Weber State UniverSity’S Writing Center JoUrnal Verbal equinox fall 2013 iN thiS issue: Writing Contest Winners Creative NoNFiCtioN 2 Eric Murdock, Threshold Apprehension 6 Brittany Krough, Realize 11 Suzanne Humphries, A Letter to a Missed Sister 14 Jessica Guzman, Leaving it Behind FiCtioN 17 Joslyn Pust, Untitled 19 D.B. Troester, Awakening 21 Simon Furlong, As It Is in Heaven 24 William Connolly, Within a Second Poetry 26 Shauna Ross, Blanket 27 Jamieson Strople, Adoration of a Perception of an Artist 28 Jacob Meyers, A Necromantic Fight SCholarly NoNFiCtioN 28 Jenn Reeves, Victimized Feminism in Fiction 32 Amy Higgs, The Pertinent Views of Charles Lamb WritiNg CeNter art Work 36 Joni Lund 37 Devon Hoxer C r e a t i v e n o n f i C t i o n Eric Murdock Threshold Apprehension First Place Winner ake wood and fake breasts, false smiles and F hollow laughter. The only real things in this establishment are the drinks. I want them strong to ebb the flow of memories roaming freely through my mind, unchecked by my sobriety. The establishment wants the drinks strong to encourage sorority girls and boys, in flame and skull- ridden shirts, to make fake noises that give off the impression of The Graphics Fairy joy. The roar of the conversation overwhelms the room; the lonely are less so by simply being pres- of a real wooden bar, this feels ent. It doesn’t work for me. My clean, purified of the thousands isolation only grows in the com- of drinks spilled, saliva fallen, and pany of others. The contrasts in blood dripped. our personalities highlighted. We It used to take me twenty are more similar than we seem. minutes to get a drink here, Although it is not immediately and then I started tipping and obvious, unhappiness is king returning, and the drinks started of this realm, ordering its loyal appearing almost before I wanted subjects out into the world to fail, them. The bartenders are now to further their unhappiness with busy catering to the complicated fake friendships, and insincere cocktails of the false alcohol- camaraderie. The false joy only ics. Kids that think it’s cool to distracts from the glazed eyes and drink, think that being drunk is forced smiles. something to be proud of. They I run my fingers across the don’t like the taste of alcohol, false veneer of the bar. The they don’t even like being drunk, smooth, cool surface is appeal- they’ve probably never sat in the ing. Unlike the sticky warm feel parking lot of the bar waiting for 2 v e r b a l e QU i n o X it to open. Alcohol represents a me. When I first stepped into this rebellion they’ve been seeking. place after a long time away, they It’s not rebellion though. It’s just had all heard that I had stopped answering to another master. A drinking. First Place Winner unified rebellion is no longer a That first time I returned to rebellion; it simply becomes a straddle the bar stool and ordered different norm. my first drink, they seemed over- I look into the mirror come with relief when I asked behind the bar into eyes I no for a club soda with lime and longer recognize. My reflection not the familiar double scotch. depresses me; I can’t imagine I found it’s a good drink to put what my image does to the false people at ease, the club soda that “happys.” I’m the one stationary is. The false “happys” assume object in the picture. All around it’s alcoholic and don’t feel that me, there is movement, laughter, you’re judging them. Be better touching, and drinking. I see my with scotch of course, but really, friends in the reflection. They’re everything is better with scotch. leaning on each other, smiling and I like this place during the then not. The drunken whims of day. They have good sandwiches emotional youth fleeting quickly and the music and conversation across their lazy faces. I stare isn’t overwhelming. The bartend- into my glass; it contains ice, club ers leave you alone unless you soda, lime, and sobriety. I haven’t want to talk, and I can wallow in had alcohol in over two years. I my sober self-pity. still stare longingly at the bottles At night though, this place on the wall, and every day have turns into a hotbed of false emo- to remind myself why I abstain. tions and bad intentions. And I still feel like an alcoholic. I get right now, this hell that I used to excited at the thought of drink- love has become a foreign home. ing. My mouth waters when I think of whiskey. I wake every morning feeling hung-over from Alcohol represents a rebellion the sleeping pills I have to take they’ve been seeking. It’s not every night. rebellion though. It’s just The bartenders, or at least answering to another master. the ones that knew me then, still A unified rebellion is no longer treat me well. Sometimes I don’t think they’d pour me a real drink a rebellion; it simply becomes a if I asked for it. They all knew different norm. back then that it was no good for f a l l 2 0 1 3 3 C r e a t i v e n o n f i C t i o n My fake alcoholic drink is no night to my face. I walk quickly, longer enough to hide me from but without a destination in the masses. I cannot blend in to mind. I remember a coffee shop this crowd of lying smiles and that used to stay open late. It’s straight brimmed hats. I finish my somewhere in this neighborhood, drink, leave a tip, and walk down but it’s been a long time since I’ve the stairs. I check; my friends roamed these streets, and nothing didn’t see me leave. They won’t looks like it did years ago. notice I’m gone until they need a I see two hunched shadows ride home. up ahead; as I get closer, the I walk out of the door, con- shadows turn into a man and torting my body to narrowly miss woman. The man is helping the leveling a group woman remove of drunken girls her knee-high in high shoes. The I wish I had a cigarette. I leather boots. doorman nods at don’t smoke, but a lonely They’re both obvi- me, grateful that I night sitting on abandoned ously intoxicated, didn’t collide with church steps, calls for some and the woman’s the reckless floo- skirt has slid up zies. They surely vice. I settle on thinking around her back. would’ve crowded instead, my largest and Each time the his door for too most addictive vice. I try to man pulls on the long a time, flop- find a way that I could’ve boot, her bare ping on the floor, done things differently, flesh drags across attempting to right chosen a different path, the concrete. I ask themselves on kissed a different girl. My if they’re okay as top of ridiculous mind spins this wheel and I pass. They both heels. the desire to drink and shut jerk their heads Taxis line the wheel down grows. in my direc- up on the curb, tion; glassy eyes windows drop unaware that I as I pass each cab. I cross the was there, float over and past and empty street against a green then back to me. The girl begins light and shove my hands deep to laugh and assures me that into my pockets. The air is cool, she just can’t walk in the boots it’s mid October, and the night anymore and he’s helping her. brings with it crisp, clean air. The The man returns to his task, and tall buildings place the sidewalk I return to my walk. in deep shadows; the solidar- I cross another deserted street ity brings the first smile of the and turn towards the mountains. 4 v e r b a l e QU i n o X There’s a large church on the cars coming down the hill from corner, its steps spilling out onto the university. The city is quiet the sidewalk. I take a few steps enough for me to hear the sounds up and sit, leaning back against of the constructed nature. The the heavy wooden door. I look at line of trees planted to shade the the street signs hanging from the sidewalk show no movement, lights and try to remember the but I hear the leaves brushing coffee shop. A woman pushing against each other. I can hear the a stroller and holding a toddler’s traffic lights change, the heavy hand walks by me. She doesn’t click of green off, red on. The notice me until she’s standing at little man chimes, beckoning me the corner, waiting for the little to cross the street, so I do. When man to grant her passage across I step onto the opposite sidewalk the street. She unconsciously pulls and look back to my temporary the kid closer and looks straight roost on the steps, I can see the ahead. I feel bad for startling her, lights of the elusive coffee shop. but know that anything I say will It’s about three blocks up the only frighten her more, I remain street on the side that I just came silent.