Lights and Shadows

Volume 58 Lights and Shadows Volume 58 Article 1

1-1-2015

Lights and Shadows 2015

Follow this and additional works at: https://ir.una.edu/lightsandshadows

Part of the Art and Design Commons, and the Creative Writing Commons

Recommended Citation (2015). Lights and Shadows 2015. Lights and Shadows, 58 (1). Retrieved from https://ir.una.edu/ lightsandshadows/vol58/iss1/1

This Full Issue is brought to you for free and open access by UNA Scholarly Repository. It has been accepted for inclusion in Lights and Shadows by an authorized editor of UNA Scholarly Repository. For more information, please contact [email protected]. S 2015 vol. 25 vol. LIGHTS & SHADOWS T & LITERARY MAGAZINE AR

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 2015

Lights & Shadows University of North Alabama

Distribution free of charge upon resquest of the Department of Art and English of the University of North Alabama. Literary manuscripts and artwork in Lights and Shadows are selected from University of North Alabama students. The winners are recognized in Lights and Shadows.

The University of North Alabama is committed to offering an environment for both education and employment free of discrimination and harassment in accordance with all laws, including Titles VI and VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972, the Americans with Disabilities Act, and Executive Order 11246. Discrimination and/or harassment, in any form, based on race, color, sex, gender, religion, age, national origin, sexual orientation, or disability is a violation of this policy.

5 9 Editor-in-Chief Teena Patel

Literary Dylan W. Schrader Submissions Editor

Elise Coefield Promotions Editors Chamblee E. Smith

Faculty Sponsor Daryl Brown

Photography Jessica Pajaron

Marie Merci Karera Cover/Book Design Briana Knight

Art Faculty Sponsor John Waters 5 9 Art Juror Christopher Taylor ONTENTS

FICTION POETRY

NON-FICTION POETRY

CNARRATIVE LITERATURE ALEX HUGHES Babel P. 22 JORDAN EDGERLY America Night (Best Poetry) P. 30 Stray Cats And Beer and How We Live P. 38 Bottles P. 68 Restless P. 41 KATELYN SPIDEL ANNA GRACE USERY Bith Control P. 14 Teachable Moments P. 45 Smolder P. 25

ANNELISE KENNEDY MARI WILLIAMS Street Kid P. 23 Inoperable P. 74 My Not-So-Humble Abode P. 31 MELISSA MARTIN AURORA Dying To Live P. 54 Working Days P. 27

CALEB BILLINGS REBEKAH MILWEE Muscle Shoals P. 40 Amie P. 62 Ferguson P. 13 SHERREE WEAKLEY CHAMBLEE SMITH Feminism P. 56 ONTENTS Mending P. 26 Kelly is Almost Honest P. 43 A Non-Relationship With Kelley P. 72 TAIMA NAGLE The Breeze In The Bottle P. 81 DYLAN SCHRADER A Season In Ennui P. 12 TEENA PATEL Terror And Agoraphobia In ‘Merica P. 39 Shoes P. 21 Smoke and Lies (Best Fiction) P. 48 Untitled P. 80 A Simple Love Song P. 79 The Salt Mine Of Dharasana (Best Nonfiction) P. 33 ERICA JUNEAC Identity P. 53 The Liquid Help P. 42 WHITNEY BERRYMAN ERIN COOPER Library After Hours P. 37 Plunge P. 78 W.J. MCCORMACK JAMES ROPER Statue Still P. 18 Upon Losing A friend P. 19 The Home P. 32 ONTENTS

BEST IN SHOW

DIGITAL MEDIA

PHOTOGRAPHY

ART 3D

C 2D BEST IN SHOW TWO DIMENSIONAL Picked Clean p. 61 First place: Sculpture I’m Double Sided Pt. 2 p. 29 STEPHANIE GILE Mixed Media TIFFANY EVANS

Second place: Nora p. 28 Linoleum Cut JESSICA PAJARON

DIGITAL MEDIA THREE DIMENSIONAL First place: First place: A Theme by Jeff Richmond p. 46 100 cups p. 76 Motion Graphic Ceramics MONTANA SEWELL CLAY KRIEG

Second place: Second place: Stretch Your Legs p. 47 Trophy Life p. 77 Digital Print Mixed Media Ceramic Sculpture SHILO CUPPLES WESLEY HOOPER

PHOTOGRAPHY HONORABLE MENTION First place: Untitled p. 16 The Walk p. 87 3D Design Sculpture MARIE KARERA ALYSSIA RUSSEL

Second place: Humanity p. 17 What Now p. 86 Mixed Media Ceramics MIRANDA HYDE KAT RICHEY A Season in Ennui DYLAN SCHRADER I used to let my heart leap inordinate distances—now it just sits in my chest, pumping blood through veins in the most quotidian of fashions. I was young, but maybe I was truer. I never refused wine, but Li Po was wrong about that. Die falling off of a boat grasping at the stars, and people start to question whether or not you can handle your liquor. No, I pulled myself back onto the boat and dried off. For the best, yes, but god I miss those libertine nights. I never thought I could see myself without my beautiful tan girl, but where are those ancient nights now? The days trample on like amputated pachyderms, and sometimes I wake up in the wreckage of their grotesque storm. Don’t get me wrong—I bite their ankles as they crushed me. I sunk my teeth into the filthy grey of their remaining limbs, and they let out an irritable objection. Nothing too pronounced, mind you—like the reaction to a mosquito bite. But this is in my blood—we don’t fight straight on, but bite at the heels. I am not Ernest Hemingway, nor was meant to be—I Prufrock around, wishing the romance built inside me could manifest itself into something other than inebriated despair. I am no man of action, nor a Papa of exaggerated masculinity. I demure, letting the idiot men of action have all of the glory. Simps in identical clothes. Cavemen who shave every inch of themselves. We real men ah ha ah. Chant loud. Me like boobs and jacked up trucks ah ha ah. I will spend no more time rambling out of my mouse hole. For if the fog lifts, I’ll see how dejected everything really is. After all, sitcoms still come on. I can sit there and take in all of the canned laughter for hours.

12 Ferguson CALEB BILLINGS

Black armor against black skin. Both are illuminated in a hellish orange that Laughs and mocks all from the shattered windows of cars and buildings. The flames boil the blood of everyone and goad on the inevitable clash. It’s a dance done a million times before with each side moving forward then backing up; each afraid to be the one attacks first. Indistinct yells and whining sirens build in intensity until both sides can no longer resist and they erupt towards each other.

The opposing black shadows appear to merge together but remain separated by a line of plastic shields. The flames dance higher and higher in ecstasy as twisted mouths spew demonic vitriol at each other. Finally that thin clear wall breaks and the old rituals of bruising skin, snapping bones, and cracking skulls begin. The morning sun greets the charred skeletons of Storefronts and sidewalks scabbed over with blood and ash. Horrified it retreats behind a blanket of grey clouds and denies the town its light. A forgiving November breeze rolls in to wipe away the smoke and shake the only light source left; A flickering sign that simply reads “Seasons Greetings.”

13 Birth Control KATELYN SPIDEL You said, maybe no And I shrugged happy shoulders And thought, maybe yes Slipped away and forgot That I used to be floating Inches up and laughing Because when you come to me I’m not really there I’m alone and pondering Not really you, but why I feel this way And when did it start, and when will it stop And I hope it does And I fall asleep I swallowed it, the dust and bitterness That left me sinking to the floor Revenge in my mWouth Dipping deep in my throat, my stomach, my blood Changing me, I’m Hitler And you have brown eyes Cracking me, I’m ice And the last thing I want Is to think or accept that I might be This ghost still tomorrow Of who I was, no, of someone else Because I was more wonderful, wasn’t I? But not this strong And not so correct And not so possessed With these demons, dearest friends Here to strangle me in sleep

14 Reflection shies back at the face Of a monster in her grave Perfect product of the night Not so pretty anymore I asked for this But at the chance that I might Forgive my ears their ringing You your panicked clinging This fraying rope its stinging Dry eyes note the red ring It left around my neck I ponder Not really you, but why I feel this way And when did it start, and when will it stop And I hope it does And I lie awake Remember ing how you said Maybe no, and realize It starts behind the mirror In the bathroom And I’m sorry So I’ll stop

15 ALYSSIA RUSSELL Untitled 3D Design Sculpture

16 KAT RICHEY Humanity Ceramic Sculpture

17 Statue Still W J MCCORMACK we stood statue still as the glue dried permanently affixing the googly eyes to our foreheads hoping that we could reach enlightenment despite the inorganic state of said eyes it is through static transmissions they chatter we can’t discern it

18 Statue Still Upon Losing a Friend W J JAMES MCCORMACK ROPER

When I was 19 my best friend, Joe, drowned right in front of me. Him, a female neighbor of ours, and I were looking for a place to swim. We found it on the Goose Shoals in Green Hill, where his family lived. We all walked a ways down the creek, keeping to a rock shelf opposite the more accessible side of the water. Soon we found a nice shallow entry point. My friend and I then decided to race to the other side of the creek. The problem was that it was March and the water was cold and its current swift. The other side of the creek was maybe thirty feet away. We both started strong but in the middle of the creek the current was unforgiving. I doubled, then redoubled, my efforts and made it across tired and shivering. That’s when I noticed my friend was still in the middle of the creek, splashing and bobbing in and out of the water. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. It took a second to register what had happened. I found out later that Joe was not a good swimmer; he had most likely been putting on a brave face to impress the girl we were with. The next couple of days were a blur. It took two days to find the body. I watched as my friends family held out an impossible hope that he had survived. They would say, “He might have come back up downstream and didn’t know where he was,” or, “He might have ended up in a cave or something.” I knew better but said nothing. They hadn’t been there as we screamed for him for minutes. It took another ten minutes for me to get up the courage to swim across again myself. After that I became depressed. The girl and I ended up together but it didn’t last. We grew together through our experience that day but it wasn’t enough to keep a relationship going. For a while I was surrounded by family and friends. Then I drew inward. I was

19 unemployed for a year and three months. I didn’t really talk to any- one. And death was always at the back of my mind.

For years I saw my friend in my dreams. He wasn’t dead and they weren’t nightmares, but that was crueler still. He was just there and in my dreamlike state I allowed myself to forget he was gone, until I woke up. Then I was hit with overwhelming sadness and forced to face his passing again. Luckily, the dreams faded over time. I was eventually able to shift death from the back of my mind to the forefront of my thoughts. I would liken it to a small mid-life crises, sans the mid-life. I decided to go back to college. I became a different person. I still thought about death and it scared me. Facing the idea of your mortality every day is daunting. You tell yourself that it will, barring accidents or criminal intention, be a long time. But then you take into account the extended weekend, or the summer off from school. Events may far off one moment but then sneak up on you the next. Suddenly it is Monday again, suddenly it is August. Of course I grew out of the death-obsessed phase. I know that when my time comes I will rage against the dying of the late, but will enjoy every second of my time here before that happens. My friend dying was, and may continue to be, the singular most influential moment of my life. If I had the chance to trade my personal growth over this last decade for his life, certainly I would. But that is not a choice I have, so I look to the silver lining. I am not the man I was. Without this experience I would not be the person I am. That is how the theory of unintended consequences works. I find solace in knowing that the loss of my friend has tempered me for all of the other losses that will inevitably occur in my life. If I am lucky they will not change me for the worse.

20 Shoes TEENA PATEL

During my primary school days, I roamed vast sugar cane fields in Malawi. I ditched class by sneaking out of the thatched windows of the village’s makeshift school. I came home barefoot and free-spirited. My mother usually sent me to bed without dinner, but I didn’t care. I was full of sugar-sweet cane juice every evening. Sometime in secondary school, I found out universities in England wouldn’t accept me with the grades I had. I hired a tutor and nervously tapped my well-worn sandals on the library’s hardwood floors. The scent of yellowed pages and ancient, fragile books used to overwhelm me. I spent evenings pouring over textbooks, but I finally passed. While in college, I came home to brothers arguing like mad dogs trapped at a pound each day. Sleep was a luxury, and I rarely laid down in bed. I stopped going to class. Professors soon quit asking me to come back. I left home with my torn-up sneakers. I made my bed on train station benches in the evenings. After marrying in India, I bought my first house with hard-earned savings. It was a small, creaky place with peeling paint, but my wife didn’t mind. At our wedding, I wore my first pair of suede shoes. I spent evenings fixing up our new home. In parenthood, I raised two kids in America. They looked at me with wide, bright eyes and told me they loved me. To look my best at their parent-teacher meetings, I wore my shiny, black leather shoes with crisp dress shirts. They loved to hear my voice, so I read to them every evening, using falsettos to amuse them. In my old age, I reminisce. I polish old shoes methodically, feeling every crease in my rough hands. I spend my evenings talking to my wife about our grandchildren.

21 Babel ALEX HUGHES There will always be something to be done To reach some shadowed finish that remains unseen, Flowing down like a river towards the sun That works steadily and blindly till gone. And we toil, a conscious effort to breathe – There will always be something to be done. A singular task, shared by everyone. Separate streams converge effortlessly. Flowing down like a river towards the sun. So we weave works together to become undone. And we trudge forwards, for no guarantee, For there is always something to be done, And because we are a deity’s best-loved sons That labor, earn, and rejoice endlessly. Flowing down like a river towards the sun. Even when our souls are outrun And outlived by time and earth, we see There will always be something to be done. Flowing down like a river towards the sun.

22 Street Kid ANNELISE KENNEDY My neighborhood street was where many childhoods unfurled. We were the kids who lived outside. I remember the old, sun-bleached pavement, on which I learned to ride a bike. In my attempts to balance myself as my foot left the ground in search of the pedal, I felt fear. I stared down at the pavement, knowing the havoc it could wreak on skin. My knee still shows the road’s menace to this day. I remember the pain, but more than the pain, I remember learning to fly. I began slowly, and before I knew it, I picked up speed, feeling the wind hit my face, my long hair blowing in my wake. I remember my first pair of roller blades. I practiced with them on my driveway where the surface was smoother, easier, though still unforgiving. I was clumsy at first. My feet would start in the middle, and I would push one outward as I worked to keep my balance, and then the other would copy. Eventually, one vivid day, I found it effortless. Soon, the driveway wasn’t big enough, so I hit the street to take on the real challenge. I was the youngest of my sisters and one of the youngest kids who lived in the little world that was our neighborhood. While my sisters went to the nearby pool by themselves, I was left at home. I would sometimes watch from my bedroom window as my sisters laughed and chattered on their way to the pool with one of their friends. I wasn’t old enough. I was never old enough for the kinds of things they did, but though I was excluded by my sisters, I had my own friends to see. My best friend just happened to live right across the street in a big yellow house. I remember the mess the most. Her yard was the only yard that wasn’t manicured. Patches of dirt looked to be haphazardly strewn around her house, except for the dirt path along the side, worn in by years of feet both big and small. Her house stayed forever dirty and smelly. I was once moved to tell her mother that she might want to clean up after glancing about the floor to

23 find dirt and bits of food. Her surprised and offended expression only confused me, for I was simply making a polite suggestion. My best friend had three brothers, two of which— twins— caused much of the mess. They, too, lived on that street. Before our garage became too packed with junk to play in, we used to have a ping pong table set up on one side. On a sunny day, we’d open up the garage doors, turn on the radio, and play each other, though I was usually left out because I wasn’t good enough. Sometimes friends from the street would come and join us. The street is where I made friends. It’s where I played and learned street safety. “Check your left and right before crossing the road,” my mother would say. “Make sure no cars are coming.” It’s where my two-year-old self was found one day, right out in the middle, playing with a container of gasoline I found in the garage. It’s where I learned to be a kid. I’ve visited that street since then. I’ve seen the plain brick house that I used to live in. Though everything looks much like it did, there was something missing. The 90’s kids grew up; the bicycle riders, the roller bladers, the street hockey players, the outdoorsy kids. We all grew up. I drove down that street to find it empty. The faint laughter, the high-pitched screams of play, and the garages full of sports equipment and outdoor toys gone. We were replaced by the newer, faster model, the model that requires less energy, few- er toys, and fewer bikes and balls. The new model requires only a glowing screen. It’s been years since I’ve seen the empty and quite street, physically that is. Now, I have only to check Google.

24 Smolder KATELYN SPIDEL

Hold it back Burn it slow With a promise to let go Let the darkness in his eyes Light consume A kiss that breaks Hands that shake In a rain that steals and heals Heart to play with, none to stay with Beating through Missing no one Fisting chains Taste the smoke of dying suns The ones you ever knew and loved Laid to waste Rein it in Soft and swift None but I must watch his lips Fail and falter, never cry But smolder

25 Mending CHAMBLEE SMITH

Thank you for the bruise. Thank you for the apathy with which you inflicted it. A heavy punch planted on my tender, naïve heart. Thank you for the time that you said was senseless and wasted. And for the regret you felt in spending it. Like a dull TV show or a rerun. Thank you for every deceitful touch, for every unfulfilled promise you whispered in my ear which I stored carefully in the deepest places-housing hopes as stowaways-stowaways I fed- harbored as they swelled. Thank you for the emotion. For the damage and the bliss, which you delivered equally. Thank you for the wound you rooted in me that grew my resilience.

26 Working Days AURORA GREEN

Clip clop clip clop Steel lined hooves crack the ground Muscles ripple and stretch Under a stark white and red spotted hide Sweat pours Leather groans squeaking Dirt flying blue skies rushing past Synchronized bodies follow Muscle remembered movements Relaxing tension unwinding Floating flying falling Like ocean waves breaking Eyes gleaming chests heaving Trusting bonding Patterns established

27 JESSICA PAJARON Nora Linoleum Cut

28 TIFFANY EVANS I’m double sided pt.2 Mixed Media

29 American Night Best Poetry ALEX HUGHES

Tonight is a prizefighter. The blood moon is a tired eye from too many night shifts, Its surrounding flesh a midnight bruise. Oh God, but the lights.

30 My Not-So-Humble Abode ANNELISE KENNEDY

In my house in the sky My library is a jungle, So large and full of books and alcoves, One could become blissfully lost. My hand runs along the spines, Miles of leather enticing me to pluck one. A small fountain resides in the kitchen. The purest water spouts Out of the mouth of a fish it falls Down into the pool. The ledge invites its visitors to sit I dip my hands into its cool, rippling surface. “Drink,” it says. I do. The pantry is a garden. Pots line every shelf. The smell of rich soil permeates Berry bushes of every kind and color, Offers plump fruit so sweet, A sigh escapes my lips.

31 The Home JAMES ROPER

The first person to take me in was a kind old lady. We’d spend the days watching TV and she would dote on me, giving me candies. I was only seven at the time, so I didn’t understand what “temporary” meant. I cried when they sent me back to the home. Next was a friendly, detached couple from the suburbs. I was ten and there were a lot of kids there. The husband and wife didn’t spoil me—they didn’t play favorites, they just collected checks. And they didn’t give me candies either. On the weekends we’d go to town and me and the other kids would steal candy cigarettes, pretending to smoke them behind the convenience store on second street. When I got caught they sent me back. Three more years passed and I grew a lot. The spinster caregiver I was staying with didn’t talk to me that often; I think she was afraid of me. The house smelt like stale cat piss and I spent most nights out running with the neighborhood boys. We’d tag stop signs and throw beer bottles at street lights. In the end the spinster decided she wanted another cat instead of a child. The next four years were a blur. Boy’s Home, Barren Couple, Juvie. Boy’s Home, Bible Thumpers, Juvie. I eventually landed with anoth- er old lady. She was sweet in her own way, but she tried too hard. I took some jewelry and a car and headed west. They found me a week later. My youthful offender status was denied. Most of the time now, home consists of a small, metal and concrete room. There isn’t much of a view and no one visits. Other times it’s an overpass or alleyway. Either way, it’s still temporary.

32 The Salt Mine of Dharasana Best Nonfiction TEENA PATEL It was the summer shortly before my 17th birthday that I visited India for the first time. It was a dusty sum- mer, a harsh summer. If I’d ever complained about an Alabama summer – and, inevitably, I had – I regretted + it while changing flight after flight as I race to the equator and to my grandmother’s home. Ten long, hot, dusty days later, I found myself standing on a span of land that was known as the salt mine of Dharasana. Here I stood on the soil of my ancestors, the wind bringing in the scent of an arriving monsoon season. It tickled my hair and played with the edges of my clothing like a lusty lover as I stared into the field of evaporating saltwater. It was here that I contemplated the legacy of my grandparents. Exhaustion. Dehydration. Isolation. All of that I endured to make it to this moment, this place embed- ded in my heritage. India’s tropical climate wearied even the most accustomed of its peoples; it was no wonder that it had managed to ravage my health. Yet, none of that mattered now as I reflect- ed on what I knew of the country – most of which I’d gleaned through the stories my parents had nursed me with since my birth. The rest of it Ben Kingsley taught me in his docudrama of Mahat- ma Gandhi.

FIG. 1: NEVIL ZAVERI, TRIANGLE, DHARASANA, 2012, PHOTO, ACCESSED NOVEMBER 30, 2014, HTTPS:// + WWW.FLICKR.COM/PHOTOS/ 43109416@N00/7737551794.

33 It was on August 15th of 1947 that India was born, and this salt mine – the very one that embraced my Nike tennis shoes with a fine coating of saline residue – was a pivotal part of that battle. The Ameri- + can Revolution lasted about 10 years; Indian nationalists fought roughly 200 years for independence. Each rebellion was larger than the last, but it wasn’t until Gandhi’s nonviolent move- ment that the British East India Trading Company was over- whelmed. While many would still consider America a young country at almost 240 years old, India is even younger. India saw her inde- pendence from Imperial Britain only after two World Wars and after America’s Great Depression had ended. Not even a century old currently, India did not stand on her own feet until the days of our parents or grandparents. *** Here at the salt mine of Dharasana, I watched men and women rake in damp salt for acres and acres, toiling in a field drowned partly in water and partly in dried, snowy white grains as far as the eye could see. They worked in harmony, more women present than men; some veiled their faces with the thin fabric of their woven silk saris. They hid from the salty dust that kicked up from the mineral as they mined. Here the patriarchy system seemed to fade away. Here the women, oft considered weak by the Western world because of their oppression, were strong. They were respected on this stretch of land and in their small village communities. They were equals where every working hand was needed in order for the community to survive.

34 I felt the sway, the restless rhythm as I watched them harvest in har- mony. Sweat dripped from each man’s forehead with every swing of his pickax. Women glided along, careful to transport the salt with- out dropping it, as each carried a basket atop her head that looked as if it could’ve almost equaled her weight. As I immersed myself in the atmosphere, I continued to ponder India’s history and the immense significance of Dharasana’s salt mine. It was here, at this exact place where I now stood, that the greatest and most important of Gandhi’s peaceful demonstrations took place. This man who later inspired Martin Luther King Jr.’s protests marched to this site in a 24 day journey from Navsari. Hundreds of Indian volunteers joined Gandhi’s march as they came to take back the Dharasana Salt Works company from the British, who had seized the salt mine and imposed a salt tax that was not unlike the sugar tax placed on American colonists. These brave souls, these peaceful ones, approached the salt mine and waited with determination. They knew what was to come. They allowed British guards to strike them with + steel-tipped batons while offering no resistance. I envisioned the infuriated guards, who sav- agely kicked and trashed the Indians after they refused to fight. As women carried away the wounded, the ones with cracked skulls and bloodied limbs, new waves of volunteers approached for grotesque beatings.

It was at the end of the day, only after the guards were exhausted, that they conceded and surrendered the salt mine of Dharasana.

FIG. 2: NEVIL ZAVERI, WOMEN, DHARASANA, 2012, PHOTO, ACCESSED NOVEMBER 30, 2014, HTTPS://WWW. + FLICKR.COM/PHOTOS/ 43109416@N00/7185480661.

35 Gandhi’s men won not from fighting fire with fire, but from fighting with peace in their hearts. This was the turning point for the revolution. The Western world could no longer claim that the Indians were the savage ones after British reporters conveyed what they had seen transpire at the salt mine of Dharasana. From that moment, Gandhi’s movement found sympathy from many Western subjects, including British citizens who even joined his struggle. *** Gandhi preached peace. He based many of his protests in the state of Gujarat and in the cities that my parents’ families still inhabit. Many of my relatives still dwell in these villages and areas where Gandhi made history. As I gazed at the dirt beneath my feet at this salt mine, I envisioned the ruddy soil that had long since washed away. The ground beneath me was once stained with the blood of my ances- tors. I felt it in the cadence of my heartbeat and in the pumping of my blood. I was home.

36 Library After Hours WHITNEY BERRYMAN The quiet is different at night. It is as if the library itself falls asleep with the computers lined against the walls. The only one who snores is the old Xerox workstation whose drone harmonizes with the thick silence. The books nestle into their orderly rows; their whispers of knowledge can wait until morning. The magazines, too, will wait to share their gossip tomorrow. The sturdy wooden study tables and purple cushioned chairs are the only ones who stay awake. How could they rest in such tense positions? They hope for morning, for the return of the lights and quiet, earnest pursuits of truth.

37 How We Live ALEX HUGHES When I was a young un’, I slept, explored, and hid in them clouded cliffside pastures by our beaten ol’ home when tha blackberries bloom’d. I indulged in tha conversations ‘tween tha flowers and tha sun, tha birds and tha breeze, like they was greetin’ a friend they ain’t seen in a long while. Tha pine needles out there made fer some nice beddin’ while our windmill whirred and croaked a soft n’ slow hymn fer me like tha ones we useta sing at church back when Papa was here, back when we still had the time n’ energy ta go.

Now we always runnin’ ‘round with all these folk in our home like it’s theirs or somethin’, a constant stream of folks comin’ and goin’ quicker than the mighty Mississippi.

I can hear Momma’s weary voice warnin’ lessons to me from her cracked rockin’ chair, as her wet comb licked through the moss of my hair, “Darlin’, ain’t no prince comin’ fer you.”

38 Terror and Agoraphobia in ‘ ‘Merica DYLAN SCHRADER I used to have my Fonda/Hopper dreams of riding a motorcycle across the country. I liked to tell myself there’s a whole weird America out there. I’m starting to face the possibility that I’ll never realize my dream. Work gets in the way. I’m too poor for such crazy adventures. The rich and the crazy are the only ones that can get away. I choke down my crazy to get things done. And what would happen if I did it? I could get shot by a fascist cop in Missouri. Sometimes my hair is a little long. I have a problem with authority. It could easily happen. I’ll let my agoraphobia win. The news would tell everyone “I’m no saint.” I’ll watch Anthony Bourdain travel. At least the picture is in HD. I’ll eat my dollar menu burger from McDonalds while I watch Bourdain eat a €500 plate of shellfish in France. How does someone land that job in this economy? At least he’s one of my kind. Something tells me that if Rush Limbaugh got to eat and drink that well for a living I’d be calling for his head. It feels so claustrophobic here in America. Everybody’s fighting for the right to hate each other, and sometimes it gets a little tired. What I’m saying is that there isn’t any point in traveling America by road. Maybe I’ll hit the major hubs. I’m sure there is a scene in Colorado. I’ll stay out of the backwoods of anywhere. I don’t like getting shot at by white people with NRA memberships and AR-15s. The White Jihad are everywhere. I see their took-er-jobs n empeach Osama stickers every day. For them, Fox News is Apocry- phal scripture. Questioning what you’re told? That’s for liberals and commies. Or wait… There ain’t no differnce ha ha ha. If it wadn’t said by JESUS or BILL O’REILLY then it ain’t true. That muslim presdent. He needs to be empeached! That Neil DEEEEGRASS needs to shut up! God created it. End a story! Science is lies! It’s a strange and terrible world out there, full of fear and loathing and poverty and ignorance. It’s easy to lose faith, and I’m not sure that I haven’t. For now, I’ll keep white knuckling it, hoping this damn thing doesn’t run off the rails. If it does, I’ll watch it burn with a bourbon in my hand.

39 Muscle Shoals CALEB BILLINGS

The sun is balanced on top of a rusty Texaco sign. When my eyes leave it will take the opportunity to roll off and fall behind the closed Big Lots store. Fallen from its spot in the heavens it will slowly burn out and die with no one taking notice except for me. A mini fireball bottle feeds off the last rays of light and glistens like a diamond. Soon enough it will go back to being just another empty liquor bottle on the side of a cracked country road. At least after Saturday night it will have some company. A dog behind a white picket face stares at me with a meanness that only a hundred beatings could put there. The camouflage man in plain sight on the porch probably wouldn’t budge an inch if it launched itself over the top of the fence and ripped my throat out. A gaudy pink VHS rental store is closed up like a time capsule that no one will ever have a desire to open. If you squint hard enough through the yellow windows you might see a vampire’s blood drip- ping plastic fangs on one of the covers. What you won’t see is John Rambone. That’s in the back room. An unassuming building on a corner holds all the ghosts of the town’s past glories. No one who lives here pays them any attention, but they occasionally find time to get loose and haunt the fuzzy airwaves of far off places. Places that would laugh if they could see where they came from.

40 Restless ALEX HUGHES It is 1:37 a.m., and I want To be sleeping beside you. But my mind is racing Down sidewalks in new sneakers, And my hands are throwing empty Bottles off bridges like dreams. I am watching the sun rise And fall in each breath you take, But my heart still beats Next to yours – out of time But still beating.

41 The Liquid Help ERICA JUNEAC We stole whatever we could, slipped past parents at midnight through our bedroom windows, and met in the park somewhere in the middle of all our houses. Cassie always brought a six-pack of whatever her brother bought her. She was always the one who would go off with any one of the guys, beer in hand to “talk about that assignment,” and then come back with a messy mop and mussed makeup. Annie said she had the really hard stuff, but no one knew what that meant. She always only drank what she brought and never divulged much to anyone else. Guys used to be really curious about it be- cause about half-way through her bottle, they could get her to do anything for them. She told us that she used the guys to help her forget the shit her father puts her through. But she’ll only talk about that when her whole bottle is empty, and that rarely happens. Jackie had the clear stuff. It smelled almost like gasoline, and it burned on the way down. We used to tell her she got mean when she got wasted, her defenses like concrete walls between her and anyone else, but she never went off with any guys. She was always right next to Melody, with their legs touching while sharing private whispers. The two of them always left together. Before long, we’d found them kissing behind the trees. None of us, of course, knew why we did it. It was a way to cope with the shitty existence we got stuck with. We had no one who cared enough to stop us, so we would band together and drown the pain together. We never judged each other, and that was the only thing that drove our friendship. The liquid was our savior who slowly took us under its wing, and silenced us forever.

42 Kelley is Almost Honest CHAMBLEE SMITH All the air in the car seems to have been sucked out. You can tell something is wrong by the look on their faces. His jaw is set. His eyes are glaring and blazing. Kelley is silent. It’s not what she said. It’s never what she said. It’s what she did. As always, her tongue is paralyzed weighted down like lead. He forced a confession out of her. Guessing at words, asking her to confirm, secretly hoping to hear her deny it. Kelley is drawn up so close to the window she thinks the passenger door might give out. Leaning against it almost as hard as she is biting her tongue. Wearing her shame on her face; the darkest shade of red. She looks over at him, his straight posture, his bold honesty (He is always honest). And she feels inferior to him. Intimidated by him. His flaws are so minor and hers are so big. “Admit a huge flaw. Just one,” she wants to beg.

43 But his stare is unwavering, and in this moment there are no gray areas. Only red- only shame- only the scarlet skin on her cheeks beneath the tears that give her away. One more of his questions and she breaks. Humiliated sobs escape her quiet mouth. She admits her flaw- her infidelity- the last wedge driven between them. She looks over at his calm expression, and for the first time she can’t read it.

44 Teachable Moments ANNA GRACE USERY

I taught you the scars on your arms weren’t the real you. I eventually added my own. I taught you to depend on yourself, no one else. I depended on you, alone. I taught you to aspire. I settled. I taught you to ignore negativity. I told you to go to hell. I taught you to forget the past. I brought it up. I taught you to make new friends. I alienated all of mine. I taught you to let go, and you did. I am my own teacher.

45 MONTANA SEWELL A Theme by Jeff Richmond Motion Graphic

46 SHILO CUPPLES Stretch Your Legs Digital Print

47 Smoke and Lies Best Fiction DYLAN SCHRADER Justin sits on his threadbare couch like a chain-smoking Buddha. A cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth as I watch him place the blue tablet on the bent spoon filled with water and place the lighter under it in the charred spot. The water begins to bubble, and the blue tablet dissolves. The needle is on the table. I sit smoking a Camel next to him, grinding the wheel of my lighter. He grabs the needle and sticks it in the opiated puddle, pulls the plunger back, squirts a little into his mouth, sticks the needle into his tied off arm and pulls the plunger back again. The blood mixes with the fluid. He releases the plunger. His head falls back. I start picking at the rubber on my cell phone case. I feel the sweat on the back of my neck even though it’s cool in the house. I light another cigarette. I count six of mine in the ash tray. Our smoke begins to aggregate in the air above us, homogenizing in a cloud of carcinogens and nicotine. I check my phone. Nobody to save me. “You know I’ve actually begun to control this shit,” he says. He raises his head back up. “I only do this twice a day now. I used to all day. I’m better now.” “That’s good man. You used to do a lot more.” I take hurried drags from my cigarette. “Yeah. I added up how much I spent on that shit while I was bad on it. I could have bought a fucking Ferrari. I got a scrip now though. I’m not having to hustle like I was.” “Don’t feel too bad. I’ve probably drank an Acura.” Immediately after stubbing out my Camel, I light another. Justin lets his head fall back again.

48 I remember a time when he didn’t even drink. He started going to church. It was because of a girl, but he still didn’t fuck around with it. He cleaned up. He didn’t quit cigarettes, but booze, weed, pills— he didn’t do any of that shit. But there’s no way around it—he’s a big guy. And I don’t mean like De Niro at the end of Raging Bull. I mean this dude could sumo wrestle. And that chick couldn’t see past his five-hundred pound frame. It was a shame too—he was the nicest dude I knew. He always fell in love so easily. And never with girls he could get. They were all so petite. He wouldn’t think about dating a fat girl. He said they were disgusting. I stub out my cigarette and quickly light another. My throat is raw from smoking too many. I’m not used to chain smoking anymore. “Justin, man, I’ve got that fifty you needed.” “Thanks Ryan. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it bad. I need some food though.” “When’s the last time you ate?” I take out my wallet and hand him the money. I know it’s going straight up his arm, but I have to help him out. He would have done the same for me. “Maybe a couple of days.” Now this is something. I have seen this guy put down an entire large pizza all by himself. And chase that with cake and ice-cream. “Damn man.” I hand him the fifty and put my wallet back. I’ve never cleaned up. I’ve never really messed with the pills, though I have done a few of them. They have always been an occasional thing for me. They never got to me. I didn’t like the feeling of floating and weightlessness and getting dope sick.

What I like is booze. Bourbon and beer in particular. Tequila too.

49 I was good for a while. A few years, actually. I only drank on the weekends and with friends. Maybe a bottle of wine with a movie. But then the girl I was with for three years left for New York. I was supposed to go, but shit doesn’t work out sometimes. I had to finish school. Then I started hitting the bottle hard. I want one now. “You still in school?” he asks. “Yeah, man. I only have a couple of semesters left. I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do after this. I’m not coming back here, though, that’s for sure.” “Yeah, I feel you. I had to for a little while. I lived in California. San Jose. It was ok. I came back here to try to get my shit together.” I light my next cigarette with the one I just finished. I’m getting thirsty. “I can’t believe you’re still in school man. Out of all of us. Burro is stuck at Best Buy. He could have been an engineer. And he’s married to that bitch.” He’s starting his routine again. The spoon, the water, the needle, the blood, the bitching. The nausea rises in my stomach. “She’s not that bad.” “Come on, dude. He can’t do shit. He was gonna come over here and hang with me one day, and at the last minute, he backed out. Of course he made some bull shit excuse.” It never occurs to him that most people don’t want to come over here and watch him shoot up. I’d rather be sitting at Applebee’s with a shot of tequila and a beer, hitting on the cute bartender. I’m always too drunk to get with her, but I like the banter anyways. “What did he say?” “Something like, ‘We gotta get up early in the morning to work on the house.’” “He’s always been kinda like that, man. You remember that time we were gonna do x, and he decided he wanted to do it by himself at home. We practically had to go to his dad’s house and drag him

50 out.” It was a good night though. We listened to Radiohead in the woods. I’d just started dating the girl I am now trying to forget. The x gave me the courage to text her that she was cute. I’ve always been a pussy with girls. “Yeah, I remember,” he says, “But it’s worse now.” “Still, he’s not doing bad. He has a decent job. That’s more than I can say.” “Yeah, me too. But I wouldn’t want to be him.” “Well, no.” “I don’t want to be me either, though.” “You’ve had it rough man.” “Yeah. I have shit luck. And when I do have any luck, I blow it.” “I think that’s the case for everyone.” “Maybe. I used to want to kill myself.” “I remember, man.” I remember him putting the hose in his tailpipe and running it to his window. He sent all of his friends a text message. Burro and I went to see him in the hospital. He stammered. I could tell he was worried about him. I acted like nothing happened. Justin looked pathetic. Like his crackwhore mother. Especially in the eyes. Now, here he is again. The same look in his eyes. I haven’t talked to him in a year at least. “Why’d you stop coming around, you shady ass,” he says. “I’ve just been busy, man,” I lie, and then I light another cigarette. “Yeah, I know. School and shit. I just miss hanging out. We had some good times.” “Yeah, we did.” We had a lot of good times. Almost all of them involved doing drugs or drinking, but we had a blast. Half of the fun was trying to get the drugs. X is hard to find in small-town Alabama. We always found plenty of pot though. We bought beer and cigarettes at a gas station that didn’t bother carding us. We

51 didn’t think of ourselves as debauched. We saw everyone else as boring. Or at least I did. “Hey, wake me up if I nod out.” “Alright man.” I light another cigarette and wait for him to nod out. We both just sit there, breathing in clouds of smoke and lies. I start thinking about the cute bartender. If he passes out, I’m gone, I tell myself.

He starts snoring, and I’m out the door. I make it to Applebee’s. I order a shot of tequila and a beer. I start my summer routine over again. “I was wondering if I’d see you tonight,” she says. She’s so lovely that I would fuck her in the bathroom right now if she would let me. I don’t press my luck. I settle for the booze. My nerves are wound tighter than a preacher’s ass in a gay bar. But after the shot, they unwind. Outside everyone goes nowhere, and I start my summer of pickling myself and trying not to feel anything. I take my shot. I bite the lime. I chase it with a beer. “Another,” I say. “Slow down, tiger. You have a whole night in front of you. No need to hurry.” She pours the shot anyways. I shoot it, bite the lime, chase it with a beer, and repeat this until I make an attempt to get with her, tell her goodnight, stumble to my car, pick up a six pack on the way home, and finish the night alone, thinking about her, thinking about Justin, thinking about my girl in New York, eventually passing out in my chair.

52 Identity TEENA PATEL

In dreaming, I slip back to my Mumbai days in which I remember India by her citrus fruit scents that hung like dogwoods upon her blossoming trees and perfumed the air with pungent flavors. I remember India by her honey-laced drinks and by her creaking chapels erected for missionaries. But that world is a rose-colored blur in this hemisphere – a cherubic idea of a far-away place, a door only opened as often as the blue moon appears. I long for the warmth that drifts from the equator with a hazy heat that comforts and lulls the child that is me. I’m a babe too quickly weaned from her mother(land), holding on to nothing more than mere memories of sweet sustenance.

53 Dying to Live MELISSA MARTIN A phone call, asking if Mitch is home yet? Not yet. The voice on the other end of the phone is frantic with news of a car wreck just outside of town. Watching Family Feud, not hearing the knock at the door, someone cracks the door, calling out is anyone home? So many questions. Whose van? Reading his name off the driver's license. Seeing uniforms, two police officers, an EMT, the county coroner.

Where is he? Which hospital? Someone says it was fatal. With a sinking feeling of disbelief that my son, barely sixteen, the one who skateboards with his friends, who's funny and smart, who's everyone's best friend, has been taken away in one single moment. Darkness descends and I collapse, falling into strong hands that embrace me in a hug. In confusion and chaos, the surreal swallows me. Others arrive trying to console, to offer condolences, prayers and hugs.

But no one really knows what to say, and I don't either. I remember arguing with him about smoking before he drove away just a few hours before. I remember that I forgot to say I love you. Later came the reconstructionist report that says he was hit head on when a truck crossed the line. Grotesque images of wreckage, of death splattered, body broken, scattered. 54

Brains in the van, on the highway, in his lap. They said I shouldn't look at the photos, but I am his mother, I had to see, to know. To die with him.

Then darkness descends full and swift, gripping at the throat while I walk against a tide, water neck deep.

The weight snatching the air from my lungs as I slowly reach the top of the stairs to his room that's filled with the smell of teenage sweat mingled with cologne. Burying my face into his pillow, I breath in his scent that will linger long after he's been gone.

I have to turn away from his pictures that smile at me from the picture frames.

How does one sum up a life in a few boxes that will always hold his skateboard, his books, the hot wheels from his early childhood, his paintings and drawings.

I'm suffocating in my inability to go on. Memories prick skin like a thousand sharp needles that leave me lonely, and forever, a living dead girl.

55 Feminism SHERREE WEAKLEY I understand why we can’t believe in feminism. Because we live in a system based on the tradition Of “woman get your ass back in the kitchen.” Because men are bosses And women are bitches, All of our decisions based on menses Or at least that’s what men see As for me, I just want my 30 cents Equality with the side benefit of paying rent. You know, equality. Whatever that’s supposed to be. Because, over the years, I only have the lessons society has taught me. Because players get it in And being a slut is a sin Heaven forbid you have sex with more than two men. They always said Be good, Be prim, Be proper Behave. Once again Be GOOD, Be PRIM, Be PROPER, BEHAVE ! Just don’t be yourself. Because smart girls are overrated, And gamer girls are posers. Because being a mother is the greatest thing a woman can do, Doesn’t really matter if it works for you. Because when it comes to gender we forget politically correct and all of that

56 And reduce women to vaginas with tear ducts attached. I understand why we don’t believe in feminism, Because we live in a system based on the tradition of misogyny Because her skirt is too short And girls who look like that are always easy. Everyone knows that chick is sleazy So let’s just blame her. Because black girls are ghetto, And white girls are suuuuch sluts But hey, we have one nice things to say, Asian girls are smart and can always play in a porn part. I understand why we can’t believe in feminism Because we live in a system based on the tradition of imbuing inhibitions. Never leave your purse or your drink behind. Be vigilent. Don’t walk home alone. Because these are my lessons, While my brothers heard boys will be boys And never learned that women are more than toys. Because society has unconsciously labeled me the sum of my parts, My cup size mattering more than my heart, Because girls just wanna have fun And there’s a way for that to be done, By teaching little girls shame at their mother’s knee By ingraining dependence on the patriarchy, By teaching insecurity and suppression, By reinforcing negative stereotypes, And subduing aggression. By putting us in our places, By hurling harsh labels at our faces, Slut, whore, feminine disgraces. So, yeah, 57 I understand why we don’t believe in feminism, Because we live in a system Based on the tradition of ignoring the problem, Because we propose no solutions Offer no apologies, Instead blame it on biology. They yell at us , Laugh at our beliefs, Label us femi-nazis, And ask for a sandwich As though that is the limit of my possibility. As though that is the extent of me. So yeah I can’t make you believe, Can’t change your mind, And I won”t argue. I refuse to stress about you, To be the kind of girl to let you denigrate my value. Because we aren’t simply man-haters Or unsatisfied masturbators. We are the people you can’t believe in, Men And women who believe in feminism, Who plan to start a new tradition. In which we no longer repeat a parroted position Of gentle, coquettish submission. Again, you asked ME why we need feminism, Because my name is not Honey, sweetie, or baby. Because you get ahead of yourself, Forgetting that my body is a temple Firmly emobssed with “do not enter”. Because, there are countries that don’t allow women to drive, Others where women douse themselves with gasoline And burn themselves alive. Because, there are little girls fighting to be educated in a system long

58 past outdated. But in the midst of all this, heaven forbid you don’t get to Complain, Body shame, Or mansplain. And now you’re staring at me, “Damn,” you say.” I just don’t get women” And that, right there, your criticism Is exactly why we need feminism.

59 60 STEPHANIE GILE Picked Clean Sculpture

61 Amie REBEKAH MILWEE One November night when I was only seventeen, I didn’t go home after play practice. A nameless, faceless sadness had overwhelmed me, and I decided to drive around the backroads for a while. Back when my parents paid for my gas and were still clueless as to the numerous ways in which I squandered the privilege, long drives were the way I escaped from my petty high school heartbreak and catered to my restless spirit. The conditions for driving that night weren’t ideal, with rain falling from a clouded sky and the wind howling as it carried in new frost to settle on the grass. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to head home towards the tiny parsonage my family was staying in behind the church graveyard. Little did I know as my Ford wove through corn fields behind the jail that three counties away a certain convertible lay twisted on the side of the highway, shattered glass on the pavement sparkling red and blue with ambulance lights. Eventually enough time passed that I knew I would be in trouble with my mother if I didn’t show up soon. Besides, I couldn’t possibly listen to Tracy Chapman crooning “Fast Car” on repeat for one more second.

“What is wrong with me?” I thought to myself as I slowly walked inside the small brick house. I could hear my mom locked in her bedroom, watching “Everybody Loves Raymond” reruns and gossipping on the phone with her best friend, Stacy. I tiptoed past her door and hoped I could get in bed before she realized I was home. I just wasn’t in the mood to talk. Frustrated when I remem- bered the outlet beside my bed had shorted, I stumbled into the living room and plugged my Nokia flip-phone in to charge on the table beside the couch. Like any teenager, I felt a twinge of anxiety about sleeping without my phone right beside me. “Nobody will call you in the middle of the night unless somebody dies.” I remember thinking flippantly to reassure myself as I left my phone charging and crawled under the covers in my bed a room away. Little did I know the twisted karma the world had in store

62 for naive little girls who assumed everyone they loved would live through the night. When I woke up the next morning, and peeked out the window, the sky was bright blue, although the air cut like glass. I touched the windowpane and the cool dew lingered on my fingertips. I wiped them on the faded quilt and reached behind my nightstand to see if my phone had fallen during my sleep. The dreamy confu- sion of early mornings slowly began to clear from my mind and I remembered that I had left it by the couch the night before. I rolled off my twin bed and went to get it. Twenty-seven missed calls? “Something crazy must have happened.” I vividly remember thinking. The undeniable twinge of curiosity and excitement I felt in that moment still haunts me to this day. I dialed Kara’s number and walked into the laundry room so I wouldn’t wake my little brother up talking this early. My legs swung carelessly from the dryer I was sitting on in nervous excitement waiting for her to pick up the phone. After all, everybody loves hearing other people’s bad news. “Has anyone told you?” Kara gasped when she picked up on the last ring. “I had a lot of texts but I haven’t read them yet. What happened?!” I asked hurriedly. I was beginning to feel a twinge of anxiety. Something wasn’t right.

“Amie was in a wreck last night.” Kara said in a flat, unfamiliar tone. “Well where is she? Is she okay?” I asked; fully expecting to hear about hospital visitation hours and plans to buy a “Get Well Soon” card with a teddy bear, the way we had last spring when Amie had returned from Cabo with a ghastly bout of food poisoning. “She didn’t make it.”

63 All the air left my body. My mother still swears the sound she heard emanating from me in the adjacent room was the most guttural, animalistic noise that she has ever heard anyone make in her life. I dropped my phone to the floor and began to choke on my breath as she came running into the laundry room. “What on earth?!” She screamed when she saw me, tangled on the floor. “Amie is dead.” I managed to exhale, wild-eyed and confused. I could hear Kara still talking unintelligibly in the static from the receiver humming on the ground. My mom began to scream hysterically, flailing her arms and pulling her hair as I stared at her, blank, unfeeling, denying. There had to be some sort of mistake. Things like this didn’t just happen in worlds like mine. In an instant I felt the dreamy charmed days of the life I had always known turn to rot inside of me as my stomach dropped. I wasn’t ready for something like this. No one had warned me. I felt so cheated. Had I missed the signs? I put my head against the wall to steady myself on a planet that was suddenly turning much too quickly, time moving forward relentlessly as my best friend floated away to whatever mythical place where people go when they die, never to be heard from again. I hadn’t called her back last week. I thought I was busy. I couldn’t stop my thoughts. Three days later I stood in the bathroom looking in the mirror at an older, paler version of myself. The dark circles under my eyes couldn’t be concealed, and didn’t need to be. I felt this pain. I want- ed other people to feel it too. The ones who deserved to. The ones who were putting on as if they had known her, just to warrant sym- pathy and attention. Calling her the sweetest girl anyone had ever known. Saying she never said a bad thing about anybody. Saying what a vibrant being she had been, lighting up each room she walked in to.

64 They were just killing her more. She was already dead, wasn’t that enough? Couldn’t they leave me alone to remember her as she really had been instead of filling my tired brain with all these vague descriptions of a generic dead girl? I was already forgetting the harsh nasal sound of her voice, having to replay the voicemail she had left me the past weekend over and over to make sure she had ever been real at all. Hey it’s me. I was just calling to say that I love you, and I can’t wait to see you in like, a week.” Her voice, uncharacteristically soft and strange over the machine echoing in my ear. My mom had tried to make me go back to school the day before Thanksgiving break, and I hated her for it. I choked back vomit when I thought about all the eyes that would be watching me in the crowded hallways whenever I finally did go return, claustrophobia welling up inside me that I had never felt before. I wrapped my hair around the curling iron and watched steam rise from it before I reminded myself to at least try to care, if only just enough not to let my head catch on fire. I hated myself more with each obnoxious, bouncing curl. My best friend was dead. Why did I care what I looked like for her funeral? Everything was so meaningless. Earlier that day I had wandered the gravestones behind the parson- age and read the dates on each of them, silently working calcula- tions in my mind. All these graves belonged to adults, who had lived long, full lives. “She wasn’t finished.” I thought to myself furious- ly, leaves crunching under my feet as I stomped over headstones manically. Fragments of sunshine were beaming down between the colorful tree branches, mocking me. Telling other people this sick joke of a world was beautiful, in just the same manner with which it had always fooled me.

65 I finally came across a small grave, one of a baby, probably stillborn. Finally finding proof that another life had once been cut short didn’t soothe me in the way that I had been hoping it would. I was so sick and twisted, full of shame. I sat down beside it and cried myself into a frenzy until I couldn’t take it anymore. I had never felt such an overwhelming sadness. I didn’t know where to put it. It was enveloping me, too heavy to lift. I was suffocating. My mom drove me to the church in her van, mostly in silence. I had never seen her like this before. She was never very serious, it all seemed unreal. I floated along in somebody else’s bad dream, finding solace in these brief spouts of numbness which were my only relief. When we walked inside the building Amie’s sister Amanda waved me up to the stage fervently, hoping to find a moment’s consola- tion by dragging me in to her sadness. She took my hand, giving me goosebumps when I realized it was smooth, bony, and lightly freckled,-just like Amie’s. She had me stand beside her and her parents on the stage as guests filed in, murmuring their condolences while holding snotty kleenex stained with mascara and tears. It was too much for me to take. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, or explain what I had been to her. I had to get away. I rushed off the stage and sat on a pew near the back, not caring that poor Amanda clearly needed me much more than I needed her. The screen above the pulpit slowly scrolled through a photo montage of Amie’s life, as a mixed CD I had burned for her the previous summer played over the speakers in the sanctuary. “So this is it.” I remember thinking. “You’re born and then you die. They put a few random Myspace pictures on a big screen and forget you a little more every single day after that, and call that a life.” I had always imagined when someone close to me died it would be a sadness each day that just couldn’t be handled. What no one ever told me is that it is a rage. The most anger I have ever felt. All the

66 worst parts of myself that I am generally able to suppress with vices and manners and attempts at positivity were shot to hell as I fumed at the universe for hating me so much. I stood like a statue and mumbled the words to “Lord Prepare Me to Be A Sanctuary” in a monotone through my angry tears. Why had they chosen this fucking song? Amie hated church, and this hymn wasn’t even relevant. This service had nothing to do with her. It was only to make me more miserable. As much as I hated the service I felt like when it ended it would take her with it. I wanted it to be so much more, I wanted it to be so much better. I wanted it to be enough, a sufficient ending to a lifetime. It never could have been. When I finally escaped, the sky was a stormy shade of orange that I had never seen before, slowly setting behind the towering down- town skyline. She was over, just like that. Somedays when I catch myself driving to one of our friend’s homes with my left leg up on the dash, blasting nineties punk bands, I doubt that she ever died at all. I have so much of her in me. She can’t be dead. Can she? When I think about what I was doing that night while Amie was dying, goosebumps cover my arms, causing the hairs to stand up on end. How had I known something was wrong? How had I felt so unusual without knowing why? They call the wreck “Amie’s acci- dent” but nothing seems accidental at all. Everything seems to me to be intricately connected on planes of being far beyond my own. I don’t know where she went when she died, but I feel pieces of her inside of me. Insisting I carry her everywhere I go. Demanding I keep her alive. And I do. As I type this story I keep her breathing, pumping air back into a lifeless body that can no longer speak for itself. You mattered to me, my friend. You always will. Can you hear me?

67 Stray Cats and Beer Bottles JORDAN EDGERLY When I visit my former home in Laconia, a little town in New Hampshire, I immediately feel the heaviness weigh me down like sandbags. When the first crooked telephone poles pass by the car, and the old apartment houses stacked up and jammed close together come into view, I know I’m back. The trees sag down like the people’s faces and the narrow streets are usually speckled with glass from broken beer bottles and the flattened bodies of stray cats who didn’t quite make it across. No one pays any mind though. The funny grass and powder do a good job of masking the sight so they just trudge on past. Sometimes they walk onto the street and cars screech and squeal to a clumsy halt. “Get out of the road, asshole!” they scream. The person just flips them off and takes his time getting off the street. Idiot. When I arrive at my family’s apartment I can hear the yelling and the cursing all around the complex. My mother said the sex-offender across the hall creeps her out while the meth-heads across the parking lot are about as charming as boars; screaming men and women with no teeth, scraggly unwashed hair, and drained skin stretched tight over hollow skulls. Tonight one man is putting on a show for us. Everyone in the building sits on their little balcony to watch tonight’s episode of ‘Crack-heads Gone Wild’. He roars and screams at his roommates for taking his keys. “Give me my fuckin’ keys!” he shrieks. “No way, man. You need to come inside before the cops get here.” “I’m fine! Now give me the keys or I’m gonna kick your ass!” “Do it, asshole! Do it!” They really go at it. The yelling goes on for a while over various topics from an ex-girlfriend who is pregnant with a friend who is selling dope to a rival who is trying to get money from him because

68 Stray Cats and Beer Bottles

he hasn’t paid what was owed for months, all the way to kids who have been taken away and someone who drank all the tequila as well as the last beer. The man tweaks so bad, the police arrive and have to arrest him for disturbing the peace. Episode over. A couple nights later a swat team arrives to chase down two armed men who just robbed a convenience store. I simply turn up the television while they shout and yell outside. When they load their weapons it sounds like popcorn popping. I’m going to make popcorn. Drugs and violence are nothing to be surprised about. My younger brother was once chased by a man with a knife down the bike trail running under the road. I was enraged and asked who it was. But he seemed not too worried about it. It’s not a big deal here. So we let it go. I decide to take a walk a few days after the robbery. My mother went to work and my brother went out with some friends so I leave the apartment and check out my old hometown. Having lived in Florence in Alabama for over a year, it takes a minute to get back in the swing o’ Laconia. But after walking and seeing scowling faces through car windows and hearing some ten year-olds using language no one their age should even know about, I realize that I’ve been spoiled. If I wanted to, I could have a bag of weed, some pills and a vial of coke, and maybe a syringe by the time I get back to the apartment, but those things mess with my already fragile head so I decide against it. I kick a beer bottle into the gutter and watch the remaining alcohol drain into the grate. It isn’t far before I pass my old high school. Laconia High School is a large building, sprawled across the top of a sloping hill, tall and ominous like a redbrick prison that holds dark memories of all the students within. I remember being there three years before. My four years here consisted of loneliness and 69 despair, terrible from the start where I had no friends, and my mind was in its first stages of falling away. The teachers hated their jobs there, students hated their teachers, and everyone hated the superintendent for some reason having to do with budget cuts and bogus school policies. We could not afford new band instruments but somehow they could afford and new football field and sports equipment. Art was lost there. The only things students cared about were sex, music and movies about sex, and drugs. I had refused to associate myself with such stupidity and I withdrew into my own world. A world that began as blissful imagination, but turned to frightening nightmares. I remember the guidance counselor calling me out of class several times to talk to me about various issues teachers had with me. It usually had to do with the fact that sophomore year I was out for two months after suffering a nervous breakdown and they wanted to make sure my sanity was under control. I once was speaking to myself out loud and a teacher heard me tell myself that I should blow out my brains. The counselors asked me if I needed to go home, but with just one class period left I decided to put on a happy face and face the rest of the day. I had the privilege to leave class if I felt too stressed, to step out and take a break from the asphyxiating cluster of student bodies whom I was certain wanted to hurt me every minute of the day. My psychiatrists called it paranoia, but I simply lived in whatever reality my brain chose for the day. If they were Nazis or celebrities in disguise, then that’s what they were; however the fact of being the victim of a planning circle was always in the forefront of my consciousness. I hated them and when I was done with that school, I never looked back.

I don’t stand around my school for long. The thugs that have passed through there are beyond count. Several of them are dead, dozens are married with children already, some are homeless, and others are in prison. After just a couple years, so much changes, and people go 70 on to do whatever they want to do whether its good or not. I don’t really like to think about it. I am in college now, a place I never thought I would be considering the psychosis that plagues me at times, but I am not much different than those who have also moved on. I think about the ones that didn’t quite make it and it makes my stomach turn. Drugs and alcohol can kill faster than many realize. Laconia is full to bursting with them. After seeing my high school I turn around and walk home. I pass stray cats of every color, climbing the gnarled trees, and a black one follows me for a while. They seem to feed off of the bottom of the town along with the rats that push empty beer cans to their nests. Dead squirrels smushed into the street are food for the large vultures that circle overhead. I cannot count the cigarette butst that pile along the curb and the empty paper and plastic bags full of trash and waste stuck to the concrete with some gooey mess. It’s hard to imagine that eleven years before I had been happy here. Happily ignorant of the sickness that lies over the town. The sand bag heaviness didn’t pile on until I was away from it to realize it wasn’t there anymore, and I felt in return when I came back. My dad is hooked into the drugs now. My brother and I get to go to his apartment tomorrow with his girlfriend, a former drug-addict, and her family whom I do not really enjoy being around. But I guess being around again I should visit my dad sometime. I get back to the apartment and light a cigarette. It was a nice walk, but I realize I am lucky to have made it without any altercations, people here being ready to strike without any provocation. But I sit silently and wait for mom and brother to come home so I can go on pretending it’s “good to be back” I really just want to get on the next plane back to Alabama. The memories in this town are too horrible. It is time to make memories somewhere else now.

71 A Non-Relationship with Kelley CHAMBLEE SMITH Imagine you said, No. Or yelled it, or whispered or mouthed it, even breathed it. Imagine you never agreed to go out at all. There was no first date-no relationship. You never met, and neither of you ever feigned true love. Imagine never having to lie about your interests or pretend to like his. Maybe then you could get a personality or something kind of like one. Imagine his happiness in finding someone he could laugh with, or cry with, or sing with, or anything with. Maybe then you could find a way to- anything.

72 Imagine he never had to force you to be honest with him. You could curl up in a little ball and build walls high above your petty ideals. No one would shake them. No one would require any depth from you. Imagine his smile and his freedom in never knowing you.

73 Inoperable MARI WILLIAMS The morning after my mother died of lung cancer I walked to the corner store and bought my first pack of Marlboros. Not to mourn her death, but to cement the hole she’d left. I would put a cigarette between my lips and take several heavy meticulous drags of what helped simultaneously slaughter more people than any other form of cancer, including the woman who fought with such vigor to push me into the world. Somehow I thought lighting up would carry me through it. The same way she had carried me since I was an embryo. I never believed in super heroes, but I’d always thought if Super Woman was real she could only exist in the form of my mother. My mother, who lived her condensed life with a cigarette fastened between her lips from the gentle age of twelve. As she loved to recall, the first thing she said after being in labor for twenty-three hours was, “Someone get me a pack of menthols and a Xanax.” Cigarettes (and sometimes other substances) had been my moth- er’s way of coping with those times when it just seemed like life was relentlessly punching her with blows of grander. I guess after she died I thought they might help me survive too. Even though 158,081 of the 205,974 people who died of cancer, died from cancer of the lungs I still smoked each cigarette as if it was my last. Despite the fact that I had been there with my mother every step of the way, watching her dissipate and perform the most magnificent disappearing act, only my mother was not a magician just really good at dying. I remember waiting in the doctor’s office with her. I remember star- ing down at the tile floor spotted with dirt, praying we would soon leave because the smell burned the insides of my nostrils and the grotesque lighting made everyone already look deceased. I prayed to whoever was listening that my mother and I would soon leave and never come back, but the acid suddenly boiling inside my stomach told me all the phone lines in heaven were busy.

74 When the doctor spoke all I heard was “Cancer.” All that I saw was her mouth open and her thin lips end in the shape of an O. I heard her speak the words, “Uncontrolled growth of abnormal cells in both of your lungs,” but I only saw the back of my eyelids. I listened as she cradled the words Stage 4. Slippery warm tears fell as she caressed the word ‘inoperable’ as if telling a little girl there was no use trying to put the head back on her Barbie, for she was far too broken to fix. Tears danced a wretched number down my face. My chest tightened as guilt bloomed and made an eternal garden in my frame. I instantly regretted not speaking up when I noticed her unceasing fatigue and refusal to do anything but push around food brilliantly prepared by her own hands. I should have insisted she get checked out when her occasional smoker’s cough became more and more frequent. I should have demanded she see a physician as she struggled, so easily losing her breath, walking up the steps to the home she designed with her own aesthetic eye. It wasn’t until she began coughing up blood that I even thought about asking if she was going to see her doctor. I hadn’t insisted until it was too late, I hadn’t insisted until the prognosis was “inoperable.” But as the days stretch on like trail with many paths, my guilt, as well as my reliance on fleeting entities began to fade. Time contin- ued to heal my anguished wounds, and I was left with memories and scars that reminded me I was still one of the fortunate living. Time helped me to appreciate that the world would continue to dance on its axis whether I was cross with it or not. I found solace and an abundance of comfort in realizing there are no super heroes, just good people, who die too soon and for as long I will walk this earth – the moon and the stars, though so incredibly far away will not cease to exist.

75 CLAY KRIEG 100 Cups Ceramics

76 WESLEY HOOPER Trophy Life Mixed Media Ceramic Sculpture

77 Plunge ERIN COOPER Feet planted on the moss covered rocks-elevated- eyes scouring the horizon. The sound of the hurrying current muting all thought. The wind blows insecurities away like dried fall leaves. The fresh smell of blooms in the valley lift the fog menacing your mind. Think about the water- how it plunges off the cliff onto the slick rocks below. How it continues past the impact to water the valley and replenish the grazing deer. How it houses fish that fight to escape the fisherman’s hungry hook. The water does not hesitate, wait, think- it plunges to its death and survives, thrives.

78 A Simple Love Song DYLAN SCHRADER Give me a simple love song— I’ve grown tired of the who-cheated-who howling into the night of an all night honky tonk, or the rock n’ roll masochism and bondage. Sing something pretty even if your voice is out of key. Make the walls warble with your sincerity. Don’t worry about the rhyme— just make it true. It’s easy to darken your eyes, walk the streets with ravenous abandon, but just fucking hold my hand. The nights will always be there, but I can’t claim the same. No, you beautiful girl, I can’t do this many more times— the waiting the lying the angry fucking— This old romantic stallion is about ready for the glue factory.

79 Untitled TEENA PATEL My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings…1° I stand atop a mountain, a precipice, a needle on the edge of the world. Mist hangs about me like a dreary cloak of petrichor. The skies are streaked with blackberry blue, and I can still taste the anguish I licked from your cherry lips. Is this reality, or the brink of insanity? We are alone both in dreaming and in death – This you told to me when we last embraced. I catch you, my dear, looking beyond a cliff, and as you step off, you make it true: I have driven my lover to madness. Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! 2°

1 ° “Ozymandias” by Percy Shelley

80 Untitled The Breeze in the Bottle TAIMA NAGLE My grandfather had a wrinkled face and gray hair that was always well combed but greasy. He looked like exactly what he was, a tired old man who had seen much but would say very little. He always wore broad-rimmed glasses with black frames that sat on both a large nose and eyes that looked eerily similar to my own. Many people make a point to be as far away and different from their family as possible, especially during the rebellion of youth, but it is hard to deny one’s roots or the dominance of genes when your face, only years older, is literally star-ing back at you. My grandfather had a stroke and was paralyzed sometime during the early 80s, so I never saw him walk or stand up alone during my lifetime. Even as a five-year old girl I was on his level. The strangest and oldest and scariest person I knew as a child was the only person with whom I did not have to strain on tip toes or climb up to see. As I grew up, he seemed to grow smaller. It was as if he was slowly sinking closer to the ground as he got closer to death. He died when I was ten and he was seventy, but I don’t remember my grandfather ever saying a word to me. The bulk of who I under- stand my grandfather to be exists from my mother’s memory. Getting fucked up is a pastime in all cultures and places, but in the South it is a full blown career for some people. My grandfather was one of theses people and he took his job seriously both on and off the clock. I never knew the the grandfather my mother spoke of: a gambling bootlegger with a temper and a belt. I never knew him to say or do a mean thing to any of us at all. By the time I came around in 1989 I suppose most of his energy had run out. I remember him just sitting and staring into space or at me, and the look in his eyes seemed so unhappy it could take the smile off a child’s face quickly. He was always so scary to me and my brothers because he would never talk, only sit in his wheelchair and look at us. Sometimes when my grandma would drive to see us at our house he would throw bubblegum at us from the car and watch as

81 we ran up the driveway to get it and run back faster as if we were scared it was a trap. It was as if my grandfather were sending us little tokens of goodwill: wrapped up bright pieces of pink bubble gum and candy that said he understood kids need their fix of enjoyment just as much as a cults do. The bubblegum came from the store my grandparents owned that was built in the sev-enties in front of the small trailer my mother grew up in with her six brothers and sisters. The store was one of my favorite places to go as a child, it sold everything a convenience store would: candy, cokes, cigarettes, the usual. But the real money maker was alcohol. After my grandpa had a stroke, my dad built a long breeze- way leading from the small trailer my mother grew up in to the package store in front of the house. This is where my brothers and I loved to play. The wooden breezeway that allowed my grandfather to continue doing what he always did best. Get people drunk. I would often sit on the walkway and look at the grown up woods surrounding the grassy yard and try to picture my mother growing up there. My mother never talked about her childhood unless I complained about my own. “I grew up with a an abusive bootlegger surrounded by alco-holics. Chin up.” My brothers and I would carry our bikes, scooters, skateboards, and anything with wheels up to the breezeway so we could ride across it. The sound of the wheels on the wooden planks would drown out the traffic of the highway and the people coming in and out of the store all day long. We would often sneak into the store to be shooed away by our grandmoth-er with bribes of candy and coke. We felt special being able to go to a real store and not have to pay for anything. We would sit on the breezeway and eat candy as we watched the sun go down and listened as the Southern sounds of night creeped in: crickets, frogs, and silence. Only a speeding car from the highway or lone angry voice would interrupt the solemnity.

82 In the South in the 50s and 60s if you beat your wife the police would tell you to walk it off. This is not an exaggeration or assumption on my part. My mother saw it happen with her own eyes when she one day thought that her mom was going to die because she was being beaten so hard. My mother told me of how the police officers looked at both her and her mom as if they somehow had caused the problem by simply existing or had put the bruises on themselves. The police officers told my grandfather to take a walk and cool off. They told my mother and grand-mother to go inside. Twenty years later, my grandma, faithful to the end, would bathe and dress the man when he couldn’t take a walk or even a piss by himself anymore. My mother recently told me that my grandma drank too during those days. I knew my grandma as the sweetest and most sober lady up until 2012 when she died. When my mother told me that my grandma was an “alcoholic” too, the thought sobered me. In the selfishness of telling my own story, I think it’s difficult to think of one’s beginnings this way. I want so badly to go back in time and see my grandmother leave, for my mother to escape, but if this were the case, where would I be? Or would I even be at all? What would I be if it were not for my beginnings and my mother’s begin-nings and my grandmother’s beginnings? The answer to the question definitely is not at the bot-tom of a bottle. After my paw-paw died one Thanksgiving morning, my grandma closed the store and moved to town. She became a lonely but happy woman, surrounded by her cats and many grand-children in her small but cute apartment. The store was boarded up and the trailer that they lived in emptied out. Whenever we would drive by some- times my Mom would stop and let us look around.

83 As a child, I was struck by how lonely and dead it seemed. I never thought of what my mother who had grown up there in the turbulent sixties might have felt. A couple of years after my paw-paw died an angry distant relative took gasoline and set the whole property on fire. I al-ways wondered if he had poured it onto the breezeway or if it had burned naturally as being the connec- tion between both places. All that is left of both my mother’s and my own childhood there now is a gravel parking lot, but the sign out front is still there. A tall and rusty structure that says “Eddie’s Place.” The sign is almost unreadable unless you know what it said. The emptiness of the place is kind of like the remnants of a party the morning after it was thrown. Whenever I go there, I can almost feel all the former life it held. But it doesn’t make me happy. It makes me sad. Kind of like how drinking in general is. It can be profitable, it can be fun. It can make the good times seem bad and the bad times seem good. But in the end, alcohol leads most to the same end-ing that the breezeway I grew up walking between two worlds did. In the end there was nothing. A whole lot of nothing that cost many people almost everything. I never thought much about my grandfather or the store when I was growing up. I stayed purposefully far away from alcohol until the age of twenty-one when I went out to a bar to see what all the fuss was about. The bartender made me an extra-strong Long Island Tea because she was my friend. I remember sitting there and enjoying the feeling of getting drunk. The nervous energy I had experienced bouncing around my body and brain for what seemed like my entire life slowly seeped out of me like air from a balloon. A few hours later I was in the bushes outside of an alley by the bar, literally unable to stand or even move after puking up most of the rem-nants of the not so sweet anymore Long Island Teas. Luckily, my friend Ben came and found me when I texted him I had made a mistake and I couldn’t stand up. He carried me to his car and up the stairs to my apartment.

84 As he took off my shoes and put me into my bed, I remember telling him before he left that I just didn’t understand why anyone would do this to them self. After four years of partying, running, forgetting, finding empty bottles everywhere, voluntary AA meet- ings, meditation, vacation, and every other means I have employed to understanding, I still don’t. MIRANDA HYDE What Now? Photography

86 MARIE KARERA The Walk Photography

87

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 2015

VPAA create and to all artists who artists who writers and writers and continue to continue to the student the student Office ofOffice The University The Art and English and Art Departments of Departments of Special Thanks Special Thanks to of North Alabama +