West Liberty University

AMPERSAND

WEST LIBERTY UNIVERSITY

2020

SPRING

ISSUE

& About Ampersand

Ampersand was first published in 1980 as a publication of the West Liberty chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the international English Honor Society. Through the years, it has changed ownership from Sigma Tau Delta to the Department of Humanities and back again. While it is now housed in the College of Liberal Arts, students who wish to submit to and work on the publication can come from any academic program, such as graphic design, history, and, of course, writing.

It is always an opportunity for students to showcase their creativity. Art, whether words or images, speaks to us as humans. We are storytellers by nature and need literature and art to share our perspectives and help us understand our experiences and the world around us. Things like facts, logic, and statistics help us learn about the world; they educate our minds. However, art speaks to something deeper, what it means to be human, what it means to be living in this orld that ere learning about. It helps us find our voice, our place, and find each other. Its important to encourage creative talent, so e dont dron in facts, so we dont lose that connection ith other human beings.

Many people write and create art as a way to process their experiences in the world around them, and its an important a to do that. Hoever, its also inspiring to share that process with others. It is through literature and art that people learn of other perspectives and learn that the arent quite as alone as the ma think, that there are others out there eperiencing the same things.

Ampersand lets current students at West Liberty University to share their insight and their experiences. This issue allows readers a glimpse at how our students see the world, and we welcome you to experience each smile, each heartbreak, and each brief moment of their lives as you read the pieces presented here.

i Editorial Board

Ashley Cole Catherine Calissie Dylan Parsons Luna Phalen Michaela DeBee Patience Tedrow Taylor Koontz

Faculty Advisors

Dr. Jen Fawkes Dr. William Scott Hanna Nicole Naegele

Ampersand is an undergraduate literary publication of West Liberty University in West Liberty, West Virginia and is hosted by the College of Liberal Arts.

ii Table of Contents Anonymous ...... 1 Mona Lisa ...... 1 Chris Cronin ...... 2 Buried ...... 2 Siara Deem ...... 7 Disregard ...... 7 Eternal ...... 8 I Need a Poem ...... 9 The Mirror Woman ...... 11 Things Interrupted ...... 15 PJ Denard ...... 16 City of Gold ...... 16 Graffiti Me ...... 17 Space Traveler ...... 18 Undaunted Dreamer ...... 19 Justin Hall ...... 20 Untitled ...... 20 Untitled ...... 21 Untitled ...... 22 Untitled ...... 23 Charles Henry...... 24 My Old Friend ...... 24 Waking up ...... 26 T.N. Koontz ...... 35 Broken Like Trodden Snow ...... 35 The Chaste White Dress ...... 36 Crying Out ...... 37 In Dire Need of Real ...... 38 Callie ONeil ...... 39 Fall Blessings ...... 39 Summer Loving ...... 40 Central Park Blues ...... 41 American Beauty ...... 42

iii Dylan Parsons ...... 43 George Bush Goes to a Baseball Game ...... 43 On Che Guevaras Murderer Being Treated for Cataracts B Cuban Doctors ...... 44 Red Rosa ...... 45 Luna Phalen ...... 46 the dread snags at my heart like lilies...... 46 the nerve snap makes me grin real big! ...... 47 a poem about worrying ...... 48 Claire Pittman...... 49 Children of the Stars ...... 49 Whimsy ...... 50 Paige Wallace ...... 51 Dads Dirt Laundr ...... 51 For PawPaw ...... 53 Tid-Bits ...... 55 Raeann Williams ...... 56 Misplaced Grief ...... 56 Ode to the piano in my 11am lecture ...... 57 Shoes ...... 58 Michelle Yadrick ...... 60 Federman, Michigan ...... 60 Intercepted Letter from Hudson River State ...... 61 Brie-Ann Young ...... 62 Friends List ...... 62 Light ...... 63 Memory ...... 64 Woman in the Mirror ...... 65 Special Section Dave Thomas Retirement Tribute ...... 67 Matthew J. Smith 1993 ...... 68 Gail Adams 2004 ...... 69 Rachel Wurster 2016 ...... 71 Jacqueline (Bartels) Yahn 2007 ...... 72 Charisse Powell 2012 ...... 73 Britney D. Gordon 2015 ...... 74

iv Amy (Shriner) Krieger 2009 ...... 76 Joe Roxby ...... 77 Carly (Gayda) Seals 2003 ...... 78 Caroline Dougherty 2014 ...... 79 Daria Wood 2009 ...... 80 Samuel Vernarsky 2002 ...... 81 Kelly Reasbeck 2017 ...... 82 Kenneth E. Powell, III 2013 ...... 83 Shawna Safreed 2008 ...... 84 Emily Burgy 2015 ...... 85 Jeremy Gordon 2011 ...... 86 Jesse Scott 2012 ...... 87 Lacey Matheny 2015 ...... 89 James Michael Shaver 2011 ...... 91

Anonymous Mona Lisa you are as skilled as Da Vinci et our Mona Lisas are silenced and shamed. you perfected your craft, changing your name each time going into hiding until the paint has given up and dried but i have been to the Louvre ive oven m a through the crods im willing to take her place, perch myself upon the wall and say: Come. Look at what he did to me. we will be silent paintings no more.

Chris Cronin Buried

Hector scanned the fog-thick graveyard, lighting a cigarette and taking a short drag. One last job, he mused to himself silently. He picked up his shovel and lit his lantern, then continued forward. His first stop was the headstone of one Samuel A. Miller, b.1850- d.1893. The shovel broke moist earth, and within an hour struck a wooden lid. Hector anxiously looked out from the hole one last time, then began rifling through the contents of the now disturbed casket. The pungent odor of death choked Hectors lungs immediatel. Amidst a coughing fit, he tied a soiled bandana around his face, filtering out enough of the dead air to allow him to continue his work. Samuel A. Miller was not a wealthy man, Hector soon learned. After tearing through Sams suit and rifling through his ribcage, Hector soon realied that this last job ma not be as eas as he had originall hoped. Dammit, he said, oure about as broke as I am, eh Samm? Hector kicked at Sams skull, sending scraps of flesh fling from the bones. Ah fuckin ell. Hector flailed his boot, sending a rotting section of hat as once Samuels face back into the coffin. Hector climbed out of Samuels grave and moved on. He trudged through the graveyard, digging up promising plots and continuing to come up short. From one Johnathan Harker II, b.1860-d.1900, he pilfered a cracked, bronze pocket watch. Surely orth at least 10 or 20 pounds, but the rest of the dead erent much for heirlooms. Mirriam P. Woodworth, b.1800-d.1875, had a small dog buried with her. Whether it was dead hen it as buried, Hector asnt sure. He as beginning to lose his patience ith this yard. He scanned the graveyard, hopeful, searching for a worthwhile headstone; searching for one that was immodestly opulent. In the gloom and lamplight, his eyes fell on one Alexandria de Marizia b.1890-d.1895 Our Angel, Our Princess, Taken Too Early. Aleandrias grave as marked ith a toering statue of a cherub plaing the harp. This is what Hector was looking for. He hesitated for a moment, thinking of his own daughter, but decided he asnt above disturbing the grave of a dead child if it meant feeding his own. He set his lamp on the statue and began digging. The Marizia family, Hector learned, was wealthy enough to bury a five-year-old with valuables that would better benefit the living. A one-pound coin was set upon both of her eyelids; an old tradition, not that Hector knew or cared. He pocketed the coins and searched under the tattered white dress of the dead child. Tucked under the dress and, now resting on bits of rotten flesh and spinal column, rested a necklace of fine pearls. Although at the moment soiled, Hector knew that they would buy him and his daughter food for months.

Little Addie ont be antin for nuffink after tonight, he said, thank ou for our kind patronage, Miss Mariia. Hector removed the necklace and eited the grave. He wiped grave dirt from his brow and lifted his lantern up, illuminating the yard around him. His eyes fell on a lone mausoleum, overtaken by foliage and spiderwebs. Hector knew it ouldnt be an eas break, but he couldnt pass up the opportunit of a bigger find than a single pearl necklace. He trudged past and over several gravestones before stopping to rest at a bench a short way from the mausoleum. Hector pulled out a pack of Fatima and lit a cigarette. After being momentarily obscured by the sudden strike of fire in the darkness, when his vision returned, he noticed a figure in the right of his periphery. Before Hector could face the figure, she spoke. A cold night, this is, she said ith a hushed tone. So, so cold. Hector jumped from the bench, Jesus! You nearl scared me half to death, lad. The ell did ou come from? His lantern barel illuminated her features. She as pale, ith dark hair, and wore a black funeral dress. She sat with her hands cupped in her lap, her head lowered. The oman remained still. She said, ith a hushed voice, On nights like this, if ou listen very closely, when the trees have stopped swaying and the wind has ceased to howl, some sa ou can hear the dead. Hector looked out at the graveyard. The surrounding area was predominantly flat, several rows of both neat and crooked headstones lined the yard and a thick sheet of fog covered the ground. Trees in the distance swayed in the wind. There was nowhere she could have been hiding, Hector realized. He should have seen her approach him. Her voiced progressed from a calm hush to a trembling himper. If ou stop and listen, really listen, they say you can hear them scratch at their coffin lids. You can hear them scratch at the wood, clawing away at the dirt, tring to escape the dark! Miss I dunno hat the ell oure on about, but this aint a place for one such as ourself. The velvety blue and purple sky above the graveyard grew overcast. Hector felt a chill enter his bones and saw his breath on the night air. No that ou bring it to mind, it is a tad bit chill. Hector looked around and noticed the trees had stopped saing. He still felt the piercing cold, but there as no ind. Look miss, I think ou ought to Hector said, then found that, upon turning back to the bench, the woman was gone. Vanished into the night air. He sore under his breath and felt a chill don his spine, One more stop, then Dadds coming home, littl Addie. He ignored the fear groing in him and pressed on. The mausoleum was, as Hector feared, older than dirt. A hulking mass of concrete, the mausoleum stood several feet taller than Hector and was host to a mess of overlapping vines and probably generations of spiders. A heavy, rusted iron chain hung on the metal doors, barring entry. He pulled at the layers of vines and his hands found the chain. He

tugged on it, knowingly in vain. He regretted leaving his bolt cutters at home, cursing himself under his breath. The thunk of metal on metal cut through the silence of the night. Hector had repeatedly struck the chain with the head of his shovel for what seemed like forever, but it finally made way with a satisfying CLANG onto the concrete floor. He wiped sweat from his brow, taking note of his growing fatigue. He arduously pushed open the mausoleum doors and, upon the air escaping, began choking on the combined stench of death and dust. He held his breath, breaching the doors, and stepping into the crypt. After resetting his bandanna and grabbing his lantern, he proceeded. Hector took note of the surprising lack of noteworthiness within the crypt. The walls were built with numerous shelving compartments that laid bare and the floor was empty aside from dust bunnies and skittering rats. The one object occupying the mausoleum was a concrete coffin. Hectors shoulders sagged; he could feel his chances at a bigger pada slip from his grasp. He set his lantern in a nearby compartment and began to push open the concrete slab of a lid. Eventually, through his fatigue, he managed to secure enough room to reach in and rummage around the space inside. His fingers groped through bone and cloth until it touched cold metal. He pulled it from the coffin and discovered it was a gold pocket watch; pay dirt. He reached back in once more, coming back with a wedding band and the hand still attached to it. He threw the hand into the corner of the room, pocketed his findings, and took his leave of the crypt. Hector was greeted to an unnatural silence upon reentering the graveyard. Whilst proceeding onward, he looked out over the yard, the moonlight cutting through the clouds and fog. The air was thick with the pungent odor of decay and death, an odor Hector never got used to. The woman was waiting for him on the bench. Tis an aful thing, to disturb the eternal rest of the dead. She rasped. Hector flicked his cigarette in her general direction, Mind our on business, miss. Is hat ou sought orth disturbing the dead? She asked. Hector brought his lantern up, illuminating half of her face, Wa I sees it, miss, the dead ont be missin nuffink, on account of being dead and all. She turned to him, revealing a face of half skin, half bare skull. A worm crawled its way from her empty eye socket and down her bare cheekbone. Hector dropped his lantern and it shattered on the concrete. Through the gloom, he noticed silhouettes slowly rising until they stood at human height. The shadows shambled forward, and the sound of low moans and heavy footsteps broke the silence of the night air. You brought this upon ourself, Hector. She said ith a lo rasp. Hector ran. Beneath him, the ground gave way to a single hand, flayed from decay. Hector fell forward, in the grip of the hand. It released him and continued to dig itself out of the dirt, until another hand sprouted next to it, and then a head followed. Hector scrambled backwards, hitting a headstone. A skeletal hand burst from underneath the soil and clawed at Hectors leg, tearing through breeches and flesh. He booted the hand with his other leg until

he was free and pushed himself backwards, then quickly stood up and proceeded to take shelter behind the headstone. We kno hat ouve done, Hector. The oman led a chorus of different voices that rang out from the fog in unison, some quiet murmurs, some shrieks, some long, bemoaned groans. Hector grabbed his shovel, then began limping towards the mausoleum behind him. Sta back! Hector elled into the fog. Corpses continued to rise, shambling toards him. His breathing became heav and labored, You cant blame a gu for trna earn a livin! He sung his shovel into the skull of a corpse sprouting from the dirt net to him, cleaving bone and brain. Another corpse threw itself at him and Hector blocked its assault with the handle of his shovel, pushing it off and batting its head with the flat of his shovel. The chorus began again. You stole from us, Hector. The chorus of corpses called out, Dug us up. Disturbed us. Defiled us. Hector hurriedly pushed open the mausoleum doors and quickly shut them behind him. He placed the shovel between the door handles, then dropped to the floor of the crypt and scrambled backwards into the corner left of the door. Panicked, he patted his coat pockets, looking for his matches. His fingers instead found his tinder box, and quickly lit a match. The stench of death clung to his clothing and his hands. He choked back bile, trying to keep his stomach from churning. His brow broke into a cold sweat and his hands began to shake. He felt blood run down his leg, the pain radiating up into his thigh. He inhaled sharply, holding the flame closer to his leg for a better look. He felt his heart drop into his stomach. Blood seeped from a massive gash in his right calf, a chunk of meat dangling from his leg. In the shadow, his eye was drawn to movement within the wound. He brought his match closer. Underneath the blood, maggots were wriggling in the meat of his torn leg. His match burnt down to his skin and he dropped it in a reaction of pain. He felt his stomach churn. Hector vomited onto the floor of the mausoleum. He needed to escape. He grabbed onto the wall of the mausoleum; shelving built into the wall serving as handholds. The horde outside now beat against the door, struggling against the shovel binding the doors together. He waved a match around, desperately searching the crypt for something that could save him. The horde continued to beat at the door. The chorus called out, You ill feel the worms crawling under your skin. Maggots will chew at your flesh. The darkness will blind ou as the dirt suffocates ou, filling our lungs. The pain in his leg pierced his train of thought. The wriggling of maggots became a distinct sensation from the pain, the blood continuing to run down his leg and into his boot. Im sorr! He cried out. Ill give it all back! All of it, right here I found it! I have a daughter, please let me go!

No apologies, Hector, the chorus rang out in laers of shrieks and groans, just death in darkness and dirt. The assault of the horde quickened, the beating of the door forming a rhthm to the beating of Hectors heart in his ears. Terror and agon both began to take over his senses as his eyes darted around the room. The shadows began enclosing him as panic set in, the void of the room shrinking. The beating of the door was now a muffled thumping, his heartbeat now a staccato of pounding in his head. A heavy thud of concrete against concrete came from the back of the crypt. Hector turned his match towards the sound, partially illuminating a silhouette rising from a coffin. It slowly shambled through the darkness as the horde continued to beat at the doors. A voice rasped from the darkness, the chorus speaking in unison with it from beyond the door, Like a match is struck inside your chest, then slowly burns out until all you feel is cold, stinging agon. As ou run out of air, as ou desperatel cling to life. Hector fell backwards into his puddle of vomit, retreating into his corner. The corpse from within the mausoleum grew closer, the beating of the horde shattered the shovel, and the doors flung open. His breathing became rapid as a wave of death and rot washed over him. The corpse from within the mausoleum lurched forward, bending down and entering the light of the flame as the horde approached. Its face was bone intermingled with strips of rotten flesh and maggots. The match ent out and Hector screamed. The corpses rotten ja fell open, and a noious cloud flooded Hectors lungs. Hector opened his eyes to blackness, gasping for air. His leg flared in pain, and he reached for it instinctively, but he hits wood. He gasped in panic, and began feeling his way around the coffin, kicking and punching and flailing. Help! he screamed. Somebody Welcome to our grave, Hector. The chorus rumbled into the coffin. He heard it all around him, inside his head, inside the coffin, vibrating through the dirt. Hector beat at the coffin lid, punching at the wood until he felt the skin of his knuckles begin to split and blood flow from them. He punched at the wood until it cracked, and furiously clawed at the ceiling of the coffin, splinters piercing the underside of his fingernails. The first layer of wood gave way, then the next. Hector ignored the tearing of his nailbeds, the blood soaking his hands, and the pain of each splinter in his fingers. He reached what he hoped was the final layer and clawed through it as well. Hector felt dirt under his fingernails. He clawed at the ceiling and the wood gave way, dirt washing over him. All went black. Hector opened his eyes to darkness. His body moved on its own, digging through the dirt, no longer feeling pain in his torn flesh and mangled leg. His hands broke the ground, grasping at the night air, then slowly pulling the rest of him out of the dirt. Moonbeams broke through the trees and fog, illuminating the green and grey hues in his torn and tattered skin. A worm poked through his cheek, wriggling. Hector payed it no mind. He looked out over the cemetery, then shambled forward, joining the legion.

Siara Deem Disregard

I find myself to be one tiny, menial form of life existing in the universe that has swallowed its victims into oblivion for millennia. Basic units and building blocks of life. Are we? It begs the question, what is life if the universe has no remorse for destroying it? Insignificance. Grow up and be forced to have success only to die with our brothers, buried in the very earth that conducted our demise.

Life gets worse then you die.

The universes indifference to the affairs of man should be the number one fear of every man. That the whims and wills of an undenounced enemy could subjugate their fate in a manner of seconds. Decapitating their very will to live from their soul. Only left to wander the cosmos, forever, at the mercy of an indefinite power. Nonchalance way of determining our destiny. Humans are nothing, yet, humans are everything and all we know.

Eternal

My brother asked me to tell you he loves you even soulless he does float away now. Yet, I do not know that his life is through, or that his love was all death-filled anyhow. He floats along the auburn sky as though now his lungs are filled with dust or the slur of his heart beating still ith sighs in death tkno. Yet for you his heart yearns and screams, for the purr of oblivion is his ghost. Now fonder his ghost once will haunt you, as the fire around his body burns. I ponder forever is a long time to transpire but he believed his name did not live long. So I need you in the end to be strong.

I Need a Poem

I need a poem. But not just any poem. Something earth shattering and magical, maybe a little controversial. But theres no instruction manual on poems, or specifically emotions. So how does one do this? Define poetry itself. But poetry is a fluid entity, so different to everyone. Yet, poetry is natural. Reflective. In your eyes hen ou squint because oure laughing too hard and the whites of your eyes become pools of color, mirrors of the joy you feel. I see it in your hands that are strong enough to ruin something. anything. But ont because there filled ith the onderfull humble blood of the forgotten childish days. Long fingers with scars; battle scars from seemingly battles won. But more than that. I see lines upon lines of sonnets and haiku. The idyllic situation. Poetry on the streets. Poetry on advertising. Poetry on me. In me? The romantic of me says otherwise.

What is poetry, or perhaps, more importantly, what am I? Something natural. Something not so ordinary. Persuasive. Descriptive. Natural. Nostalgic. Romantic. Over complicated. Stressed. Adjective after adjective stressing an invisible subject forgotten by the vague oblivion that is poetry. But to be forgotten by ones poetry, the very soul of it, there is a needfulness to be connected to it in some way. in itself to the poetry. Lines and effigies. Is madness a divine inspiration? Do I channel madness to find the fruit? Could one be hated for genius or unappreciated until death? Yes to all of the above.

The Mirror Woman

There is a woman who lives in my cellar. Except no one knows she lives there other than I. She was as old as could be and aged from the years of sun deprivation I guess. Her face was never shown because her hair was ratty and most of it covered her face, yet she almost never came out of the shadows of the corner. But every once in a while she would come to greet me, in the stairs when I would bring her chocolates or in my bedroom to scare the bad dreams away. I always try to talk to her but she never utters any words, just solemn stares and quick movements. Nonetheless she is my friend, for in a world as this one, you need all the friends you can get. I tried to introduce her to my other friends that came over once for my fifth birthday, but no one would come down into the dark with me, that made me sad. Whenever I went down to see my friend I never turned on the lights because if I did I believe it would scare her away because she only comes out into the dark. So I feel around and talk to her, knowing she will not talk back. Do ou ant me to tr and brush our hair out? I sa quietl, I do not ant to make her feel upset about her hair but it is really messy and if I want to introduce her to momma later I will need her looking her best. There were tiny streaks of light coming from the dusk outside, gleaming in through the basement window, a tiny square window at the grounds edge, big enough for a squirrel to get through. I could see her standing there and her hair all sorts of everywhere just standing up on end and crazy bits strung together. No let me help ou out, I said. I started walking toward her dark figure and she made a faint noise. My footsteps got louder and louder it seemed as I made my way closer to her corner. I was a foot away now and could see her rats nest of hair almost touching her bottom, such long hair was so messy. I could see now in the faint light that her hands were covered in thick veins running down her arms with prominent freckles covering them, making her appear to be ver orn of age. Her skin as pale and hite, I couldnt decide what color it really was though, it was hard to see her figure. The dress she was wearing was very dirty and torn at the bottom. The lace it was made of was falling apart and looked very old, like one touch and the whole dress would fall off of her. I could not see her legs but I blamed that on the dim lighting. Being this close to my friend now I smelt a strong scent of something terrible. It smelt like something the old factories used to give off. Terrible. I assumed it was her who smelled, judging by the nature of her hair, I would bet, just about anything, that she had not bathed in quite a while. Now was the time, I reached out to touch her hand and she was quick with sudden movement. In an instant she was in my face, I could see past her hair for a split second and saw no eyes, just a mouth filled with rotting teeth. Her breath was enough to knock me over.

She opened her mouth as if to scream but only an old voice came from the abyss of her throat. The voice echoed and the more I listened the more I thought I could hear more than one person speaking. But the onl ords I could make out ere no one and terror. The rest was gibberish, like an old radio message that haunted the airways with no receiver, the message was unclear and unreceived. She was saying these words, they were coming from her insides almost, which were open in my face by her mouth, but her lips and tongue were not moving. In another second she was gone but I could still hear her. I looked around and heard scratching and tapping. it sounded like fingernails on glass. I look up. She had climbed to the ceiling and was digging her fingernails through the thin surface writing something. I could hear by the way her fingers traced that they were words. When she was finished she climbed backwards down the wall to her corner. This time facing the wall. Then my mother called for dinner, and I told myself I will come back tomorrow to see the message. My mother takes me to town that next day and I see the kids on the playground of the local school. I wish I was in school but mother says I have a lot to learn on my own with her help. She leads me into the store where we buy apples, oranges, hot sauce, tortillas, crackers which are my favorite, macaroni and cheese and grape juice. I counted it all and asked mother why those people were staring at me while I was counting, it was messing me up. She told me not to worry about them but to just stick to my counting. But I disobeyed her and listened to every word that the cashier said instead, for she and another fat man were the ones staring at me. The cashier looked at my mother and then back at me and asked if I was a little old to be riding inside the shopping cart. My mother said that I was 11, of course, and that I was only as old as I felt. To which the cashier replied, Mabe ou shouldnt bring our special kids outside so much. They could be a disruption in the public. I did not know what this meant. I knew I was special. Mother told me so all the time. But mother looked very upset about what that woman had to say. She packed up our stuff ver quickl and e left. I dont think Ive ever gotten home that fast before ith mother. Usually we stop and feed the ducks or pick a wildflower or two but today was a quick sight of the sidewalk and then keys unlocking the front door, which is green by the way. But I was not bothered by it. I wanted to go home and see what message my friend had left me anyway. I play in my room for a little bit until mother is distracted and I can run downstairs. Mother does not like me going downstairs. She says it scares her, so I have to sneak every time to go see my friend. Except this time I turn the light on whilst on my way down to the basement because I need to be able to read the message she gave me. When I turned the light on, all I could see were boxes labeled various things such as x-mas and Halloween. I saw bins full of clothes and school work. And a little bit of stored food that had been broken and scattered everywhere. Mother says there are mice down

here. That made me shudder. Finally, I remember what I am looking for. I look up and am surprised when the entire ceiling is covered in little mirrors. Some pasted right on the ceiling so I can see myself standing there, some are on short strings that hang down a few inches, dangling in the draft of the unfinished basement. These reflected light from the window on the other side of the basement, the sun was setting now. I do not know how I did not notice these before, but they fascinated me. I did not see a single message or scratch on the ceiling, just the mirrors. My friend was not there either. Which made me sad too. When I was coming back up the stairs I made sure to be super quiet, I flipped the light off and tried to close the door as silent as possible but mother heard me. She looked at me with big eyes, she seemed scared. What ere ou doing don there? she asked slol. Well I as don there last night and I thought m friend left me a message on the ceiling with her nails but I went down with the light on today and all I found was a bunch of mirrors. M mothers hand raised and covered her open mouth. Her movements ere slo as if paralyzed by fear. It seemed as though she was about to cry. I think I really disappointed mother and I was scared now too. What did ou find Liam? Mirrors, the ere all over the ceiling, some hanging don and reflecting the cool light from the da time. My mother kneeled down in front of me and took my hands in hers. She was visibly crying now with the tears still forming and streaming down her eyes. I need ou to go into our room and lock the door please. Liam, you have to promise me something. Yes mother? Do not come out of our room no matter hat ou hear, oka? Oka, mother. I kne she as ver upset ith me and I was probably going to spend all night in my room, I was sad. Once in my room I heard the basement door open and mothers footsteps fall slowly down the stairs. I heard a few scraping sounds and a lot of footsteps back and forth. My ear was on the ground listening through my bedroom carpet. Then all at once I heard mother start to scream. She screamed and screamed. She was scaring me with each passing second that was filled with her cries. But with each scream came a crashing sound, like that of glass breaking, over and over. Then I figured it out. Mother was smashing the mirrors over and over. The small mirrors dissipated at the hand of my mother. I did not know why she was doing this. I thought the mirrors were cool, like one of those things that hang from mothers car mirror, what is it? A disco ball? Yet there she was smashing all of them. Then just as they began all at once her screaming stopped. I heard her footsteps come back up the stairs, and through the kitchen. Next was a very loud buzzing noise, like dadds old drill. Followed by chains and what sounded like a lock. When mother came into my

room, she has bandages all over her hands with her own blood covering her face and down her arms. I was so scared, what had mommy done. She assured me everything was going to be okay now and that we were safe. She tucked me into bed after her long hours of screaming made me tired. I believed mother too, I did not ever think we were unsafe. Mother slept easy that night on the couch, she passed out after a movie because I went to go get some water and saw her asleep with a hammer in her hand. I passed the basement door and had an itching to go find my friend but I found mother had chained the door shut. I walked back to my room, my feet were getting cold from the tile in the kitchen and it was very late and dark now. The light from the hallway cast my bedroom in a halfway dim. I closed my door and snuggled up. Thats hen I heard fingernails scraping against glass. Familiar like the other night. I listened, I looked out my window and did not see anything, yet the noise persisted. I looked around my room, and there she was in the mirror, reflected in the corner by my bed. She was tapping on the mirror over and over. I looked at her in the mirror and then back at the corner of my room, where she was not standing. Was she inside the mirror? I was confused, but I sat down in front of the mirror and watched as she moved closer behind me. I felt very sleepy and started to close my eyes. I started to drift off, her blank face flashed in my eyes, her face accompanying nothing but a mouth that had a slight smile as I closed my eyes one last time. With the final thing I remember being her cold hand on my shoulder carrying me to sleep.

Things Interrupted

Youth by the sinful finger of death.

Can life be interrupted by repetition or only repetition by spontaneity?

Monotony by the mundane or only mundane by the exotic?

Anticipation interrupted by the results of reality.

Suspicion flawed by the interruptus nature of conclusion.

Beginnings by endings.

Meals by worms.

Growth by decay deterioration defamation demise.

Sadness interrupted with the subtle ray of happiness.

Uniformity by uniqueness.

Uncertainty with truth.

PJ Denard City of Gold

Looking from above, and what do I see? A shadow of a city that has crumbled before me. You have hatred over there, and ignorance is right here. Prejudice is everywhere, and violence is always near. Desolation lies where cooperation was, with humility and hard work seemingly left in the dust. All hearts have turned cold, and its like no one else cares. A city, once gold, banished into thin air.

Graffiti Me

Graffiti me. Paint me how I am supposed to be. Change me into what you please. Fight my will until I bleed. Make me another one of the sheep. Graffiti me. We are not what you want to see. Ourselves we cannot really be. Cover us up so we stay unseen. Rewrite our truth and wash us clean. Graffiti me.

Space Traveler

I want to fly to the moon and explore the depths of space. To listen to the galas tune so that m pain it can erase. To be surrounded by stars strewn and wrapped in bright embrace. Because there I would be immune, free from darkness and hate. Because there I could commune with those who decide our fate. There I could be with you, a gift I long await. I want to fly to the moon and lose myself in space. Hopefully someday soon, I am able to escape.

Undaunted Dreamer

Before you can triumph, you must start the trial, And before you can soar, you must walk the mile. Nothing in this life comes without struggle, And no journey is traveled without a few stumbles. Anything worthwhile will take a bit of time, Like finding pure gold requires digging through the grime. Any dream can be realized, but it takes work to see it through. So faithfully stoke the fire that burns inside you. Hold to tight to your vision, and let your dreams guide the way; The path you will travel is the one that you make.

Justin Hall Untitled

Untitled

Charles Henry My Old Friend

The waves of time pull at me. The pull at me all the time; Ive come to find. Like swirls in the surf, my attention draws to the questions near the center Questions, to which the answers can only be found in time.

The ebbing waves used to be my friend; you see. Thed ash over me, but I as unaltered b the pull In truth, I couldnt even feel the aves, I felt onl m outh. But I could see the pull, Though only on others. But the pull, on others, delighted me. Id point and giggle as time pulled rinkles on m famils face. Thed blush, or laugh, And then arn me of times fickleness Then all of the sudden, I realized that time could pull too hard, In a reddish casket with white pillows laid A familiar grey face in front of a small boy. That was the first time my little heart cracked. But I didnt understand the crack, Just as I didnt understand the pull.

Time comes in waves though. And Ive seen several lo tides since m first. Oh I guess Ive seen just as man high tides, as ell. For years, I tried to tug back at the tide, even if only in words.

But it seems that time tugged at me first. I can see the tiny crevices, from the times that I smiled so wide, that it cracked the skin around my eyes, and I can see the creases, from where the tears were pulled down my face. The tears that time had pooled into puddles of dangling questions That swirled with answers yet to come.

These cracks. There not that deep, ou see. These cracks that time has placed all over me. Ive still time to atch them gro, I kno. But seeing them hurts all the same. And thell deepen, as time pulls at all of the things that I love. Those loves will slowl fade at the hours grasp. The hours and minutes will slowly pull, and then pass Until I no longer see the moments, at all. And instead Ill onl remember the aves.

Time is not all loss though. Sure it rises and falls, pushing then pulling, and it slowly drags us to the sea. And es, because of time, one da I ill die, and ou just as me. Because the cracks will never not continue to grow.

But just as it ebbs, it also flos. My skin had to suffer these cracks And my eyes these creases. Because without the flow of time, how could I have met my favorite niece. The one that loves to point out the wrinkles. That she can clearly see, much better than me. Then she asks, what the world was like before I had them. And time had to swirl for me to make up my mind On what kind of life was supposed to be mine And to make me decide what my purpose should be. It took time for time to pass into memory. You kno the one I mean. The ones half hers. That kiss, that blush, and the first time under the covers

Time then has two parts. The first, of course, is my enemy But it would seem the other part is still my friend, Because time brings more than only the end.

Waking up

A marble statue, from the Antonine era, a later Roman artistic period. His face, sword, and armor are near perfect. A face whose tussled locks has survived two millennia. Epertl shaped b an artist long forgotten. Time has taken its toll though, hes not as smooth as he once had been, there are chips and cracks, but he still stands resolute. The legionnaire, an eternal Roman soldier. He didnt start here though. He as taken from the courtyard of some ancient ruler. Traveling place to place until he ended up here. He was once one of many, but now sits alone behind the museum glass as the sole survivor of his troop. A slant shaft of yellow light hits the glass just right, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I stare at myself; scarred, chubby, balding, a deviant version of myself, not yet familiar. Like the marred roman statue, time has marbled away at the form that I once was, but not all of it. And as the statue, I stand alone. There as a time hen I asnt alone, a time when I was more than just myself. I slowly close my eyes and think of another time. My blue eyes open; young, yet hardened eyes. They dart around as though a crash in the closet had oken them from a tenuous dream. Did I fall asleep? I onder, before the desolation around me creeps into m understanding. No. Wh as it so dark? What happened? A sheet of plywood was on top of me, along with the part of the roof it was attached to. I pushed it off and looked around the room. Dust made of finely ground sand and freshly shattered pine planks danced in the air through the light, which beamed randomly from new places. The ne light asnt from the lightbulbs or lamps around the room, but from new tears, cracks, and holes in the walls and roof. Some of the light even came up from where pieces of the floor should have been. The building had partially collapsed, driving me through the floor onto the ground below and forcing an unwarranted dreamless sleep. M mind screamed as it came back to life, Was that a fucking mortar! No Id be dead. I sat up, ass on the dirt belo and m shoulders even ith the floor. I peered around at the room that housed our communications to the outside world. Fabio as still in his chair, the floor beneath him still held. Im 98 percent sure that his name asnt Fabio, but Im a thousand percent sure that I ish it as. Fabio as a French Canadian I think, or mabe just French or just Canadian. Who knos, his job as as much about ling as mine; he couldve been from Tennessee for all I kno, but no matter where he was from, his accent was definitely French with a strong hint of condescension. He had a well-tanned shaved head, which was always shined with his favorite brand of head wax. And there was a giant brown caterpillar of a mustache crawling across his upper lip, hich as peppered ith just enough gra that ou couldnt quite judge his age. Maybe a rough thirty? Or perhaps a smooth 50? Who knows. He had a hearty laugh, that you usually heard after hed eaten something seet, that asnt his. His ees ere kind, despite his purpose here. He as an intelligence analst, a member of our 2 shop as the arm calls it, and his job was to track all the relevant information and people in the area and to pass it on so e could act on it. He as ver good at his job. One of the trusses above him had

shattered. As my eyes scanned across the dust-fogged room his lifeless form came into view. The sharp splintered end of the broken t-shaped truss had swung down into the side of his head. I paused for a long-moment, then the thought flashed through m mind, Hes fucked I gotta move. I grabbed m rifle and manipulated my way to the door. I ripped it open, against its ill. I paused for a moment, looking back at m friend I hispered, Sorr, man, and out the door I ent. In the event of mortar fire on a FOB, or forward operating base, the first thing you do is run to the nearest bunker, which kind of looks like a baseball dugout. Except this dugout isnt to teach kids ho to che tobacco and sa here batt-a, batt-a. Instead, its intended for stopping mortars, hich have likel alread hit before ouve entered the bunker. This results in occasions where the novice bunker diver is quite underdressed for the occasion, usually wearing a confused face as the more seasoned bunker user, fully dressed, strolls in with a magazine or perhaps a fresh cup of coffee. The bunkers in Afghanistan are interesting. There primaril made out of a hesco all. A hesco all is a nifty invention that someone assuredly became a millionaire off of. Its a large tan burlap bag surrounded ith a frame of metal fencing, the tpe of fencing that oud see ith 44 inch squares to keep in goats, or the like. This fence has a larger gauge than the farm fence. So, to make a wall in the desert you take the burlap bag wrapped in a fence, and fill it with dirt. They come in different sizes: 4x4 ft, 6x6 ft, and 11x11 ft. For a bunker, you stack a bunch of concrete blocks on top of several lengths of the 6x6 ft hesco. The type of blocks that oud see as a median on the highway, with more grooves but close enough. The bunker is about 25 feet long. I came out from the half-collapsed building and took a hard-left and ran along the hesco wall to the bunker. Barely three minutes after the blast, the bunker was swarming with Ararusi. There were about 350 Ararusi on the base, and it was technically their battle space. The Ararusi were the people of several small post-soviet bloc countries. Some were teachers, others were freed prisoners, all were here for money. Few of them were seasoned, and only some of those few were useful. Their governments sent them here to help the coalition, in hopes that the coalition would help them get seats in the U.N. The coalition was helping them get into the U.N. so that it could have a few extra votes when needed. Global politics, playing out on our small desert base. To supervise this would be group of U.N. members were roughly 25 American marines. My team of three psychological operations soldiers, PSYOP for short, were here to support the marines. The purpose of PSYOP is to outthink the problems of war. To do with a small creative team what would take a company of infantry. You could say that we were here to help the marines figure out how to deal with the Ararusi. Within this bunker there was about fifty crying Ararusi soldiers. Some praying, some half naked, and maybe only four of them had their rifles with them. Klein, the high-strung, friendly, Christian ginger on our team, came up and screamed into the bunker, He! Fuck! Heads! It asnt a mortar! Go get on the fucking alls! Who knows if they even heard him, Ararusis tend to hear what they want, and listen even less.

Fucking Useless, I snorted, looking at them huddled together, as if they squeezed together hard enough, thed become something useful. Klein looked at me and said he as heading to the point, the section of the wall that jutted out from the north corner of the base, which overlooked a small town. I told him that I was going to move towards our tent and grab my body armor, then stop at the first aid station to see if they needed help. So back down past the building that tried to swallow me I ran, coming out on the path that led to the parade field. The path was a road of sorts, wide enough for a vehicle, and it had 6-foot hescos on either side for the entire length. It was about a 100 yards long with two side paths off it to the left, about three feet wide each, and between them there was another bunker. As I crossed in front of the bunker, I heard a zip through the air, accompanied by a loud crack. The smell of burning gunpowder lurked in the air as I turned sharply towards a chubby balding Ararusi with no helmet, wearing flip flops, holding a PKM, a Russian style machine gun, in his hands. The gun was aimed out of the door of the bunker towards the far all of the road, the road that I as running don. What the fuck! I pointed at him ith both hands Get the fuck out of here ith that shit! He didnt speak English, or at least, faked not speaking English. That happens a lot. I walked over, grabbed him by the belt with my left hand and his gun with my right and dragged him to the road and pointed him in a good direction, so he could actually see if a bad guy was coming. He looked like he was going to vomit, scared shitless, half crying, and trying to keep his eyes open through the seat and tears. He had just realied that being a soldier as mostl hoping that ou dont die today. Most of the Ararusis were all hard- asses until something bad happened. Then they would hide, and cry. After the Americans were done trying to wash the blood off their hands the Ararusis would come out of their hiding holes, and flex, and take pictures with the dead, as though the had heroicall done something. Fucking fools didnt even kno enough to realie that this asnt a heros ar. This as the kind of ar here ou dont ever see a single bad guy for three months, then you step on a rock and lose your leg.

The Parade Field

The parade field was about the size of two football fields side by side. The road on the corner that I was coming from led to the chow hall and the command buildings. To my left was a road that led to where we kept supplies, a shower tent, and some surveillance equipment. To the corner across from me was where the FAS, first aid station, road was, which also led to the tankers, landing zone, and my tent. To the opposite corner from me was the fuel station and the front gate. The corner to the right led to a path that followed the all back to the north point. The parade field held all our trucks. Our trucks ere actuall called MRAPs which weigh about 15 tons or more and stand twenty feet in the air. Roving Castles on six wheels, painted desert tan, ith different stles and tpes. Trucks, to us though.

I moved on quickl from he ho ouldve knee capped me to the parade field. I stopped short of the corner that opened up into the space, then I sprinted to the truck nearest to me. When I tipped my head around the corner of the truck, I could see a hole in the wall that was about four hescos wide, 25 feet or so. Some suicide driver with 500 pounds of improvised explosives in the engine compartment had driven straight into the wall. The explosion vaporized everything within fifty feet and had enough pressure to knock down most of the buildings on the base, including the one I woke up in. There was a calmness for a moment as I scanned. I felt in that moment a feeling that millions of dead warriors had felt before me. The moment the fortifications were breached, and how the disoriented men inside the wall steeled themselves for what was to come. The moment broke, and I could see two men scaling the wall on each side and three coming through the hole. A fuck ou! I screamed, as I pulled m rifle up to m face. I ish I could sa that the smell of gun powder burnt my nostrils, the way it did when my dad taught me to shoot that .22, or that the recoil bruised my shoulder, the way that my grandads old 12 gauge did. But there is no burning, no bruising, just well-placed shots, controlled pairs, two at a time. When the deed was done, I realized that the marines at the fuel point had joined the fight, luckily for me. Many hands make light work, and I had hoped that their hands had done the brunt of it. He! Gunn! You gus got ees on that hole? I got ees on our hole, he screamed back. Even in the moment, that joke seemed a little off color. But there was no time for dirty retorts or indignation. Explosions that size cause a lot of damage, and a lot of casualties. I kne the five brave souls ling in that field erent the last of the da. I rushed into my tent, which was near the LZ and thus, well protected. I noticed that my laptop still laid on top of my box and had only moved a few inches from the overpressure of the eplosion. I smiled, relieved. I dont think arranties cover Vehicle bourn IEDs (VBIEDS). I grabbed my body armor and slung it over my shoulder. I clicked it in and ran my hands across the eight double-stacked M4 magazines on the front. Then I brushed across the four pistol mags on the left side. The brown molly was already dusty from the fe months Id been in countr. Tin splotches of broned blood near the heart. I rolled on my helmet; with a click of the chin strap I was ready. I hesitated for a moment, staring at the shoddy plywood door that swung back and forth gently exposing the full brightness of the sunny afternoon. I suppose it was probably more melting hot, with unbearabl dr air; but, e humans, ere adaptable. With a sharp inhalation it as out the door I went. The FAS

A tension pneumothorax is when the lining between your lung and the cavity that holds your lung, the pleural sac, gets a hole in it. Sometimes the lung gets punctured too, of course. Air fills in from one of the holes and creates negative space between the sac and the

lung, and the lung slowly collapses. Eventually, if left unchecked your trachea will start to deviate towards the good lung. Its at this point, that ou kno that that person, is prett much fucked. I made it to the FAS, a kind word for it; it was just a tent surrounded by three and a half hesco walls. The corpsmen, which just means Navy medics, called it a CRC, or MTC, or some other acronym. The military loves their acronyms. The three members of my team were combat life saver certified, which means we spent forty hours learning how to triage, also knon as prioritiing hos going to die first, and basic trauma first aid, also known as how to try to keep someone alive long enough until they can be saved by someone else. I elled to Dave, What needs done? His name asnt Dave. I cant remember his name. He was the tall white corpsman with a black mustache. The one that liked to overshare about personal shit, that I didnt ant to talk to him about. So I tried not to remember his name; mission success! He elled, I dont kno Henr mabe, ou could tr to help someone not fucking die! No promises, Dave! I dont actuall remember our conversation either; all I remember is that mustache Dave was being a dick, then I washed m hands and put on some gloves, and aited for the bad. I thre a pad over an arm cot. The pad is kind of like a puppy pad, except green bottomed instead of blue and of an appropriate size for a human, and of an appropriate absorbency for about 5.5 liters of blood. Three Ararusis dragged the first gu ho couldnt ait for Dave from around the corner. His uniform was soaked with dark maroon blood, down the left side from his chest to his knee. My eyes darted over to Dave, but he was lip-biting with light colored red blood up his elbows. Light blood is from the artery, dark from the vein, so his was more pressing. I pointed to the bleeding Ararusi, and then to the cot. His friends slumped him down harshl, then stared at me. I aved them aa. I asked for his name, Minkfia? Which Im prett sure means m name is instead of our name is? But he looked up and said Giorgi in a strained hisper. Of course it is! I said ith an equall strained smile. Just like the other 85 Giorgis on this base I said under m breath. I didnt actuall care about his name or who he was, I just wanted to know if he could breathe. I already knew who these guys were, all of them. They were all the same to me by now. Baby killers. I held a dying girl not a week ago. The handiwork of a Ararusi. The hole through her leg was as big as the hole through the wall, and both holes had the same cause. I hate these fuckers. My mind flashes to the blood-soaked uniform lying in the middle of my tent, and the sound of heaving from your lungs, and the sensation of suffocation that takes over when the tears run out and all that is left are salted eyes and nauseous sorrow. Then a flash of a girl. Long dark brown hair, big chestnut eyes, about the age of my niece, maybe four or five. Scran ith a dirt chin, like shed had something stick and seet earlier and got some dirt on it before mom could wipe it off. The way children do. The blood was light red as it streamed out. The kind of blood that needs stopped quickl, but tourniquets dont come in that sie. There not made for little girls ith no shoes and faded blue dresses. There meant for people hove alread had their time to color with their crayons and play

hide and seek ith their friends, but thats not the kind of place this is. This is the kind of place here Allies of the coalition fire randoml at the innocent, because the sa a terrorist! and get aa ith it. I didnt kno hich one of these monsters had done it, so it might as well have been this one lying here on this cot, and every one that came after. I ouldve let ever single one of the 350 Ararusi souls on that base bleed out on that cot, if only to let that girl be alive and have a chance to grow up, even in that shit hole of a place. But duty comes before hate. Now it was time to check for blood. Dark red coming from the back. I push my hand around, firmly. I find a big hole, the size of my pinky. I slap a piece of stick plastic around it to help air from coming in. We dont ant air filling the plural sac, thats the dangerous part, I murmured to mself. Something had gone all the way through, and his barbarous friends just pulled it out of him or maybe him, off of it. Rebar possibly? Then, they dragged him a 100 yards across the base and plopped him down on this cot. Couldve been here sooner, but the ere too bus hiding first. Is it hard to breathe? I placed m hand on m chest and tried overemphasizing filling m lungs. He didnt kno hat I as saing, a mi of shock and the language barrier. I pulled open his jacket, cut off his shirt and checked him for more holes. There were none, but under his left ribcage was filling up with blood. Interior bleeding. Hes probabl fucked. I dont care. Fucking monster deserves it I decide. I smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up and went to check out some of the less injured. Mostly broken legs and concussions. Easy enough fixes that even the Ararusis were able to help me. The first helo came in and took tent people. Giorgi didnt get the ride, because he ouldnt have made it back to Leatherneck. The beaut of combat triage, Whos going to die soon, but not so soon that itll be a asted seat on the helicopter? A cold, harsh, logical reality, governed by 20-year-old kids that thought free college sounded like a good idea. When I came back to Giorgi, he was gasping for air. Tension pneumo had set in. Dave, here do ou keep the 16-gauge needles? Im fucking bus! Dave had a blood handprint on his mask and an Ararusi tring to get aa he as bus. The first thing that came to mind as, Am I supposed to have a facemask on?. When I came back to Giorgi his eyes were bulged and red. He was struggling to breathe. The best way to alleviate a tension pneumothorax is with a needle decompression. You put our hand on the gus nipple, hichever one is near the penetration causing the problem, then move your hand to the second or third rib above the nipple, and find the top of the rib. Then you force the two-inch, 16-gauge needle in at a 90-degree angle. Try not to make ee contact. The dont teach ou that last one, but some things ou learn on our own. A swift gust of air shoots out of the lung with a puff. Its a eird sound, like hen ou smack your tongue off the roof of your mouth just right. A half click, half whistle kind of noise. With this gust of air, there should be a relief of breathing. You may have to do it multiple times.

Around the fourth needle in the chest I noticed that Giorgi was starting to fade. Not from the tension pneumo, that shouldnt have gotten to him et. The interior bleeding as starting to pool into a little lump, hed lost too much blood and IVs dont cut it. He grabbed my hand in his. I think he was praying. Ararusi is a rough language, like Russian. But in that moment, the quiet chant that he was crooning was enough to quiet the hell going on around us. The chant slowly changed from soft unknown words to an inarticulate throat clearing, then to a glottal clicking. Light, feint, then not at all. The bloodshot had consumed most of his ees b no. His irises ere bron. A ver dark bron. I hadnt noticed until he grabbed my hand. He locked eyes with me, perhaps begging me to save him. A tear burned its a out of m on ee, against m considerable ill. All I could think as, Mother fucker Just ding For no fucking reason. Im sorr that Im the last thing he sa. Tearful rage painted across my face, for him and all of his kind. I dont kno hat he deserved, but it was probably better than dying, eyes locked, with someone who hated him.

The Dark Wall Lieutenants, or LTs, in the army have all the value and know-how of a private but with as much responsibility as a staff sergeant, which is the sixth grade, out of nine, in the enlisted ranks. The usuall have no clue hat there doing, no real authorit, no experience, and they tend to get lost. They have to have someone watch them until they grow into a captain, and can fend for themselves. In essence: its like that time ou took your niece trick-or-treating hen she as three. She doesnt have an clue here shes going, hat shes doing, or h shes doing it. But she doesnt kno that she doesnt kno. So you keep her safe on the sidealk. Onl, she thinks shes the boss, in hich case the metaphor still works. This is what an LT is. The brightness of the day slowly faded into night as the last of the helicopters disappeared into the distance. Giant green two propped helicopters, chinooks or CH 47s if oure better ith the numbers on the side, sailed off ith the last of the casualties. 63 injured, 8 dead, 3 unaccounted for. All in one moment at 3:04 pm on March 13th, 2013. The casualties had been taken care of, and Id ruined another uniform. It as time to find my team. Everyone knew that the fireworks were about to start. I slung my rifle over my right shoulder and in my left hand picked up my plate carrier and helmet. I strolled across the parade field to the far corner toward the north point, right in front of the giant hole, I didnt care. I as tired, ver tired. If it as m time, then the could have me. The LT, which just happened to be visiting us from Leatherneck that day, Fuentes, and Klein were right before the point. The wall in this part pushed a little further out, maybe 6 feet, from the rest of the wall. It was a good place to control a lot of ground. Fuentes said, He brother, hereve ou been? I as at the FAS man, didnt Klein tell ou? Fuck eah, I did. Hes just retarded! Klein chirped from the all. Fuentes as our team leader, and Klein was the assistant team leader, and I was the low man. By this time

though there asnt a hierarch, just three gus tring to get the job done. Oka, Im gonna set up a rest plan. Henry, I want you and the LT up on the wall first while Klein and I eat. Klein smacked me on top of the helmet as he jumped don. He as m best friend in that part of the orld, and one of the fe faces that Id care to see after we got home. I got up on the gun. A two-forty-bravo, its a medium machine gun that fires 7.62 at up to 1000 rounds a minute give or take. The LT was smiling goofily as he looked over the wall. He hadnt learned the lesson that the Ararusi ould be knee-capper had learned earlier. LT! Put some fucking sandbags in front of our face. I said beilderedl. God damn man! You ant to die here ith that smile. Look hard, and dont look like oure ne at this. We continued our lessons through the sleepless night. The attack didnt come that night. No, there were other nights for that, yet to come. But tonight, it was just the four of us in a dirt fort surrounded by 300 some pouting Ararusis, pointing our guns outwards waiting for the fireworks, while 20 some marines rebuilt the wall. All night we waited, with only a few pop shots here or there. At 8 AM Fuentes said, Alright. Fuck this, ere done. Go rack out. Klein and the LT went straight back to the tent, they were easy sleepers still. Fuentes went to see if we could get communications up. I grabbed a towel from our tent and walked to the shower. You might not think of it hen ou think of ar, but e even have shoers. Its just a tent with some flimsy dividers and two pipes with holes in them running down either side. The tent is attached to a hose. The hose leads to a giant bladder sitting in a hole dug in the sand. The bladder holds thousands of gallons of non-potable ater, hich means that its safe to shower in but not drink. The bladder is attached to a generator, ran on diesel. The pump ran by the generator pulls the undrinkable water out of the bladder and allows the dirty soldier to recollect a measure of normalcy. As long as that normalcy is reflective of taking a cold shower, without a shower head, with not-so-clean water in a rubber tent in the middle of a desert surrounded b people ho dont like ou. So its kind of like that eek at summer camp when you were 12. Usually the showers are packed. Six stalls for four hundred people. But that morning, I was the only one in it. I started washing the blood off my hands and arms. I looked up into the polished steel mirror and half-heartedl chuckled to mself. People in movies alas sa that blood cant ever be ashed off. Turns out, it does. I turned to my face to hear my friends give me a forced pit laugh, Id forgotten the erent there. I look don at the realization, to see the blood trickle from my arms, catching finely ground sand in the flood, and watch as the mixture flows over my hands, mixing blood and dirt into a gray liquid collecting in the green sink basin. The flood is more than the drain can handle, so it builds up. My lips begin to quiver as my heart sends a shock through my body. The shock when your body shuts off the adrenaline, and when the heart flutters back to life and you can feel again. I could feel a spark rising through my chest. A piece of the soul rushing upward in an effort to escape this damaged body through my quivering lips. I bite down hard, an effort to

keep it in. But the spark changes course and burns itself through my eye instead, dying in the air, hats left rolling don m cheek. My eyes open once again. My body had shifted while in memory and I no longer see myself. I only see the lonely soldier now. A man alone, out of place in the middle of this museum. A man meant for war, not this polite museum. We suffered the same fate he and I. Wed both survived the test of our time and are onl able to look back at ho e ere when we were still more than one. I slowly walked to the door, and gently push it open. I look back at the lonely warrior that I left behind, I smiled, and out the door I went.

T.N. Koontz Broken Like Trodden Snow

His eyes were like the snow on a quiet morning. Gleaming, sad silence.

The Chaste White Dress

Does a chaste white dress lose its innocence when the closet door is shut?

Crying Out

Im a heretic for all those beautiful souls who cannot exist.

In Dire Need of Real

What if we just let ourselves be authentic a little bit longer?

Callie ONeil Fall Blessings

Summer Loving

Central Park Blues

American Beauty

Dylan Parsons George Bush Goes to a Baseball Game

He takes a bite from his hot dog, immediately gags and chokes. The ketchup tastes like iron, its thick as -- no, is blood.

He looks out to the field, where the batter, now dressed in army camouflage, swings his bat at the pitchers head.

The pitcher, now a young boy, screams in pain. The crowd is cheering. George is cheering, gives a thumbs

down, signaling for the batter to take another swing, this time knocking the head out of the park. The stump between the shoulders oozes oil

not blood.

George smiles, takes another bite of his hotdog.

On Che Geaa Mdee Beg Teaed f Caaac B Cba Dc

Irony is the opposite of justice, and justice the opposite of an empty cross or a Che Guevara t-shirt.

At La Higuera they pray to Santo Ernesto but you stopped praying long ago, didnt ou?

You saw the face of Christ in the revolution and settled for thirty pieces of silver.

Youve contemplated, barrel in mouth, splattering yourself across the walls while he stays splattered across the stars.

Shoot coward, e nl killing a man.

Red Rosa after Rosa Luxemburg (1871 - 1919)

Red Rosa plays with her feline companions, her wild cats strike at her arms, and she strikes right back, hissing playfully. They recognize her not as an owner but as an equal, a fellow striker whose eyes glow red in the photographs, just like theirs, whose blood runs red when struck, or when striking, just like theirs. Red Rosa, Red Rosa, sends her wild cats right over, right over Berlins gates, forcing them open, and right over to the future, where bread is guaranteed with red roses.

Luna Phalen the dread snags at my heart like lilies.

what does that mean? i dont kno, but ive been cocooned in bed for a small eternity and the impression feels like mirror glass.

ill try to break it down, still.

lilies are poisonous, but only if you eat them, so perhaps what i mean to say is; im standing here ith petals sticking out of m mouth and unseen toxins slipping into my blood,

saying to the gardener, im , i hgh they were pretty, and hee in anhing eic hee, im j e id and hng.

but i cant forget the heart part. . . . ell, actuall, i think thats onl nonsense,

isnt it true that the heart and God are the sounds your mouth makes when language has snapped like a rubber band?

and dread is, well, something that rests in the sternum, in a velvet house of marrow, speaking violently among stem cells

to pin you beneath blankets in a dark room at five in the afternoon.

the nerve snap makes me grin real big! a boogeyman springs up to me in the bright hallway, chattering out horrifyingly pleasant questions like what do you want to do with your life? and other things that arent real. in a sweet fear, my teeth come out along with the foam of giggling off-key. ill save m life this a. it throws my ribs open, and while it grips and fingers my innards, making a mess of blood for me to clean up and calling this casual conversation, it asks h im mocking it, and i suppose bared teeth are bared teeth, whether bound in smile or snarl.

a poem about worrying i slit the sides of this dilemma, peer inside at the colors of the viscera, and think ive solved it alread. but it laughs at me, tells me this injur isnt fatal, that it doesnt even hurt. so i sew it back up. and it whimpers about this, telling me im aligning the rong parts in the wrong order, that i cant solve hat i dont even kno backards. i shush it by gently punching holes into it, until its disfigured like it should hold caterpillars. i hope that some kind of truth might sublimate out of it but it doesnt. though i must be some kind of half-right, because this dilemma looks to me, with eyes ringed in animalistic white, and its trembling, as afraid as i am. still, it mutters, h hank gd e id. in frustration i fix it again, and core out the heart that has sat in front of me, too easy, all along. im left ith an unspeaking corpse and the wonder if im only imagining this heart in my hand.

Claire Pittman Children of the Stars

Whimsy

Paige Wallace Dad D Lad

Ever Sunda at dads house we folded laundry to narrow the silence of bonding time.

The laundry of a single man is a mosaic of his life. Mismatched colors and shapes and sizes displaying the man he once had been; a museum in a convenient plastic basket. His collection included

ratt tee shirts for orking on anything (the yard, his car, whatever was asked or whatever he declared,) memorabilia of his youth packaged into a size XL (namely the faded Buick Grand National shirt from 1987 he refused to throw away, the one with the Grim Reaper looming over the black car, because this was his dream car, something physical to remind him of the good days, and god damn it he was going to own that car one day, when he was rich, and he found one for cheap,) the occasional decent tie for the desk job he hated, since he swore he was still going to make it as a cop one day. And of course the yellowing linens borne from someone who gave up trying a long time before divorce. They paired nicely with his yellowing mattress, almost as if the failure to make meaningful changes in laundry or life was intentional.

And so we folded the hours away until the laundry was sorted and clean and ne again, pretending e ouldnt have to wash them again, ignore the stains again,

pretend what is clean could never be dirty. A cotton-polyester distraction.

Then e aited til laundr day next week. Repeat cycle.

For PawPaw

I want to remember his leathery skin sprinkled with freckles and doused in good old fashioned elbow grease. His bushy Irish beard, scratching at my face. But I cannot. To hear the silver chimes of his laughter for things that erent all that funn. Like old Simpsons reruns and jokes he claimed were original. But I cannot. To feel his calloused hand holding mine as we trek down gravel roads, or more namely, the back alley of a dead Appalachian suburb; twisting through bent over houses and long-gone grass. But I cannot. I want to recoil at the smell of his chewing tobacco, packaged in an orange pouch labeled Havana Blossom and unsuccessfully hide it behind the living room heater, slipping it under stacks of used magazines and unreturned library books. But I cannot.

The pieces of him that are still with me come in the form of gentle glass, given lace-like edges and curved on the ends. A vase here, a gravy boat, and even some figurines without real shape, bearing the signature Fostoria-brand pale jewel tones.

I like to think he picked these pieces on purpose. A

dedication to his family, a physical fruit of his labor. Each one still placed exactly where he left it, a present reminder of his love.

Tid-Bits (A collection of phrases I have overheard)

Last Tuesday I was crying in the courtyard next to the sunflower patch.

The rain is so, so cold.

I almost made it back to the place I ran from.

I have a really bad seet tooth. I just cant resist the temptation of potential love (something so sugary.)

You have to keep your eyes open. Even if oure scared.

I wonder if her tears taste like honey.

I cant ait for this to end.

Raeann Williams Misplaced Grief

Do you sometimes look at an image of yourself and oure convinced it isnt ou? Some photos are prone to deceive. I have a few pictures of you. As a child they helped me see you, a young 30-something who loved to hunt, a father ho didnt sh aa from jumping in the ball pit with his daughters.

But remember photos deceive. Do I know what you really looked like? I hear stories about how great you were, about how you would drop everything for a friend in need, about the line that stretched a quarter mile out the door of your funeral.

But people like to deceive too, especially when they glorify the dead. Do I know who you really were? I was far too young to understand what it meant to lose a parent. I was incapable to fathom how its supposed to sting to grow up missing your father.

Ive gron skeptical to believe anything about you, I saw nothing with my own eyes. As much as I struggle to understand who you must have been, I study the pictures of you, the hunter, the loving husband, the friendly cop, and I struggle much more deciding how to feel.

Ode to the piano in my 11am lecture

I cant possibl be epected to pay attention to a lecture about a proscenium stage when a baby grand sits at the rooms edge or did he say arena?

Proscenium. a picture frame stage famous for its arch, I would sure like to frame a picture of this piano.

A sleek contrast of black and white, no instrument compares, and when you look at this one, you just know that all of the keys work.

If I close my eyes I can pretend to hear Fr Elise, and drift away with the genius of Beethoven while the professor says something about a star-crossed lover.

I am miles away from this theatre chair and I have taken the piano with me. I stare up at a sky filled with stars as the pianist switches to Clair de Lune. I can see the moonlight.

Shoes

The shoes, honest to God, j didn fi igh. The erent even offensive, no obscene images or nasty words printed on the sides, really they were quite beautiful. Simple, inviting, almost warm. Mabe I just didnt like how loud they could be, you know, the type of shoes that demand to be heard, every step louder than the last one? No, maybe it was just that everyone loved the shoes so much, telling me how great I looked with them, as if I needed validation, I am the one who decides hat shoes I ear, I dont need opinions I didnt ask for. No, that asnt it either. Sometimes I thought the design was a little young for me, like in spirit, I am entering adulthood, and I dont need m shoes making you question if I am 23 or 17. Here lies the problem: I am sure of it no. I just didnt need new shoes, there was nothing wrong with them, it asnt their fault, I didnt care

about anones comments, I was just irresponsible to have ripped them off the rack, I kne there asnt room in my closet in the first place.

Michelle Yadrick Federman, Michigan

Marianna hated the new train, which woke up the grandchildren to tears, whistle loud and coldest metal tolling. The wind she said was worse than the whistles, and e told her trains dont bring ind ecept hats right in their ake.

Jozef and Alvin got jobs at the station while Pawel and I were in charge of safety, and we all earned enough to save. Our town had become a company to replace the unreliable crops, while far-off industries somehow helped our community. And Marianna still didnt trust the ind.

They changed the tracks six years ago to make the route efficient, bypassing our area and I stood at the old tracks with Marianna, now aged. Thell have to move elsehere hen the gro, said Marianna of the grandchildren, and in that wind, I finally felt the ghosts of m peoples dreams the heels had snagged.

Intercepted Letter from Hudson River State

God assigned me a body that allows disregard but made sure I knew it was not my fault. So when you throw my letter away ou can follo Gods plan without guilt. You abused my time singing hymns to ripe goddesses who came before me, and spent our last days speaking of Her to exorcise me from our home Her Name and marvel your incantation.

Your song is no different from others that rang against me, but I remember your address most easily.

That home we made was liminal space to you as much as I was a liminal lover for ou, as I am for all Gods heartbroken people. I absorb their votive tributes to old idols who left them so the ma go forth and succeed: take husband or wife, bear fruit, and self-absorb. You think you are free in our house with Her, but I chose to breakfast, lunch, and dinner here because I must tidy up at some point after human use.

Brie-Ann Young Fed L

susan from our moms ork our best friends grandma judgmental church women absent college friends that one girl from theatre freshman year high school friends present in their own lives annoing girl ou cant delete an ex who you want to see you getting better camp friends you see once a year your crush you want to notice you high school friends selling magic pills the college dropout who bitches about not having work the divorcee complaining about her ex the mom ho has the best child ever the girl with the birthday the drug addict talking about recovery the depressed showing warning signs

Light

Sun. You are bright and beautiful. You are warm and welcoming. You glitter on the snow in the depths of winter. You shine on the sea in the heart of summer.

Moon. You break up the opaque black sky with the light of your craters. You stand for the process of healing. From full...to half...to gone. Then back again. You shine on the cars in the concrete driveway. You share your secrets with the clouds as they pass over you.

Stars. Do the stars wish to be brighter? They fight for the right to light up the night sky. Yet they fall victim to the assault of the moon. Billions of little dots scattered along the sea Of darkness. Sometimes hiding and waiting to let their light shine.

Memory

I remember your face and your rotary phone. I remember the way your house always smelled antique and welcoming. I remember your small stature and the way you loved to cook.

But, memory works in strange ways.

I do not remember your voice or your hugs. I do not remember your walk or your favorite foods.

I remember you passing near the end of the school year. But I do not remember what you wore or the color of your flowers.

Dad likes to tell me about you and how much you loved me. But, I fear everyday that I have disappointed you.

Your passing was not quick or painless. You forgot everyone slowly, but all at once. You never forgot me. Me and my reading of Dr. Seuss books. You knew who I was then. But, I forget who you were now.

Woman in the Mirror

Last year you glared at the long mirror, critiquing every roll and stretch mark on your pale body. You thought, you were worthless. You try to change your body like oure fitting into a box. You eat so much you swell like a dead pig in the heat. You starve yourself to the point you can count every single rib. In the end, You hate yourself.

A month or so later, Aaron killed himself. Bright pictures on Facebook of smiles and laughter, hiding the way he hated every part of the earth. The fact he never felt good enough He was the joker of the group But at what cost? Long, misspelled paragraphs about how much he was loved. If he was loved that much, he would still be here. You thought, what if it was you? You thought you were inconsiderate for planning your suicide at a funeral. You hate yourself.

You walk up the long brick building, through the red pews that have seen addicts, adulterers, and families falling apart. The harsh lights, leaving nothing hidden. Judgmental women ask you how school is going, ou lie and tell them its going ell. Ho dare ou lie in Gods house. You walk out crying because God knows you hate yourself.

You fell in love with a mess and vowed to fix him. Feeling pressured to stay causing your downhill spiral. Tears and anxiety attacks. Is this love. It is your fault. You failed. Soon, you learn to love yourself. Hard to tell if oure healing or not. Still saying you want to die, but do you mean it? Do you still hate yourself?

Special Section Dave Thomas Retirement Tribute The following section is offered as a tribute to retired English professor Dr. David J. Thomas who taught at West Liberty for thirty-one years. Though he retired in 2017, his legacy at WLU lives on, as I was fortunate enough to be his student when I attended WLU. I consider it an honor to carry on teaching many of the fundamentals and nuances of the craft to my students today, many of whose pieces appear above.

Since we revived Ampersand in its ne online format last ear, e thought that this ears edition ould be a fitting place to include a section in Dr. Thomas honor, as his influence was powerful and long-lasting with many of his writing and literature students. In this section, we invited his former students to offer either reflections, a piece of writing that they had written under his guidance in English 360: Creative Writing Poetry, or both. Tributes, messages, and poems inspired by his teachings follow.

Happy Retirement, Dave, and we hope you continue to enjoy life after teaching, never forgetting how much you changed our lives.

Sincelery,

Dr. William Scott HannaClass of 1996

Matthew J. Smith 1993

Dave Thomas had a profound influence on my approach to teaching. From my earliest days in the classroom, I would find myself asking WWDD: What Would Dave Do? I patterned my strategies towards organizing my lectures, my interaction with students in the classroom, and the level of detail offered in my feedback after the model I witnessed Dave exercise at West Liberty. Today, more than a quarter century after I was his student, I strive to make my students feel as engaged, welcomed, and intellectually stimulated as Dave did for me.

Dave also was the first instructor I had who dignified the comics medium by teaching about it in his classroom. Ive no produced a half-dozen books in the area of Comics Studies, and I owe a debt to Dave for showing me that intellectual curiosity should not be bounded by prejudice.

Gail Adams 2004

Webs

I cursed the fog.

Damp, dew-laden entrance of the morning, neutraliing dabreaks splendor obscuring vision, veiling the valley in a dense shroud, But, then, my surprised eyes beheld lace latticework of tatting suspended for miles between lines of power. Each web defined by delicate droplets that would disappear once the sun awoke, making them invisible once again. Each display a design of deception would-be captives could only delay their eventual death sentences. How did the spiders know where to cast their spinnerets? was it some Divine blueprint?

Had it not been for the morning mist, I would not have experienced the beauty, would not have felt the presence of God.

I blessed the fog.

Dr. David J. Thomas (or Dave, as his students know him) is the consummate educator. Through him, I learned to teach with joy, with passion, and with love. Dave is my role model, my mentor, and my friend. From him, I learned the importance of relationships with students as the conduit through which all learning flows. From him, I learned that the teacher-student relationship does not end when the bell rings or the semester ends. From him, I learned to make every student feel special. Little did I know in 2004 when I earned my degree that his lessons would become the foundation of my year of service as the 2015 West Virginia Teacher of the Year. My message was one of the importance of relationships in order for learning to take place. Maa Angelou once said, Ive learned that people ill

forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel, and I used that message as I spoke throughout West Virginia. Dr. Dave Thomas was a part of each of those speeches because I have never forgotten how he made me feel as a 45-year old homemaker who decided she wanted to teach English.

Rachel Wurster 2016

Dave,

It was always a pleasure having you as a professor in class. I felt like you cared about me as a student and as an individual outside of class. You always made class fun, and I will never forget your Q-tip award, candy bar bets, the infamous churkey, and your charming refrain of Nice rhme, Emil! Thanks to our grammar class, I no kno enough about grammar to be driven cra b the mistakes m on students make. West Lib ont be the same without you.

Sa hello to the Victorias Secret models for me!

Jacqueline (Bartels) Yahn 2007

Dave,

You inspired your students to be courageous and exercise good humor. While in residence on the hilltop, we looked forward to your lectures and assignments that bolstered our intellect and empowered us to survey and then claim our own territory in the professional world. And as young professionals, if we called you confessing some doubt, you would nudge us forward with assurances that our ideas and enthusiasm were just what the populous was in need of. Here is a synopsis of the impact your altruism has had on just one students career:

On courage: At a meeting of all the English teachers in my former school district we were told by our curriculum director we simply needed to do what we were told because the state said so. I responded in turn: Are e in a George Orell novel here? What is this 1984? In good humor: Several years ago my then colleague, a fellow 7th grade English teacher, took me hostage during our lunch period. She wanted to discuss the ills of junior high students who did not know the work of Hemmingway and the Bronte sisters. Thanks to the survey course I took with you junior year, I was able to give this sage advice: You kno our students might be motivated b one of Hemmingas more interesting orks, like sa The Garden of Eden. She had never heard of it, so I suggested she look it up that evening. I invited her to have coffee with me the next day at lunch so we could strategize how we would present the orks merits to the school board. Perhaps she as forgetful because she never did return for that cup of Joe . . . Giving a professional nudge (or two or three): You wrote a recommendation letter to Ohio State and then to Ohio Universit so that I could pursue a masters and then follow it with a doctoral degree. I would now like to publicly thank you for the nine-year caffeine buzz that was necessary to complete those feats. On staking professional territory: All jesting aside, from my desk at Ohio Universits Eastern Campus, I rite to ou ith gratitude for all ou have done and continue to do on my behalf.

I hope ou enjo this collection of our students reflections of our greatest hits. Let it serve as all the proof you need that in your years at West Liberty you never treated your career as if it were a dress rehearsal. On behalf of us all, thanks for one hell of a show!

Charisse Powell 2012

Below is one of the poems that I completed for Daves poetr class in the fall of 2011. This is my favorite poem from that course as it combines my two favorite subject areas of history and English. The poem is about the monument for General Gouverneur Kemble Warren in Gettysburg, PA which overlooks Devils Den. Dave encouraged me to submit it to the Ampersand. It was published in the Ampersand in the spring.

Dave is a wonderful professor, and I think back on his classes often. He is an inspiration to me now as I continue in my own career as a teacher.

Ode to a Monument

O monument of stone Eternal marker of the past You stand forever sentinel On that little hill over Beelebubs lair Eternally damned to relive history Yet always standing present

O monument of stone Yankee boy in blue How did it feel to give the command Breaking each wave of gray Can you still see them Marching up to meet you

O monument of stone Eternal marker of the past Yankee boy in blue How does it feel . . .

Britney D. Gordon 2015

Dave,

First let me sa, CONGRATULATIONS! Im so happ for ou. You deserve to take some time for yourself and do something amazing. However, if you want to just stay home with our dog, thats oka too. Its our retirement. You can do hatever ou ant. Im just happy for you.

They sent out an email a little while ago asking for entries for this anthology that they have put together. At first I didnt kno hat I as going to do. I as never the best poet, and my stories are way too long to put here for you to read. Then I realized one of my best traits is riting letters. Ive never been great at epressing things verball, but riting them don sometimes helps get the point across. So here I go.

I spent four years at West Liberty, and they were great. But when I say that your classes were some of the best memories from those years, please believe me. Although certain aspects of literature were not my favorite subjects, you found a way to make me enjoy them. I never hid the fact that I dont like poetr. I cant remember how many times I told you that. Yet you made me want to try and understand it just a little better. In previous classes, hen the ould assign poems to read, I ould usuall skip them because I dont understand it. I didnt for our class. I actually tried to read, and understand, what was in front of me. I might not have been very good at it, but I attempted. You also inspired me to have an open mind about stories that I had read before. There were several works that we read that I didnt like in the past, but you asked me, and inspired me, to have an open mind about them. M mind ma not have changed, but I as happ to tr. Thats one of the reasons your classes meant so much to me.

You care about our students. To ou e arent just faces in a classroom, but ou take the time to talk to each of us, and get to know us. You try your best to help us when we were struggling with something. The fact that you allowed me to sit in on your grammar class, when I was struggling with commas, meant the world to me. I still struggle with the littles buggers, but you gave me the opportunity to learn a little better. (If my comma usage is driving you nuts with this letter, I apologize.) Not many professors would take the time to find extra practice worksheets for a student not enrolled in their class. You did. I will never forget that.

You have had a bigger impact on m life than ou probabl realie. Im not ashamed to sa you are my favorite professor. I love all the staff at WLU, but you stand out above them. I think back on our time together with fondness. I remember one day I finished a water bottle

in our class. It as the first time Id ever done so. Without even thinking about it, I crushed the bottle. I laugh every time I remember the look on your face. You turned around and stared at me as if I had grown a second head. You were so shocked, and I was so embarrassed, that e both just laughed. I can honestl sa that I dont remember anthing else about that class, but the memory will live on until I lose my mind.

Your office was amazing. I have no idea what you plan on doing with all those monkeys, but I loved them. I loved that you had an open door policy, and that you never turned your students away. It was so nice to be able to talk to you about anything, or nothing. It was amazing.

I could honestl go on and on, but I dont think the have room for all of that. I hope that this letter makes sense, I wrote like I talk, and sometimes thats a little confusing. I probabl oe ou about five dollars for improper grammar. Youd be rich if ou started charging for the incorrect use of commas. Ana, thats something to think about.

You mean a lot to me, Dave. I hope that came through loud and clear. I can never thank you enough for all that you have done, and the amount of caring and effort that you put into my education. I hope that you have a wonderful retirement ahead of you. Take some trips, take some naps, and enjoy life, you have plent of it left. Dont forget to sta in touch, I ant to hear all about hat oure doing.

Sincerely,

Britney D. Gordon

Amy (Shriner) Krieger 2009

Dr. Dave,

While I took and enjoyed many of your classes (American Literature, Structures of English, and Linguistics to name a fe), our poetr class as one of m favorites. I asnt particularly skilled at writing poetry, but you were encouraging and helped me to enjoy writing, reading, and critiquing poetry. I remember you told me this was the best poem I had written. I was honored to be able to contribute to this collection of writings. After my time at West Liberty, I carried the knowledge and skills you taught with me into my career to inspire and share a love of literature with my students. You made waking up for those early classes something to look forward to. I especially enjoyed your bits of daily trivia and your love for classic rock. Most importantly, you helped me realize that the best teachers have a great sense of humor. I wish you the best in your future endeavors and want to offer my congratulations on a much-deserved retirement.

Thunderstorm

The wind whips around the trees, blowing at great heighT Hear it swoosh as it brings down branches in its patH Under the roof the rain taps lightly close to yoU Now listen to the pit-pat of the raiN During the storm, it falls on the roaD Even harder, plop plopping on leaves in the treE Rumbling thunder starts to grow loudeR Suddenly a bomb fills the skieS The sound envelops the nighT Over the lightning scattering through the sky of indigO Retreating clouds create great coloR Making the grey skies glisten as the storm begins to calM

Joe Roxby

A Powerfully Stirring Smartass A Tribute to Dave a man almost pretentious in his humility whose knowledge of the English language left this once-pronounced grammar-Nazi in stunned silence neither simply a teacher of English or an instructor of literature but an inspiration, a man who led this student on a pilgrimage to that holy place of self-expression who taught this student to pass beyond he mere mold of meter and verse to transcend the trappings of rhythm and rhyme to not fear the desire to pen my angriest emotions

countless are the lessons that go beyond the academic rare and invaluable are the impressions he has left one can only hope that future generations will not waste his time, passing over this Solomon of poesy mistaking him for a mere educator for one day he will no longer lead youthful students as this along that path to enrichment

so may they of the future take heed as those of the past and become the evidence that he makes a living of changing lives

Carly (Gayda) Seals 2003

After experiencing Dave Thomas as a literature and poetry professor, I was inspired to write the poem below while sitting in a local laundromat. Dave was both inspirational and criticaltraits Ive mimicked in m on classroom ith m students. I ant to thank you for the daily laughter and for my ongoing repulsion of Emily Dickinson. Forced rhyme is not a thing. I am forever indebted to you.

An Evening at the Laundromat flip - flip - flip spin - spin Sitting Indian-style atop silver washers and dryers. Momm, can I get on those ones? Yes, bab. Just ipe them off. The childs visage resembles that of the stretch pant-clad woman carelessly mopping the lint-covered, tan/taupe, tile floor. She gracelessly elongates a chubby arm, extending filthy fingers fearlessly into nooks and crannies only lost quarters have seen. Kristen skips across the fluorescently-lit room with off-white, yellowed walls like a bear with a burr up its butt. I turn, hoping this attempt at gaining her mothers attention soon takes effect. A middle-aged man in camouflage stares intently as I offer a smile A favor that is not returned. Dropping my throbbing head back I restlessly open lids heavy with a desire for sleep Only to spy the sickening popcorn-style ceiling And motionless fans hanging idle, Like most of the unused washers and dryers Each, eagerly awaiting its turn, to spin new life into soiled garments and sheets Both used by the couple that so awkwardly attempted to find comfort in a strangers arms last night. A pair of white-haired widows whisper solemnly Each to herself Under a breath that has breathed - and forgotten - A lifetime of memories.

Caroline Dougherty 2014

Brickhouse

Late again... a joke 8 A.M. grammar with B.S. Flart Poetry with Dave is a Dave is a Dave is a Dave Patterned shirt fresh from the cabana Nelly Band-Aid in tow When I Heard the Learnd Professor Elizabeth Barret Browning is a Bitch Emily Dick-in-Son is a Dog I sear it asnt me ho put poison in your water Dont let me find out ho Meet me in Winesburg, Ohio; theres an Occurrence on the Aetnaville Bridge

Werthers Original: Seet Atticus & Scout

Daria Wood 2009 retirement at eleven thirty eight for christmas i got an antique pocket watch golden etched weathered if i want to know the time i have to wind it every day i never wind it im rarely early the pocket watch wouldnt help you see going early always felt like robbing my own bank precious minutes spent waiting click endings like beginnings they all happen at eleven thirty eight i dropped my pocket watch the other day it did not shatter time is silent time goes on i go on and i carry the moments with me like a pocket watch like eleven thirty eight

Samuel Vernarsky 2002 hilltop in a flash: laughs and lagers, class with dave, who? squinting, shouts no wrinting! ears to you.

Kelly Reasbeck 2017

Dear Dr. Thomas:

I remember your inspirational talk on poetry about a snake. I remembered it, particularly, when a coworker killed one on our childcare center playground with a rake.

Snakie was a small sheen-green garden variety slithereen; Silently sneaking through our flowerbed, he streaked through a shaft of sunlight so was seen. Hellish screams by children all, The demanded the creatures immediate fall. I really doubt, if he had lived, too much trouble among the daisies could he make; But, Teacher Goodie, sensing primal threat, hacked and hacked at his head (For Goodness sake!) until the lying fellow was really, and sincerely, dead! Dropped into a plastic bag of trash tied tightly with a cord, Little BellyCrawler fell ungraciously to his reward. Daring doer-of this deed declares again and again She is an animal lover; so as not to cause any pain- a faithful vegetarian.

Poetry: Truth and Beauty and Grace; Can we ever live with the nature of Its face? Too much shine for us, perhaps; Just like knowing snakes live glowing in the grass.

My poetry-loving Professor friend: Sadly, I found no poetry in this Dead-End. And having expressed this story and my heart-felt sentiment, I DO hope you find lively poetry in your retirement!

Kenneth E. Powell, III 2013

Everywhere There is a Song

This old apartment creaks. Its wooden floors ache under heels heavy with weight of man, the alls ince ith evr slammed door; these all are notes ignored, a hymn drowned out and lost in eddies born of locomotions creed.

Outside a ballad carries through the streets, cacophonous with blaring beats from old Buicks and bombast shouted out from the street preachers; narratives compete against each other, they are songs too loud to hear.

I think of sweeter melodies. A place on rolling hills marked by proud oaks, where I was taught everywhere there is song, but some are deaf to it; there birds sing for their sake so that they never want for ear or song.

Message to Dave:

Thanks for helping me find a song, Dave. Sorry that this poem is a bit lacking in cohesion, but it is a poem of my own making, and that matters. You taught me that. Be good and may good come to you.

Shawna Safreed 2008

For You

The moon winked. The trees whispered. For you.

The migrating birds in flight found a branch to rest upon. For you.

Bears in hibernation began to stir. For you.

Airplanes in mid-air grounded. For you.

The whistling breeze stopped. For you.

New York City subways came to a halt. For you.

Sirens began to sound all over town. For you.

Sleeping owls in the barns awoke. For you.

The sun peeked through the clouds and smiled. For you.

The world stopped spinning. For you.

God grinned down. For you.

Two hearts began beating for a whole new reason.

Welcome, son.

Emily Burgy 2015

Into Yellow i remember an army of ladybugs the force it took to crush their shells their exoskeletons crunching against cement excreting neon blood and splashing the air reinforcements whirring around in blurs of red hovering over the corpses of their fallen friends i remember crushing the invasion into yellow

Miss Right You just havent found the right gu et. But when I do, will he have iridescent lashes, equally darkened and highlighted by mascara as black as night? Will he have long legs stretched longer by dagger-like stilettos? On our wedding day, will he wear a gown, too?

Let me introduce ou to m brother, cousin, friend. But does he have feminine charm, the mastery of communication and manipulation all women have? Does he understand the a omen see the orld, the a it sees them? Can he please skin that responds only to the female touch?

Youll meet Mr. Right someda. Rest assured, your concern is appreciated, but before you try to help a girl find hat shes looking for, you may want to know what it is first.

Jeremy Gordon 2011

Haiku III the snow was falling bright and white like you told me it would be

Jesse Scott 2012

Oh, Silent Solitude

Oh, silent solitude . . . Peaceful, pure serenity. I stop in woods On a snowy eve To prod and purge A sorrowful dirge From well within The depths of me.

The silver, crescent moon, As if startled by my steps The crunch and crack Of boots of black Testing the inters depths Hides itself in a murky shroud: Concealed within a misty cloud.

Darkness, darkness All around . . . Not a single star in sight. Nothing more Than the icy kiss Of this indless inters night.

I brush the snow From a fallen oak And wonder of the tree: Dost thou know that from ones death Became a seat for me?

Father Winters man children, Drifting down from blackened skies, Joining hands with grounded brethren A reminder that the orlds alive.

Wholl embraced b inters chill, I deeply breathe the crisp, cool air, Musing on Fate and lives not spared.

And in this moment, Life is true!

Oh, peaceful, silent solitude.

Lacey Matheny 2015

Loneliness, My Companion

How do you ever love, Truly love yourself I onder hat its like To be anybody else

Id alas thought Id rather love, Than have myself be favored; But Loneliness has loved me long And Im regretting m behavior.

Loneliness, my companion, But Im tiring of m old friend. Yet here I sit, alone with him I suppose until the end.

You think I know the answers, To the questions you are asking Why then, would I not tell you What is it that I am masking?

Why does she sit alone in there, Wh is it she ont speak, Why does she not leave the room, Why is it she is so meek?

It is true that you have prodded, And I sought refuge in my room I just meant a brief escape, Yet now it seems a tomb

I do not know to join you now, Or even if I could I wonder of the changing world, And wonder if I should

I appreciate the gesture,

Still I cant seem to stand The thought of reaching out And you not offering your hand

My friend, he may be quiet, But there is comfort in that silence I do not expect him to leave me now, And he appreciates my compliance.

After all, he has upheld, And you have let waver You are the one with promise broken, Though I asked of you no favor

No, I think Ill sta a hile And revel in the lonely He has been one to never judge, And enjoys my company only

He listens when I do not say a word, Our thoughts in concurrence He may not speak as much as you, But I think I may prefer it.

Loneliness, stay with me. I am familiar with you now. If ou ere to leave, Id beg ou please Ill sta ith thee, I vo.

James Michael Shaver 2011

Perchance to Dream

Such damnable deeds cannot On anones part Be taken as a token. As for myself, Such seemingly, Spiteful acts of slness hath scaped m guard Through skillful seclusion Like mist of the night.

And like mist of the night, These deeds linger oer me. Haunting my brain, Taunting my conscience, Rotting me before Terra is given chance.

Evil and good Black or hite I no longer can differ. For all is gray Like a prowling, clouding storm. A storm hich round me danced Danced to a demonic dialect riddled with damnable deeds.

Student Author Biographies

Chris Cronin is a West Liberty University graduate with a B.A. in English Writing and Rhetoric and a Minor in Advertising Communications. He enjoys reading horror and fantasy, namely Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, as well as writing in those genres. When he isn't reading or writing, he's typically found playing story-driven video games or playing Magic: The Gathering. He currently resides in Wellsburg, West Virginia.

Siara Deem is a current Junior at West Liberty University, who is originally from the small town of Williamstown, WV. She enjoys reading classics, including Jane Austen. She has always found a passion for writing and consciously is searching for new ways to spread that love to others through her work. Starting a collection of books seems to be her new passion, yet she still has never read Harry Potter.

PJ Denard was born and raised in Wheeling, WV, and is currently a sophomore at West Liberty University. He is majoring in Digital Media Design with a concentration in Videography, and minoring in both Photography and Visual Communication Design. His favorite pastimes are hiking, taking photographs, drawing on Procreate, and writing poems and short stories. A fun fact about PJ is that he loves to collect hats and makes sure that he wears one every day.

Justin Hall is a freshman at West Liberty University. He is from Glen Dale, West Virginia and he has been doing photography for roughly seven years. His favorite type of photography is nature and wildlife photography. As of now, he is currently undecided about what he wants to major in, but he plans on doing something business related in the near future.

Charles Henry is a senior, graduating in May of 2020. He is pursuing an Interdisciplinary Studies degree with a focus on English Literature and Educational Philosophy. He grew up near Richmond, Ohio. He is a non-traditional student and a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, both of which heavily influence his approach to writing.

Edgy characters, intriguing words, and a desire for raw emotion to fill the page is what T.N. Koontz tries to accomplish in her writing. Fiction is her primary literary genre, but she has also taken interest in poetry, especially in the form of the haiku. She is a proud English Literature major in her junior year. She moved to Moundsville, West Virginia, at the age of thirteen, from Johnstown, Ohio. One day, she hopes to change the world with her words and characters.

Callie ONeil is a freshmen at West Liberty University. She is majoring in pre-nursing and hopes to become a traveling nurse in the future. She is from the very small town of Cameron, West Virginia, with a population of only 871. One of her favorite hobbies is photography.

Dylan Parsons is a History major at WLU and founder of the Creative Writers Club.

Luna Phalen is a sophomore English Writing and Rhetoric major from Hurricane, West Virginia. Though poetry is currently only a small hobby for them, they would love to one day be able to publish a book of their work. After their time at West Liberty, they hope to pursue a degree in library science.

Claire McKenzie Pittman is a 21 year-old self-taught artist from Pine Grove, West Virginia. She is attending West Liberty University at this time to pursue Creative Art Therapy, and loves helping people unlock their creativity through therapeutic practices. Her favorite thing to paint is sunflowers, and she has an Etsy shop for her artork called The Sunfloer Princess, but she also dabbles in painting other subjects from nature, and also does nature photography. She is so honored to be featured in Ampersand!

Paige Wallace is a senior English Literature major. She is originally from Glen Dale, WV, and lives with her mother and three cats. In her spare time, she enjoys surrounding herself with the various musical ensembles the campus has to offer. After her time at West Liberty, Paige plans to enroll in a graduate program where she can further her education.

Raeann Williams is a Junior Writing and Rhetoric Major from Martinsburg, WV. She loves books, classical music, and cats. Her dream is to one day become a book editor for a publishing house. After graduating from West Liberty, she hopes to be accepted into the Professional Writing program at Carnegie Mellon University.

Michelle Yadrick of Weirton, W.V., is a masters student in the Clinical Pscholog program. Michelle is a G.A. for the Pscholog Department, but hen she isnt working, she enjoys playing with her cats and writing. Her ideas usually come to her at unholy hours of the night, so she has notes full of chicken scratch in her room. She would like to thank her parents and friends for encouraging her to keep writing.

Brie-Ann Young is a junior English Education major. She comes from a farm in Belleville, West Virginia. A fun fact about Brie-Ann is that she loves Disney and has been to Disney World 17 times.