIVE The Giving Tree , by Candice McKinley

LICENSE 11 uch, I say, trying not to flinch but do. OSabrina does not look Every pinprick makes me go at me while she pricks me with into my mind, into that place a pin. I say it again only this of nothingness we are in before fears of emptiness. I want to time I whine. we are born, before we become tell mother I understand death Ouch. human. When I was little, as the place of nothing, but no I used to ask mother what it Sabrina drives the pin deep- one talks about dying in my was like to be dead. er beneath my skin to let me house. Even Sabrina obeys this know I should know better. It’s like nothing! rule. Of the three of us, Kimberly, Mother yelled out those The pins we use for the Haddie, and me, I am the only words one day and I knew healing have red plastic tips that one Sabrina wants to use for she felt terrible for shouting. remind me of cinnamon Red the healing. When we see the After that, every night in bed I Hots. These belong to mother. others tomorrow I will feel would practice being dead by They are the same pins she once like the devil because they closing my eyes and holding used to pin me a new dress for don’t know how close me and my breath. My heart would the Christmas pageant. Sabri- Sabrina have become. slow, but the heavy thump- na says they work best for the The bathroom is starting to ing in my chest would distract healing. Before her sickness, smell like Sabrina. Without her me like a melody I wanted to mother made everything. seeing, I hold my breath for hum. My feet, my legs, then my Standing on her sewing table as long as I can. I stare at her hips, would start to rock to the felt like a stage, and one time mouth, watch it pucker with rhythm, and I would give up I told her in my best voice how concentration for every first trying to be dead. beautiful she looked in the prick. Sabrina looks icy and But, I was much younger light. unforgiving, borrowing the then. It wasn’t until I met Oh, Gertrude, she said with a sharpened eyebrows of Vincent Sabrina that I figured death sweet tsk before calling me silly. Price, Tales of Horror. out. When I’m alone with Another pin sinks in. Beads of sweat collect and Sabrina, I go into an empty Nice and steady says Sabrina. shimmer over her top lip as if place, an unfenced vault of she doesn’t see me, like I’m not darkness. I’ve learned that The sting helps me to not think here. During the healing, I turn when we die there is no spiral of mother. into something or someone luminescence, no warm hands Don’t cry. welcoming, and no expecting Sabrina doesn’t want to remem- I sing to myself in my mind’s Maker hovering. As she pricks ber: a slap, scream, or maybe a mind and begin to think about me with mother’s pins I am hand. She can’t help it, and I my marble collection and won- in this place right now, back feel sorry for her. I want to feel der where my favorite marble a part of something, so I let her and forth between the slick of use my body to make it all go the pin going in and the end- away, for the anger in her eyes ing mother had told me about to disappear, and for mother to be healed.

12 CREATIVE Prick in the Night by Chachee Valentine

could be. It was clean, smooth, and white with orange swirls through it, like a creamsicle. will let this slide, I promise to The air in the bathroom is warm spend more time with mother and sticky like honey. It doesn’t before it’s too late. seem to bother Sabrina like it When I finish peeing, Sabrina does me. Sweating reminds me grabs me under my left armpit. of mother’s husband, Ray. Flut- I don’t reply. I squirm, and Her hand sticks to my skin, and ters of his sweaty drunken body squirming is just as bad. my salt and her salt mix and filleted on the couch flood my With her finger on the red tip, burn. She doesn’t see Wednes- memory. I don’t want to see she moves the pin round and day. him anymore, and squeeze my round, making tiny circles. Her eyes. Thank you, God. pale blue eyes squint at my eyes Sabrina, I gotta pee. Before I zip my pants, the heal- that are brownish-yellow, like ing continues. poop-tank water, she always She lets me stand up, flips says. Time is running out. up the lid as I push down my Ouch. Can’t we move on to an- pants, my underwear, and there other spot? I ask this out loud. Sit still, her voice commands. it is: WEDNESDAY. My heart Half a smile leaks out the cor- The room smells like beats in my ears. I have on the ner of my mouth because Sabrina. Like cooked corn. wrong day’s underwear. It’s blood makes me nervous. Friday, and if Sabrina sees I’m Sit still, you baby. wearing Wednesday she’ll call She thrusts the pin into my me stupid. She might not do arm. the healing anymore, and we’re running out of time. Hoping You want this to work or not? he can hear me, I make a deal with God in my head that if he

LICENSE 13 Meditations to Escape from Anxiety #2, by Candice McKinley

14 CREATIVE Nine months insignificant - gray matter defines the canyon between us. My language waits to be named to unload a double barrel chamber packed with muted vowels until you fire. Finger, Finger I think of the rings around your bones - for thirty-eight years Though I may be found I have belonged to you who will remember me - and to a desire I am not dead to roll my sleeve I am not living - pull the trigger One-one thousand feel the innocence two-one thousand of blushing freedom. three - Never would I hear the sound as voices count that kind of dream sound I swim with sparkle fish the one that makes you crash in the underwater sun into your pillow paddle through mists of hair echoes through you against the night hairs that trace a path because the sound and the nothingness connect my disabled vertebra. happen together. Someone on shore holds a piece of me Sulfuric smell to their ear of black-blue powder make me sleep – imagines the sea. stains my left palm Sandpaper teeth grind a melody leaves a carbon print of my existence. transistor crackles radio to me between the scissor current and the passion of a wave. Thick with sleep I try to wake for counting voices fading Radio to Me surrendering their numbers to land by Chachee Valentine that do not come back. Beyond myself on a raft I float abandoning a memory of me and Finger extinct.

LICENSE 15 My father who loved me Not one mouth warned timber and mother who did not or gave thanks sat their heads side by side as I lost my childhood in the car that rolled its wheels to The Fall. to the clinic Trunk rotten where my body sat for years. shadow disappeared All I wanted revealed itself my mother stiff as bark through a passenger window never moved. at the end of a long drive. I have been the nightmare - Elongated roads swerved past trees the monster under their bed. swaying hula I am the reoccurring dream round and round that will not go away. waving farewell To save myself Horsham to the outside. trees made me dream. by Chachee Valentine To create my only witness - To hide myself nervous fingers pinched on skin - memories turned mulch sometimes the fingers felt like mine protected the soil of my mind. other pinches put me to sleep. Remember me - The clinic closed in - not as graceful as your miscarried Hope make this a dream I dreamed - might have been. turn me into a dream I dreamed more. Remember me as those sweet trees The doctor with his brush fire beard how they move to pass time signaled his white nylon nurse sigh in the breeze to show my body its bed. stretch their spines Buried in the grave of the dream sing lullabies to seedlings I wrestle against the seasons. below. Caught in the snare I walk But this story I am told incomplete. is fishbowl memory found in the sludge And since I am the dream after diagnosis. who dreams the center cut Like a good patient even my bed had left the clinic I breathe in the quickness seeking more than a body of the needle’s fury a place where everything is real life and lie down with the dogs. without me. My father who loved me Our last supper - and mother who did not that night I leapt for the cupboard sat their heads side by side right hand landed on the stove. in the car that rolled its wheels Electric coil hissed - away from the clinic burned October colors where my body sat for years. palm dried into book-pressed leaf. Dreaming with hula trees swaying to pass time.

16 CREATIVE Bahamian Sunset, by Sheena Vasquez

St. Louis, by Trey Larenz Earl

LICENSE 17 Jai Kali Maa, by Eduardo A. Cintron

18 CREATIVE Untitled, by Detras Heyward

LICENSE 19 Quilt of Grandma, by An Artist of Many Names

Friend, by Trey Larenz Earl

20 CREATIVE The Giving Tree by Candice McKinley

A consequence of self-doubt.

For every betrayal to the nature of a tree, a leaf was broken by the wind. In this way, she gave of herself.

A piece of protective bark shed each time she held back in silence, giving way to his judgment of her. But for every scale fallen, the victory was hers in silence, for in silence the Wind carried away a heavy burden.

He stripped her naked and green, so she could feel the authenticity of herself. Feel her open heart, take it out, and give it to him. He needed it, her love, to heal his heart.

And when the Wind blew, too heavy with knowledge, he heard a branch break and ran for safety. She stayed, because she could not follow, and carved a message for him if he should return and her limbs be too heavy to embrace him:

“Do not lose heart, Beloved. Take mine. It will grow back.”

A hollow oak tree feels for the remaining water beneath her, heavy limbs reach out in longing. Her leaves, once electric with the dawn of spring, have been swept away.

LICENSE 21 As the earth cools and the sun rests where land meets the sky, hues of purplish blues color the horizon.

On my quiet porch, a quilt with a hundred colors lies lazily over my long legs. Stuffed soft lamb’s wool peaks through a myriad of earth-toned patches. I am warm in the cool Georgia fall.

The burnt orange squares near my slippered feet remind me of the hot August sun that turns wet brown mud pies into hard clay cakes, cracked in the middle and smooth around the edges. Back when our future seemed so far away, my brother and I were Master Chefs in our own backyard, baking up water mixed with red Georgia clay and talking dreamily about the world-famous Shahid bakery we’d have when we grew up-- “Sweet Treats and Eats.”

My tiny laugh breaks the silence on the porch.

Pulling the quilt closer to my waist, I am mesmerized by the sea green patch the color of my son’s eyes. They light up his fair-skinned face like green palm trees on a sandy white beach. He comes to me when I am alone, asking questions about life after death, being adopted, and the homeless “hobos” with the cardboard signs at the highway exits. “We should always give them money because they were in the Vietnam War. I know, ‘cause Uncle Saddi told me.” He is a young Prince with deep jeweled eyes.

22 CREATIVE As I smile while thinking of him, I pull the thick heavy quilt even closer to my chest. Nightfall is approaching, and I stare at the deep brown patch in the middle of my quilt.

I squeeze it tightly, bringing the dusty old memory in front of my teary eyes. I can see him clearly, as if the sun was shining now like it was on that day. Sitting on the ground under a huge tree in the Twin Cities, I nestle between his big thick legs and feel his heart beat through the brown skin on my back. Leaves dance around us celebrating a new season, as his deep voice tells stories of his father. He wraps his strong arms around me, pulling me closer into his life. I can smell the red and white peppermint melting on his tongue as he whispers “I love You” a dozen different ways. His smooth brown lips tickle my earlobes sending heat through my body as the sun never could.

Reveling in the cocoa brown heat of the square patch, I inhale the crisp Autumn air again and exhale slowly, watching my warm breath float into the cool dark air.

A Quilted Life by Crystal Shahid

LICENSE 23 The Birth of Venus by Erika Kim Phu Nguyen

verbearing. Suffo- ways volunteering to do some- Wesley Kirby. He wasn’t as tall cating. Annoying. thing but then complaining as I remembered, but he still Those were the about it. had the same green eyes and words that came My palms were up to stop dirty blonde hair that seemed Oto mind with my mother and to lie where it may. I had a her. “No, I’ll go. I’ll go.” her trail of nagging words walk- crush on him since sixth grade. Most of my friends in the ing behind me in our foyer. Her I had once referred to his chin medical program at Northwest- voice echoed so it seemed like as being chiseled by the gods. ern went home for winter break five mothers were talking to We went on two dates my ju- to celebrate unity and fam- me. nior year of high school. On ily, not to engage in a sparring the second date, he asked me “I told you to pack your match. If it weren’t for non-in- what I wanted out of this life toothbrush. Why do you al- stant food and cable television, that was any different from ways forget your toothbrush?” I would have stayed in Illinois anyone else, and I didn’t have That was a good question. I with my toothbrush. It might an answer for him. Two years liked my teeth cleaned, but the have been freezing there, but later, I still didn’t as I stood in toothbrush was such an easy the temperature was probably the middle of aisle three mak- thing to forget especially when warmer than my foyer. ing small talk. How was I? I was using it before I left and I stood among all the tooth- Where was I going to school? had stuck it right back into the brushes at the corner store What was I studying? holder. I thought of what I was where I worked one summer. “Biochemistry,” I answered. going to say next because if I There weren’t many to choose answered, she would be an- from because choice was a lux- “I always thought you’d do noyed and if I didn’t, she would ury in Angel Fire, New Mexico. something artsy. You always be annoyed. The population of toothbrush- had those sketchbooks with “I’m sorry,” I said, having de- es to choose from was probably you in high school.” cided that being apologetic un- to scale of the population of “That’s not practical,” I heard der any circumstance was best. people. myself say. It was my go-to response for Hard, medium, pink, or “Says who?” just about anything I was being green; did it really matter? I just My mom, I thought but berated about. picked one and headed for the instead I said, “Everyone. You “Now I have to go buy you counter. can’t make a living selling art. another one. Again. Why do I “Jesse Spencer?” The voice People are worth more when always do everything in this from behind me prompted me they’re dead.” house?” She had a way of al- to turn around. There stood

24 CREATIVE back riding, and a girl named Elaine. My brother, Jackson, “I had wanted to play for all intents and purposes, was a great person but made extremely poor decisions like soccer as a child but devoting all of his time into The Next Big Thing, or as my ‘girls don’t play soccer,’ mother phrased it, “The Next Big Failure.” She couldn’t rope him in, so she gave up on it a my mom had said. ” long time ago. He was the an- tithesis of everything she was. She was young when she had him and had given up on all her dreams of being a neuro- surgeon to make it work with He nodded at me tentatively as a child but “girls don’t play my dad. I was the result of an as if he were still deciding if he soccer,” my mom had said. She effort to salvage a marriage believed it. was a Rolodex full of excuses already in shambles seven years as to why and why not. “Girl After we said our goodbyes, later. Lesson learned: a baby Scouts is too much time and ef- I paid for my new green, medi- does not create a marriage and fort,” and “dance is too expen- um-bristled toothbrush. I was it doesn’t fix it either. still thinking about my answers sive if you’re not even good at “Your mom was going to Wesley’s questions. I did be- it.” Nothing would fly into the places,” people would tell me lieve myself to an extent, but metaphorical goal. for the umpteenth at weddings there was a part of me that was Soccer, of course, was never … Christmas parties … as I got still clinging onto the age-old a real ambition for me. It was my hair cut. Angel Fire was a theory of only pursuing a ca- just one of many things I regret- ridiculously small town where reer I would love. ted not getting to experience. It somebody’s business was was too late now considering Art wasn’t just something I everybody’s business. When I had the athletic ability of an had picked up like a game of the topic of how I was doing incapacitated chimpanzee. But dodge ball. It went from doo- came up, so did the topic of soccer, Girl Scouts, and dance dling on scraps of paper to keep my mom. She graduated at the – just like art – were hobbies me occupied at the doctor’s of- top of her class and was attend- to my mother. I stopped voic- fice to notebooks full of any- ing the University of Colorado ing anything that didn’t have to thing that caught my eye: birds, Denver before she met my dad do with neurology to her so art flowers, people in magazines and fell pregnant. for example. I gifted sketches of was never even an option. Our father left when I was my friends for Christmas when “Your brother called,” was five and Jackson was twelve. I ran out of ideas and money. the first thing my mom said A year later, my parents were to me when I met her down- I paused at the soccer field officially divorced. I remem- stairs the next morning. “He’s as I walked to the car from the bered feeling sad that my come into some money. Thinks convenience store. I watched parents weren’t together any- stained glass is his new calling.” as the goalkeeper moved as more, but the sadness was the ball came toward the net. Yes, and so was farm work, replaced with feeling apathetic. I had wanted to play soccer and surf lessons, and horse- At first, he was living across

LICENSE 25 town so we got to see him me, I’m Irish mug in the sink. lived in a dorm at Northwest- on the weekends but then he We weren’t Irish. My parents ern, I kept most of my material moved to Portland. Jackson re- were both second-generation possessions at home. fused to keep in contact with Italian immigrants, which It occurred to me that I had him after he figured he wasn’t meant we had dark hair, dark accumulated a large number coming home, but I call him eyes, and everything we ate of magazine subscriptions every once in a while to see went to our butts (at least in that had nothing to do with how he was doing without us. the case of the females). my interests. Brides, Maxim, He was fine. We always make Her dark brown eyes were no Forbes, and Southern Living were plans for me to see him in Port- different than mine but I felt among them. In my free time, I land but our words never come like she saw the world differ- had ended up looking up free to fruition. ently. Where she saw frivolity, subscriptions and hoarding I was eleven when Jackson I saw choices. Where she saw them. decided that college was a waste a waste of time, I saw explora- As I was pulling out one of of time, effort, and he wasn’t tion. She turned toward me my many magazines to toss good at it. It was also around and there was a look of deter- away, a notebook fell to the the same time that my mom mination on her face, but it was floor. I bent down and picked started to thrust her hopes and gone as soon as I blinked. It it up. I had first thought it was dreams on me because I was all was the look she wore whenev- a sketchbook and my heart she had left. I was never quite er she wanted to say something quickened. I hadn’t drawn even sure if I was supposed to hate but thought otherwise of it. a stick figure in so long. To my him for leaving me alone with Instead, she said, “Don’t for- relief, it was just a journal of her or if I was just jealous that get to bring in the mail.” I nod- random thoughts. I thumbed he got to do whatever he want- ded as she picked up her keys. through it and stared at a page ed. When my mom returned in the middle. “Predictions” Every time Jackson called from work at the local antique was scrawled across the top in from wherever he was at the store she managed, I had fin- my loopy handwriting. Every moment – South Carolina. ished seasons four and five of year, from the time I was six to California! Georgia or maybe it Friday Night Lights, and was twelve, I wrote predictions for was Alabama – it was because currently in the middle of orga- my life. Most of them involved he had some new bright busi- nizing my bookshelf. Though I my dad coming home in some ness venture. I had stopped asking where he was, and start- ed asking how he was. “I was never quite sure if I was “At least he’s alive,” I repeat- ed like I did every time there was news about his new calling, supposed to hate him for before taking out a container of orange juice and pouring my- leaving me alone with her or self a healthy amount. What I had wanted to say was, At least he’s doing something he likes. if I was just jealous that he got My mom hummed in neither disagreement nor to do whatever he wanted.” agreement as she put her Kiss

26 CREATIVE form, but I had given up on these trips down memory lane linoleum floor. that idea when he moved away. I could handle. It had to be some trick, but Then, it became less significant “Dinner!” She said louder sure enough, when I opened over time to follow the tradi- this time as if the volume of the door, his unmistakable tion of writing the predictions her shrieks were directly pro- grin was smiling back at me. because I had stopped making portional to how fast I was go- Since when did his teeth get goals for myself and had let my ing to move. She was mid-yell so white? I noticed he had a mom do it instead. when I started coming down tan. Probably got it from South I started to read the predic- the stairs. Cali-geor-bama, or wherever tions dated for when I was elev- “Coming,” I said, stating the he was when he decided that en. The first few were always obvious but she was already New Mexico was the happen- the same vain ideas. down the hall. ing place to be now. Number one: I will have the Outside of our “fights” “Little sis!” He exclaimed. cutest clothes this year. – or rather, her nagging and my “What are you doing here?” Two: I will get lots of presents cowering to avoid confronta- Our mother said from behind for my birthday. tion with her – my relationship me, saying exactly what I was Three: Jonas Brothers concert!!! with my mom wasn’t entirely thinking but five tones icier. bad. She used to send me care I could feel another fight be- Four: Mom will let me wear packages full of things I didn’t tween them before he even makeup. really need. She had bought me stepped through the door. Number five was, “Wesley Kir- so many razors I was beginning “Hi to you both, too.” by will finally kiss me” – half to think she thought I was Sas- “We’re having dinner,” I said true. It was more like a peck. quatch. It was the thought that quickly trying to avoid a world Six: Friends will be un-canceled. counted or something of the war. Number seven read, “I will sort. “Good. I’m starving,” he own a gallery when I’m older.” We were talking about how said. He was taking off his I always wrote the most impor- glad I was to escape the snow shoes and my mom had a look tant one down on seven be- up north halfway through din- of disapproval on her face. It cause seven was supposed to ner when the doorbell rang. might have been the hair. He be a lucky number. Some luck I My mom grumbled about it was blonde now, but his roots had. I stared at seven and tried being late, and rude, and “if were grown out so much that to suppress the knots form- it was Anna from next-door he might as well have been a ing in my stomach. I thought asking about someone stealing brunette. I wasn’t sure if it was back to Wesley and it was like her tulips again, don’t open the because he was busy or just numbers five and seven were door.” another sign of his rebellion. mocking me. I was already on my feet and It might have been the weird “Dinner!” My mom called at the door by the end of her smell of … something. Did from downstairs, cutting sentence. Peering through the they have showers in South through my thoughts. I stood windows, I gasped. Cali-geor-bama? Watering there for a moment. I closed the “It’s … Jackson?” My voice holes, even? More than likely, notebook quickly, not wanting trailed off into a question be- it was probably just him being to think about it anymore, and cause, what could my brother there unannounced. She didn’t shoved it back onto the shelf. possibly be doing in town? do well with surprises. As for That was enough for tonight. I I heard my mother’s chair make me, I welcomed his presence wasn’t sure how much more of a scraping sound against the because I hadn’t seen him in

LICENSE 27 years, but at the same time, I knew how flippant my brother “You took it too far.” knew this wasn’t going to end could be, but never voiced it “She started it!” well. The last time he came before now. I folded my arms across my home, they spent the entire “No it’s not,” he said. chest. “You didn’t have to fin- time arguing about college. “You’ve been wasting seven ish it.” Dinner suddenly became a years doing God knows what “She brainwashed you.” He spectacle to me. Jackson still and you come back for stained moved toward me to place a had an insatiable appetite for glass?” My head was going back hand on my forehead as if he my mom’s crappy but edible and forth like I was watching a could feel my supposed men- cooking. It was one of the en- match between Andy Roddick tal illness like a cold. I stepped dearing qualities about him and Kevin Federer, not sure back to avoid his touch. – he could eat whatever was who was going to win. I could “Stop. Grow up, Jax. She’s laid out in front of him like the hear years of her discontent not the enemy. You’re a twen- one time he ate three-week-old smack him in the face like a ty-five year old man who can’t pizza, and swore up and down tennis ball. it was okay. Tonight, it was a keep a job, a girl, or a proper “And what am I supposed to casserole. I’m not sure what in- haircut.” do? Be like Jess? Do whatever gredients were put into making “Why are you protecting you want?” it, but calling it a casserole was her?” My mom didn’t say anything, a safe bet. Though he didn’t “Why are you trying to hurt which was very unlike her. say anything about the dish, her? … She’s our mom.” he was already on his fifth full “Do you ever ask Jesse what I went to find my mom and plate while I was still pushing she wants? If you ever took he followed me, or so I thought around the string beans on my a chance to notice your own until he took his suitcase and first. daughter, you’d know she’s a turned the other way to his old really good artist, Mom.” “So then, I thought … bedroom. stained glass is going to be a I stared at him. “Stop.” I watched him angrily wheel huge market in New Mexico. I placed a hand on his shoulder his stuff down the corridor. We could build like, a million to emphasize my point. Keep One of the wheels of his suit- churches,” he continued to fill me out of this, I thought. You case was loose so the entire us on his life through mouths don’t understand. No one did. thing wobbled as he pulled it. full of food. Not Wesley, not Jackson, and He looked like a child with a not my mom. Maybe not even At least I feigned inter- broken toy. He didn’t get his me. est. I could tell my mom had way and threw a tantrum. He stopped listening a long time “You’re going to push her was still the same kid who ago. I figured it was somewhere away like you did Dad and me, had convinced me that a mole between mountain climbing and you’re going to end up was just a fly’s poop. I had al- with Elaine and finding out alone in this big house with ways admired him for his abil- she was married. It was always your neurosurgeon dreams and ity to do as he pleased. I had the same story with different your neurosurgeon disappoint- mistaken carelessness for names and places. ments.” strength, independence, and “That’s stupid,” my mom “Jackson! That’s enough,” spontaneity. Jackson wasn’t said across from him sudden- I said sternly, but my mom any of those things. Instead of ly. I looked at her with Bugs was already out of her seat, doing whatever our mother Bunny bulging eyes. We both leaving her dinner half eaten. wanted, he was letting her

28 CREATIVE control him by doing what she her favorite painting. It was own personal hell. didn’t want. I didn’t quite un- also mine because of its soft- My mom didn’t move, but derstand until now that I had ness, colors, symmetry and the I knew she knew I was there. sacrificed what I had wanted to story of Venus – born from the I closed the door behind me please my mother, just like she sea in a seashell and clothed and sat down next to her. had given up on her dreams for by Horae as she was blown to “He’s unpacking in the a family. It was a strange feel- the shore. When it came to my- guest bedroom,” I said, brac- ing to have knowing that I was thology, I had always identified ing myself for a post-Jackson the only one who had grown in more with Persephone. Hades explosion. this household. abducted Persephone because “Okay,” she said in a soft I slowly pushed open the he had fallen in love with her, voice I wasn’t used to. door to the upstairs bathroom, only returning her to her moth- afraid of the creaks and moans er after tricking her into eating “Okay,” I repeated. As I sat that often gave away an unwel- pomegranate seeds. Whoever and stared with her, I realized comed guest. My mom was sit- ate food from the Underworld … I wasn’t Persephone. Jackson ting on the floor, staring up at was damned to spend eternity and I were the pomegranate the wall. Her face was streaked there – trapped, married to seeds that sealed her fate. with tears. I turned to what she something she didn’t love. I made a mental note to was looking at. Sandro Botti- As much as I loved my mom, call Wesley for that third date celli’s The Birth of Venus looked I didn’t want to be like her. because I finally had an answer back at me. Mom had bought That was what I wanted in life. to that question he asked me it at a yard sale because it was I didn’t want to be stuck in my all those years ago.

LICENSE 29 30 CREATIVE Bottled , by Janita Mikkola

LICENSE 31 Anne drives. Right foot presses the gas pedal hard hard as a pair of ruby lips smashed on red wine stained chin bleached out collar. Crimson Cougar halts at the Ritz. I sit behind. We sneak inside Blackberry vinyl resin sticks to hairless legs order martinis holds me stiff as a cross stingers as she weaves her nineteen-sixty-seven two-for-one and knock them back. crimson Cougar in and out of cars Poets dressed as salesmen yielding to her yellow roar. waiters Anne’s tongue homemakers laps up virginity until it is dry. surround me I want to be her kind. cat strut the isle. The podium is taller than I remember. Red dress wears her femaleness Words crumble in my mouth the way a thin line draws a silhouette fractured bone letters fall and not a child or a woman ash silent. ambiguous and shapeless I see words as words Anne waves. inscribed in my body’s mind. Tosses my pages into the choked up air. The rev-rev of her liquid laughter I have not done my hitch turns high beams on high my half. mixes with the air Part of the road I am asphalt excavates sound from my lungs. not whole. Inside a voice surfaces Back in the Cougar begs for me to slip on the costume the seat rubs under my thighs of brave Anne shame fills the blanks inside. still haunted. Salty smoke swirls Her marble eyes grow greener. around Anne Anne tells me as she cures herself for the first I must learn to create my own room and last time. my own audience To fill Anne’s dress I must grow muster every chalk of my body so I burn to let the words find me burn to render the madness. until nothing is left but my sex I want to be her kind. or the opposite of the poem as big as we are small will hide its seeds Drive remain in the gravedigger’s pocket. by Chachee Valentine

32 CREATIVE Mystery in a Glare, by Ciara Seabolt

LICENSE 33 The Violin Player by Candice McKinley

A stage of strings and bows invites us in for a bluegrass song. Dobro, cello, guitar, mandolin, banjo and violin.

My lover approaches as the music begins, to stand close behind me. We touch; he, my neck, and my fingers run the length of his thigh. He does not know this awakens my soul, he hasn’t the pleasure of my company. But I feel his fingers dance on my pale skin, as the musician’s vibrate across his banjo.

This sweet, grassy blue music is my lover’s call, his song of lamentation. He speaks softly, but I feel him howling at me, his moon, “Come, and run wild with me. Come, and stand on your feet. Come down from there and fill me with the wisdom you know.”

Our mouths, as far apart today as the horizon, now as close as the microphone and her songbird’s light kiss. And as this heavy melody fills the room we enfold, neck to neck, listening for words unsaid.

….(violin music)

We are inside of this song, the ancient hunger in me lulled to peaceful sleep, Love rocking her gently. Longing takes hold of my hand and hip, swaying us all to the rhythm the strings make. This rocking and swaying creates tension, the sensual rolling each hip makes, pregnant with wanting.

34 CREATIVE Now, God embraces me, and I can no longer feel the boundary between He, my lover, and I. There is only Love and Violin. He speaks through the song, “You must let go now,” and I willfully whisper “No,” though no one can hear this small voice, all lost in a sea of good vibrations. He whispers back, “Take my hand and do not fear, I will never leave you, but you will hear me only so long as the violin sings its song.”

Play foolishly then, with absent pause or the strings will no longer bring the transcendence of His touch, the musician’s passionate taps on his guitar like my lovers just below my back. My wrinkled brow gives way to a breaking smile.

…(violin music)

And as this hymn comes to an end, an inspirited sigh escapes me, unnoticed and inaudible. I am alone again in the ocean.

My lover once said he wanted someone to sing with him songs of devotion. Burn this sweet, southern music, then, into the hearts of men.

LICENSE 35 Faculty Editor: Deborah Byrd

Faculty Advisors: Phil Mosier Rick Diguette Shellie Sims Welch Katherine Perry Tracienne Ravita Amber Nicole Brooks

Special thanks to: The Humanities Department The English Department The Honors Program Georgia Perimeter College Office of Public Relations Student Government Association The Chattahoochee Review, Anna Schachner, Editor The GPC Foundation Office Sandy Francis, Alpharetta Campus Alicia Johanneson, Clarkston Campus

Student Editors: Khadijah Carter Kim M. Harris Chachee Valentine Olivia Welch

Front Cover Art: “To the Skies” by Eduardo A. Cintron

Back Cover Art: “Flower Arrangement” by Faye Sharpe

Design & Layout: Doug Goodwin Quiet Thought by Candice McKinley Copyright © 2013 Georgia Perimeter College An associate degree-granting college of the University System of Georgia/AA/EOE