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RENAISSANCE The Writers’ and Artists��� Magazine of Wayne Community College Goldsboro, North Carolina Volume 25, May 2009 STUDENT AWARDS Cover Design ..............................................Danielle Castillo Art .................................................................Andrew Harper Essay .................................................................Bob Hensley Essay ......................................................Jimmy David Hicks Poetry ................................................. Robert Linley McCoy EDITORS Kathryn Spicer Jeff Williams Rosalyn Lomax, Editor Emerita Marian Westbrook, Editor Emerita ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Faculty: Margaret Boothe Baddour and Torey Romero Staff: Theresa White-Wallace Student: Tanisha Eutsey Educational Support Technologies Department: Majena Howell The Foundation of Wayne Community College Student Government Association and The Artists and Writers Margaret Boothe Baddour’s poems “No Bloodshed During Snowfall,” “The Properties Mistress,” “The Transit of Venus��� are published in Scheherazade, St. Andrews Press, 2009. No part of this magazine may be reproduced without permission. Copyright 2009 Renaissance Views expressed are those of the individual contributors and do not necessarily refl ect the views of the editors or this institution. TABLE OF CONTENTS Falling Hair ...........................................................1 ............Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science Tiny Droplet ..........................................................1 ............Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science Compost ................................................................1 ............Andrew Harper, Wayne Early Middle College High School Balance ..................................................................2 ............Bob Hensley, Associate in Arts Drink .....................................................................3 ............Jasmine Hickey, Associate in Arts Deep ......................................................................3 ............Andrew Harper, Wayne Early Middle College High School How to Seem Smart ..............................................4 ............Jimmy David Hicks, Associate in Arts How Many .............................................................5 ............Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts A Song for Sasser ..................................................6 ............Beth Rawleigh, Associate in Arts Remembering W. Steele Sasser .............................7 ............Theresa White-Wallace, Secretary, Language/Communication Department Tools ......................................................................8 ............Andrew Harper, Wayne Early Middle College High School Query in Iambic Dimeter ......................................8 ............Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor A Poem is a Regurgitation ....................................8 ............Zara Rullman, Wayne Early Middle College High School Snake Family.........................................................9 ............Michelle Bailey, Associate in Arts The King of Diamonds ..........................................9 ............Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts There They Are ......................................................9 ............Alyssa K. Herring, Associate in Arts Queen Rose ...........................................................10 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Red Fez .................................................................10 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Mammy Cat ..........................................................10 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Jammin’ .................................................................11 ..........Breanna Ponzi, Dual Enrollment The Properties Mistress .........................................12 ..........Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities/Creative Writing Instructor The Transit of Venus .............................................12 ..........Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities/Creative Writing Instructor Wet .........................................................................12 ..........Ashley Winders, Associate in Arts So Much More ......................................................13 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science And the Earth Wouldn’t Orbit ...............................13 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor Spring ....................................................................13 ..........Connie Lord, Associate in Arts Why Me! ...............................................................14 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Gone ......................................................................14 ..........Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts Shifting Sand .........................................................15 ..........Brenda Wooldridge, Offi ce Systems Technology Missing ..................................................................16 ..........Latoya Edwards, Associate in Arts To the Golden-Haired Girl ....................................16 ..........Preston Sharpe, Associate in Arts Changes and Endings ............................................17 ..........Zara Rullman, Wayne Early Middle College High School How I’m feelin’ .....................................................17 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science My Music Always There .......................................18 ..........Zara Rullman, Wayne Early Middle College High School Happy Black ..........................................................18 ..........Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts The Mother Church of Country Music ..................18 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster Dropped Change ...................................................19 ..........Kourtney Willis, Wayne Early Middle College High School Live Expression .....................................................20 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster The Myth of Solitude ............................................20 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor Not Admitting to Being Jealous ............................21 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science Missing You ...........................................................21 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science My Mimi, Milly Rawleigh ....................................22 ..........Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts Eye Catcher ...........................................................22 ..........Gene Smith, Division Chair, Arts and Sciences Moon Flower .........................................................23 ..........Michelle Bailey, Associate in Arts i ii Christmas Box .......................................................24 ..........Ashley Winders, Associate in Arts My Chocolate ........................................................24 ..........Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts Into the Mistic .......................................................25 ..........Diane Joyner, Math Instructor The Flood ..............................................................25 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor A Cold and Black December Came Early Today..26 ..........Candace Johnson, Associate in Arts Sue Jones ...............................................................26 ..........Kim Clark, Math Instructor Hands ....................................................................26 ..........Jennifer Parker, Associate Director of Admissions/Records Ashes to Ashes ......................................................27 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor Closet ....................................................................27 ..........Alyssa K. Herring, Associate in Arts A London Alphabet ...............................................28 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor Dreaming the Gap .................................................28 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor Looking for Lunch .................................................29 ..........Gene Smith, Division Chair, Arts and Sciences Ravenesque ...........................................................29 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor A White Mourning ................................................30 ..........Mary Spears, Dual Enrollment Metamorphosis ......................................................30 ..........Ashley Winders, Associate in Arts Excerpt from Capricorn Sol’s Autistic Genie .......31 ..........J.L. Knoll, Offi ce Systems Technology Punky .....................................................................32 ..........April Crow, Associate in Arts Brother, please, give up on me ..............................32 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor The Lady Behind the Glass ...................................32 ..........Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science The “Buffalo” ........................................................33 ..........Sabrina Kornegay, Associate in Arts Goldsboro Spring ..................................................34 ..........Rosalyn Lomax, English Instructor Schroedinger’s parakeet ........................................34 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor Frog Shade ............................................................34 ..........Gene Smith, Division Chair, Arts and Sciences Revelation .............................................................35 .........Theresa White-Wallace, Secretary, Language/Communication Department I Smiled .................................................................36 ..........Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science Ominous ................................................................36 ..........Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science I Walk The Line .....................................................36 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster The Answer ...........................................................37 ..........Marc Mahan, Forest Management Dream Sparrow .....................................................39 ..........Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts Plates .....................................................................39 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster How to Kill a Balloon Animal ..............................40 ..........Jennifer Lynn Hobbs, Associate in Science Paper Bags ............................................................41 ..........April Crow, Associate in Arts Seconds and Exponents .........................................42 ..........Jon Cronin, Associate in Arts My Monster ...........................................................43 ..........Candace Johnson, Associate in Arts The Infamous Him ................................................43 ..........Brittany Evrard, Associate in Arts The Alien Flower ..................................................43 ..........Preston Sharpe, Associate in Arts No Bloodshed During Snowfall ............................44 ..........Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities/Creative Writing Instructor Azalea ....................................................................44 ..........Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts Remembering a Royal Woman .............................45 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor 1 Falling Hair Running my fi ngers through my hair Because I am bored Because it is long Because it feels good Because it reminds me of you It reminds me of your gentle touch Of how you smelled it and smiled Of how you rubbed it like soft fur Of how you twirled it round your fi ngers Of how you pulled it when you felt good Running my fi ngers through my hair Deep in thought First one hair falls Then another and yet another A reminder that time catches us all Robert Linley McCoy Tiny Droplet She fi ghts back the emotions Enduring the saline sting Trying to hold it all inside And not let herself be betrayed By such a tiny thing. A tiny droplet of water Nothing more, so it seems Slides slowly to the tip of her nose Gets to the edge And clings tightly readying for the fall. Falling off the edge The overlooking ledge Downward it travels through the air. The distance seems forever. It is suspended in space and time. Finally it impacts the ground With a deafening splash Breaking the silence. The tiny droplet waits for the others For it will surely not be the only one. Robert Linley McCoy Compost Andrew Harper 2 Balance Bob Hensley Life is a balancing act that requires inputs from several sources in order to fi nd true stabil-ity for the soul. What we do for a living doesn’t defi ne who we are; it merely puts a label on us. It is like one leg of a three-legged stool; it is necessary, but without the other two legs, we are always wobbling and never in balance. For more than twenty years, I served my country in the United States Air Force. While many call this a noble act, and I was proud to do my part, my fo-cus most of that time was putting in my twenty years and retiring to enjoy the fruits of my labors. I was so focused on that objective that I was oblivious to many events around me. When I fi nally reached my goal and retired, instead of feeling content and fulfi lled, I felt as if I had awakened over the rainbow and landed in Oz, a confusing and alien land. Something was missing. I felt as if I were adrift on a sea of emptiness with no clue to my purpose. Then, about fi ve years ago, an event happened that changed my life forever. My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and was given only a few months to live. I immediately went to him, and that visit gave me my second stool leg and a bit more balance. My father grew up with the belief that emotions were best kept bottled up, and showing too much af-fection, especially with male children, was not proper. Because of this, whether I did something that made him proud or did something to disappoint him, our outward relationship always ap-peared quite vanilla. Oh, I knew some of his past, that he had grown up on a farm, worked with the railroad, and served in the Navy before running a sales division for his company, but details of his life prior to my own were very sketchy. When he asked me if I wanted to know anything before he died, I told him I wanted to know stories of his childhood to help me understand him better. The stories he told me made him more human and three-dimensional in my mind and helped me fi nd peace and closure when he passed a few months later. Always having viewed my father as proper and straight-laced, I truly enjoyed hearing about some of the hijinks of his time on the farm. I also learned details that he had never shared; for example, on a trip to Europe back in the 1960’s, he got a parking ticket in France, which he never paid, and for the next thirty years he lived in fear that if he ever went back he would be arrested on the spot and thrown in jail. We talked for hours during that visit. When it was time for me to leave, I gave my father a hug and told him I loved him. My father then did something I had never seen him do before; he broke down and actually cried. He said he had never known how I felt about him and wished we had talked more about emotions in the past. He said he felt a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders and now felt that his life hadn’t been spent in vain, that if I felt that way towards him, as did my other siblings, then he must have done something right in life. He said how proud he was of us all. I could feel the rift that had kept us apart during life disappear and be replaced by inner peace. I started feeling as if I were on the path to truly fi nding my identity and place in life. I fi nally realized just how tenuous and fragile life is and that no one can predict how much time he or she has on Earth. This realization has caused me to look at life from different perspec-tives, to look at the environment that surrounds us and appreciate the beauty and wonder of life. This realization is the fi nal leg to our “stool of life” that gives us stability and makes us complete. We are a product of our past, our present, and our surroundings. Since then I have made a con- 3 scious effort to examine things around me; I take time to watch a sunset and marvel at its beauty; I stop to watch a spider spin a web, a masterpiece in its creativity; I watch a hawk fl oat upon air currents, free of the confi nes of Earth. While my father’s passing was probably the worst tragedy of my life, it was also the one event that helped me fi nd myself. I will always remember him as the person who helped me fi nd my identity and appreciate what a true blessing life is. Enabling me to fi nd stability, spiritual peace, and tranquility, his passing has given me the missing legs of my life stool. Drink Jasmine Hickey Deep Andrew Harper 4 How to Seem Smart Jimmy David Hicks Everyone is plagued with the unfortunate circumstance of seeming unintelligent. The situ-ation could be created from something as simple as tripping while riding an escalator or some-thing as complex as coming up with an entire argument on why videogames are pure evil and then realizing that no actual evidence is in the argument. Another unfortunate circumstance develops when people get overly excited and decide to share views on various situations even though the evidence used to base their opinions was just picked up from some guy who can’t tell the difference between a cat and a giraffe. Needless to say, if anyone in a room actually knows what he or she is talking about, the overeager person will likely look a bit foolish. Luckily, there are ways for people to give the impression that they are very smart even if their knowledge of current affairs or perhaps anything in general is less than reputable. The fi rst step of seeming smart is to conquer one’s appearance. That’s right. For some un-fathomable reason, people sometimes base an opinion of someone’s intelligence on the person’s appearance. A great way to dazzle the general spectator is to wear a suit and top hat no matter what the occasion. People wearing this attire will be assumed to be smart because, obviously, the only possible solution to how they got these clothes is that they graduated from fi ne institutions allowing them to get jobs that would make it possible to buy incredible numbers of suits. If this attire is out of the question, another handy outfi t is a sweater vest, dress pants, and dress shoes. This attire is associated only with prodigious students and people with very important interviews and is guaranteed to make people look as though they could recite a dictionary. In extreme situa-tions, wearing a simple buttoned up collared shirt will work wonders. No matter what the cost, it is important not to look like the guy who wears a beanie and sandals with socks and insists on sitting next to the only person in the room even though all the chairs are open. After the clothing is taken care of, the fi ner details may be focused on. Corrective lenses at some point or another seem to have somehow become associated with intelligence. The most impressive style of lens seems to be the monocle, which draws attention even in a crowded room. Even without corrective lenses, posture is also an important aspect of seeming smart. Sitting up straight with folded hands is a great way to seem deep in thought. If at all possible, swinging a cane while walking could be of assistance as it is a nice way to seem mildly coordinated. If good posture is not desired, it is a possible to save the appearance by making up a reason for poor posture, such as a cool sounding medical condition. A fi nal way to appear intelligent is to at least pretend to read a complicated-looking book while listening to classical music. Unfortunately, it is impossible to get away entirely with simply looking smart. Eventu-ally, some stranger won’t be able to contain himself or herself, or a long lost cousin will return and make ridiculous demands such as having a conversation. This will require sounding smart instead of simply telling the other person to go read the owner’s manual of an old handheld game console that no one ever plays. The fi rst requirement for sounding smart is speaking with an English accent, no matter how fake it may sound. The next step is to use long and painful sound-ing words and phrases such as “indubitably” and “metabolic metabolism” in situations that don’t call for them. Also, instead of saying things like “this is terrible,” a better replacement is “the 5 current circumstances are in a state of preposterously poor quality.” The fi nal rule is to talk about complicated events no matter if the material is grossly misinterpreted or if the conversation is un-welcome. A good example of this is to mix two current events together and come up with some sort of absurd theory to make them relate. A debate is likely to start eventually in any situation that involves a discussion longer than one minute. A great way to win an argument is never to admit a mistake, no matter how many times it is pointed out and beaten. While knowing something about the topic is a great asset in a debate, it is possible to at least give the impression that all knowledge on the topic is known by yawning and coughing while the other person is talking. If all else fails, a good conclusion to an argument is to mumble something and leave. This is rarely, if ever, considered to be a rude gesture, and it can make a person seem so smart that others assume the argument is not even at his or her level. Not being smart is no excuse to have a reputation that indicates as such. With so many op-tions to trick people, it is possible for anyone to be considered smart. Some people would say that it is best to not draw attention to oneself, but following this advice is not likely to improve one’s reputation. Causing spectacles to appear smart is a great way to make people think highly of whoever is doing it, whether the person causing the spectacle is actually smart or not. Seem-ing smart simply depends on how far someone is willing to go to make a lasting impression on people he or she may never meet again. How Many Danielle Castillo 6 A Song for Sasser Beth Rawleigh I swear time stopped. “I have some bad news,” Mom said quietly. “You’re going to need to pray for Mr. Sasser’s family because he passed away last night.” “Mr. Sasser?” I asked, trying to be sure that what I was attempting to fathom was real. She said it was. Some people go through stages of acceptance, but I skipped straight to grief. It was as if my heart blew up inside my chest. Not Sasser. Just then, Billy and my grandma pulled up and heard me say Sasser’s name as I covered my mouth and burst into tears. He walked up, concerned, and put his arm around me as I asked what happened and heard the whole sad story. “What’s wrong?” Grandma asked Billy. “I think she’s getting some bad news about her teacher,” he answered, rubbing my back. “Oh,” Grandma answered, “Well, she’s probably just already shaken up.” As if he were just a teacher. By the time I hung up with Mom, I was sobbing. “That’s too bad about your teacher,” Grandma said. We got in the car, and I continued to cry, not speaking. I just couldn’t say anything. What could I say? All I could think of was Sasser. Grandma asked a couple times if I were okay. I said I was, but I wasn’t. “What kind of teacher was he?” she asked. “Our music teacher,” I answered. “Aww, that’s too bad to lose your music teacher. They always make you feel good,” she an-swered. I wanted to scream at her, “He wasn’t JUST my teacher!! He was more than that! He was so much more than that!” But I couldn’t. Grandma just didn’t understand, and I couldn’t expect her to. But inside, I knew. We all knew. Me, Alison, Caroline, Mary, Judith, Anthony, Billy, Rachel . . . and the list goes on and on. All the hearts were touched by Sasser and the legacy that he left. We loved him, truly loved him. Steele Sasser was more than just a music teacher. He gave us music. He was music. And more than that, he cared about us. He waited patiently while we goofed off and then buckled down when things got out of hand. I can still see him standing in front of us, waving his hands as we sang. “Make my hair move!” he would yell, and we all messed up in the song from laughing. Sasser was bald. Somehow when we face the loss of a loved one, things go into perspective. We realize just how short life is, just how insignifi cant our problems are when we face the true tragedies life dishes out. Sasser was gone. Gone, not ever coming back. Life is just too short. I’ll never forget the night of the dress rehearsal before our concert in Spring 2008. The high- 7 schoolers had upset Sasser, and that combined with the lack of eating dinner had sent him into diabetic shock. He never remembered anything that happened during the span of about an hour when he was delirious and said a bunch of silly and incoherent things. I was patting his head with a damp paper towel while the nurse tried to encourage him. “They don’t understand,” Sasser was saying, almost unintelligibly “Music is everything.” “I know,” the nurse said, and then she pointed to all of us who were gathered around him. “They do understand. Look how much they care about you.” Sasser rolled his head back and looked up at me with a dazed look and just stared for a min-ute. “We love you, Mr. Sasser,” I said, smiling at him. Finally, he smiled, a little lopsided one, and said, “Yeah.” I hope the angel chorus in heaven can make your hair move. Remembering W. Steele Sasser Wired rimmed glasses Shiny head Sitting on the bench outside Puffi ng on a cigarette Flip Flops in the summer Sweaters in the winter “Hey, Girl, what’s going on?” “Come downstairs and have some dessert.” Wheeling you to your offi ce and car Hearing you laugh as I almost turn your wheelchair over in the elevator Bringing you candy and juice when your blood sugar dropped Reassuring you as your blood sugar rose to normal Sewing a button on your pants as you walked down the hall in your graduation gown “I am so proud of my students.” “Come listen to the chorus.” How nervous you got before each concert How well your students performed Hearing you talk about your children How proud you were of them The day I heard the news The night I saw you asleep and knew you were singing with the angels That’s what I remember about you Theresa White-Wallace 8 Tools Andrew Harper Query in Iambic Dimeter When everything that comes to mind becomes a line of poetry, the monologue within myself produces books of single lines. What if I took my single lines and printed them in one long poem? Is that auto-biography or is it just a mystery? Rosalyn F. Lomax A Poem is a Regurgitation A poem is a regurgitation That happens in the mind After putting in the pain and works Or anything you fi nd You fi ll it with the fury And hope it doesn’t melt You fi ll it with the misery You wished you hadn’t felt You assault it with the ink You beguile it with lead Add in a piece of broken heart You know it’s been well fed Then you stab it with the knives And you beat it with the sticks You acid scorch it with the tears And hope it didn’t miss Zara Rullman 9 There They Are Alyssa K. Herring Snake Family My playful cousin is colorful and bright and is always a pet for little boys to scare their little sisters with My little brother is black as the shadows he waits within to catch mice that sneak into cupboards and steal away the food My big brother is striped and strong he catches the members of our family that drive people mad with their poison I am the little sister who is small and green I catch the spiders that hide in the grass and wait for an unsuspecting victim Michelle Bailey The King of Diamonds The king of diamonds carries his crest on his thin, long, oily back. He creeps through the tall grass of our lawn, glaring at us with death-black eyes. He hides his two daggers, but we know they are there, poison-tipped, razor-sharp. My father grabs his bush ax and meets him in the middle of the fi eld. The king slips back but raises his head and shakes his beaded tail, daring my father with his eyes to step closer and meet steely fangs. The sun shines brightly as two fi gures freeze, their eyes fi xed on each other. The king sways as if there were wind. My father stands on two fi rm feet. Just as the king pulls out his blades, my father swings his ax. The diamond-crowned head of the king falls to lie twitching in the grass. Alison Rawleigh 10 Queen Rose Young women these days don’t know how to love a man Maybe that’s why men ain’t bother’n to ask for their hand A woman used to dress up and powder her face Then let her slip hang a little so they could see her lace You can laugh now, but that was the style then Women acted like ladies and men were real men I use’tah dress up and put on my “Evening in Paris” And many a young man asked for Queen Rose’s hand in marriage You can believe or not believe what I tellin’ ya Go on and grow old buying what women lib’s sellin’ ya Listen to me! Find out all about what you been missing And you’ll see no degree holds a candle to kissing I��m gonna say this, and I ain’t taking it back Have you ever wondered why all the ugh-ly women driving Cadillacs? Roethyll Lunn Red Fez When I saw you in your tribal clothing and bruised blood colored fez, you were a splendor in black and white and red. I stood there astounded, absconded in my stance, begging my Southern born hips to do a tribal dance. Roethyll Lunn Mammy Cat This isn’t the way That I really want to be But somehow, over the years, It just ended up being me. I really fought against it, but it seems as if I were bound to be one of those women that just have to run around. I tried, I joined the church I wanted to be honorably mentioned I stayed there for a year But they didn’t pay any attention. So I went back to my husband, and he ran me back to my man Now this cat is going to run around With all the fl air she can. Roethyll Lunn 11 Jammin’ Breanna Ponzi 12 The Properties Mistress At the Salvation Army I hunt for 1950s telephones— those black boxes with dials almost obsolete but not antique— a green chenille bathrobe, and a blue McGuffey’s Reader Then, slung among the 10-cents books, I fi nd Born Again: Together and remember us—stranded in a small New England town going under in Atlantis clinging at the Roman coliseum and how we touched in Kyoto, saying “Sayonara” before the blade, leapt from Middle Passage into Caribbean waters and how the courage of one kiss lasts several lifetimes. Now, I am just a Mistress—of Props but in the cave backstage where the tapestry suitcase seems packed the wrapped boxes to hold gifts the newspaper to be always today’s— art turns to life and life to truth. Surrounded by properties, I won nothing—but memory’s jolt and the taste of that kiss. Margaret Boothe Baddour The Transit of Venus Desiring your view she seduces you to look at the sun. Her soft layers fool you, too. She is rock hard the shimmering orb that hangs so low in the evening shy— a bass of sulfur a core of nickel and iron. Voluptuous Venus who double-crosses the mighty sun— only a teardrop in his indifferent eye. Margaret Boothe Baddour Wet Ashley Winders 13 So Much More You are so much more than what I deserve but being without you always seems to hurt You are so much more than all of my thoughts You’re my only companion You are all I’ve got You are so much more than I could ever show How much I love you you’ll just never know You are so much more than the fi re inside of me It started with a spark Now I’m burning endlessly You are so much more than my smile everyday You’re there to remind me that everything’s ok You are so much more than people can see All they overlook shines brightly to me You are so much more than I could explain How it seems like all smile when they hear your name Kyle Chegwidden And the Earth Wouldn’t Orbit The ocean doesn’t love me The sun doesn’t care The wind doesn’t stir Through my brown hair The rain doesn���t fall The birds do not fl y The moon doesn’t shine In my brown eyes The streams do not fl ow The sky’s never blue The stars do not blink Unless I see you Jeff Williams Spring Spring is coming; the skies are blue The birds are chirping happily sitting high in the tree The green meadows with wild fl owers springing up from here to there All around us I see the beauty that can be found Just by looking out my window At the clouds going by Connie Lord 14 Why Me! Lazy phone! Won’t ring to give me a job. Fat cells! Making everybody think I’m a slob Slow typewriter! Won’t bang fast enough to get me hired Fast clock! Always causing me to get fi red Disability people! Won’t ever give me a check Bad credit! Keep people on my neck Silly men! Won’t ever give me a ring Rich men! Always marry’n Mai Ling Adding machine! Always fi nding me at fault Slow car! Always causing me to get caught Poor me! Can’t never get a break! Poor me! Poor me! Never could get the right shake! Roethyll Lunn Gone Danielle Castillo 15 Shifting Sand Brenda Wooldridge We fi nally made it to the beach. My family usually made this trip on Mother’s Day. It was a tradition since my parents had moved to North Carolina four years earlier. Except for Christmas, it was the only time when we could all be together. My sisters and I were busy with our families and work, and we all lived hours apart from each other. This year we had to delay coming here for a few months but for a very good reason. My third child had chosen to be my Mother’s Day present. Arriving early, we unloaded our cars and steered all of our children toward the boardwalk. As I neared the bottom step, the salty smell of ocean assaulted my senses. Its slap teased me with the alluring call of the beach. The kids scampered on a little ahead of us, exclaiming nois-ily. My sisters and their husbands took off after them. Their eyes sparkled with their own child-ish delight as they raced to rein in the giggling brood. The kids were like a school of little fi sh as they darted between the legs of their parents. Finally, the game ended, and their small bodies were smothered with sunscreen. I stayed back with my parents as everyone else made his or her way to the edge of the water. Mom put her things down. Then she too walked down and along the shore. Dad pitched our big, blue umbrella and laid out the blankets. Then, with his help, I tenderly placed my precious cargo down in the soft, shady spot he had created. Finally free of the blanket covering her, my baby giggled and kicked in satisfaction. There I placed a tiny, red pair of sunglasses on her button nose and retied the strings of her bonnet. My dad would stay there with her. He usually preferred to sit there contentedly watching everything around him. His alert eyes scanned the scene as he took his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He lit one of the unfi ltered cigarettes and shifted into a more comfortable position. After about thirty minutes, I made my way slowly to a spot just short of the rushing water. Its hungry roars were louder now, almost deafening with the break of each wave. I sat there for a while em-bracing the warmth of the sand as it squished between my toes. Dreamily, I picked up handfuls of it and watched it sift through my fi ngers before gently blowing away. Laughter, loud and shrill, caught my attention. I blissfully watched the animated children once again run from the adults. It had become a silly game. The kids tried repeatedly to evade their parents before being swept up high into the air away from the water. However, as soon as their little feet touched the sand, they were off again. Darting back and forth, they looked for an opening, trying to answer the beckoning call of the surf. After a time, the exhausted adults fi nally carried the squealing bodies into the waiting arms of the monster once more. Then, tired of sitting, I waded past the edge of the great abyss. The waves slapped each other. I could feel the foaming glee of water as it hungrily lapped around my ankles. It only stayed a second before it pulled back. As the water returned to the vast expanse of its home, it took pieces of the beach with it. For now, it was satisfi ed to take a small amount at a time. It seemed to me as if the ocean were stealing a piece of the beach’s soul each time as they kissed in a never-ending ritual. Eventually, I made my way lazily back to the blanket. My dad had adjusted the umbrella to shield the baby from the movement of the sun. I silently continued to move closer to the peace- 16 ful scene. He sensed my approach and opened his eyes. He nodded at the baby, letting me know she had fallen asleep. I sat down at the edge of their oasis, trying not to disturb her. Ultimately, the wind picked up the shifting sands and smacked us repeatedly before carrying the tiny particles away on its endless breath. I grabbed the baby, trying to shelter her from the clutches of the wind. Then gathering everyone and our things, we rushed to the cars. We had scarcely pulled out of the lot before the rains came. That trip had been the last time we all went to the beach together. It would also be the last time my father saw the ocean. The coal miner’s disease had stolen his last breath with its cold, black obsidian hands. My sisters were busy watching their own little families grow up. We had each been pulled into life’s undercurrents. It would be nine years before I would visit that beach again. On that day, there was no sign of an impending storm. My children had grown, but their sun-kissed faces still lit up with intense joy and excitement as they splashed in the ocean. To me, the beach looked virtually the same. The tides still raced to feed upon the sands, scooping it into its vast body. The blinding sand was calm as it waited for the next kiss from its lover. We would make new memories on that day as we played in the shifting sand and pounding surf. To the Golden-Haired Girl When the air was still And the wind blew We held each other’s hands And they fi t like puzzle pieces. When the rain poured On your mother’s porch We stood there in an embrace And we made our own umbrellas. When the storm disturbed the world And that fury had drenched the earth All we could see were beach days And our molding the sand with our toes When the leaves plucked themselves From the dead trees Your hand slipped from mine And autumn winds carried you away. When I gaze at the skies While I’m lying in the grass I envision sapphire eyes beaming And the rippling of golden hair. Preston Sharpe Missing Latoya Edwards 17 Changes and Endings I want to run away from the world Before it says goodbye I want to be the one dropped dead Then left alone to cry I couldn’t fathom wishing That any sunset comes To see a happy afternoon End with the downing of the sun And when I see the moon I think: Why must you go away? Likewise when the fl ower blooms I wish at such state it would stay I held onto my childhood things And thought: “you’ll always be the same” But I awoke and realized I was the one that changed Zara Rullman How I’m feelin’ Like a waterfall in the desert and a fi refl y in the dark something about you is different that just sets you apart Beyond what I can imagine and all I can understand how all the world disappears when you hold my hand You walk into a room and everyone stops and looks You remind me of a princess from a fairy tale book You continue to capture my heart and appear in all my dreams I couldn’t stop this if I tried as crazy as it seems So I’ll go along with feeling and I want everyone to know I’m holding on to you forever because I’m not going to let go Kyle Chegwidden 18 My Music Always There Suddenly no signal; nothing was aloud As if the sky had opened up And bagged away the sound The wind hid behind the mountains The crickets wouldn’t play The water stilled in fountains And the robins refused say The moment was so swift As if it was not at all Like a crack in the sky Caused the music to fall My ears opened up Like wings onto the air That moment it occurred to me That it was always there Zara Rullman The Mother Church of Country Music Brent Hood Happy Black Black is the cold night in winter the pin-pricked canopy above the man in the black leather jacket sipping his coffee without cream. Black is the man from New Orleans who plays his shiny baby grand striking his favorite black keys reading the inky notes from the sheet music. Black is the movie theater during a mystery’s midnight showing a couple cuddled in the darkest corner while the fi lm’s credits scroll. Black is the hair of the mother who sings to her baby at night by the red-edged coals in the fi replace drowning in soft soot. Alison Rawleigh 19 Dropped Change Kourtney Willis Scuffi ng my sneaker clad feet on the linoleum fl oor, I leaned against the cash register. I was supposed to be doing something. We were always supposed to be busy. I thought about the repetitiveness of it all and how it must be life’s way of telling me, “you’re almost there, soon the transformation will be complete. You’ll be a mindless working drone without an original thought in your head.” But work was work I argued with my pessimistic side, and I would just have to make the best of it. It was 10:55; the stored closed in a few minutes. I was fully prepared to stand there for all fi ve of them lost in my thoughts. Crossing my arms with a huff, I gave the plastic light up keys of the register a mean glare. After a few seconds, I let out my breath and let my arms swing loose. I couldn’t help but think, “That’s great, Kourtney. I’m sure the register is really intimidated.” The sound of footsteps at the end of the counter stopped my personal tirade. Coming up the aisle through my line was a woman holding a baby in one hand and in the other juggling a quart of milk and a small loaf of bread. I say “woman,” but she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her thin shirt and jeans were on the dirty side. She set her stuff on the belt and didn’t look at me; instead, she stared at the fl oor as though she were ashamed. She was thin like she hadn’t been eating, and she could barely look over the top of my head despite being at least three years older than me. The baby she held in her arms was asleep in a soft blue onesie and looked clean and well cared for. Soft blonde curls covered his head, and he had his thumb stuck in his little pink mouth. “Hi…how are you?” I asked, motionless, really meaning it. Slowly, she looked up at me, her exhausted brown eyes looking into my probing blue ones. “Tired,” she offered quietly looking away again. Picking up the quart of milk, I ran it over the scanner and put it on the other side of the register and then turned back around to get the bread. The total came to about $6.00. I put her things in bags while she got the money together. Look-ing up at her through my hair, I saw tears in her eyes as she dug through her bag with one hand and held onto her baby with the other. Putting her bags on the end of the counter, I straightened and saw what she held in her hand. Three crumpled ones that she quickly gave to me and went back to looking in her bag. I could see her struggling to keep the hot tears from sliding down her face. Looking from her to the sleeping baby and back, I felt in my back pocket and pulled out a fi ve, the only money I had. It was supposed to be for my lunch but…I quickly dropped it so she wouldn’t see me. “Hey, you must have dropped this,” I said picking it up off the counter. Look-ing from the money in my hand to me, she looked incredulous. She knew she hadn’t dropped it. I knew she hadn’t dropped it. Pride is a delicate thing. I tapped the buttons on the register. When the drawer popped out, I put the money inside. Not looking up, I handed her the receipt and told her to have a nice night. Standing there, bags in hand, she looked at me, not at the fl oor, not at the door. She looked up at me. She didn’t thank me, and her mouth didn’t smile, but her eyes did. When she walked to the door, she turned and nodded before heading out into the dark. 20 The Myth of Solitude A poet in isolation is a poet dodging the draft— They myth of the lonely riverside garret The 4AM bottles of too warm rosé The skin so pale as to defy the sun— Lies, lies, damned lies, and statistics! The accoutrements are mere way stations. Vesuvius is a hunk of angry stone without Its Pompeii to destroy, the Mississippi A long lined snake without New Orleans. A poet in isolation is a poet chiseling the muse. Poe fell alone on a Baltimore street, body In mud and muck. His gravekeeper’s vigil Is so misplaced! He was a poet alone— His body a wasteland, his mind Post-Apocalyptic, destroyed. Jeff Williams Live Expression Brent Hood 21 Not Admitting to Being Jealous You know I’ll only fall apart Knowing I can’t have your heart That “we” will never be Even though you’re everything to me To watch you give your heart away And just to hear you say You’re loving someone new And I’m falling for you What is it I’m feeling here As I want to disappear Tirelessly trying to understand Watching you hold his hand I don’t want to think of you and him Or what’ll go down when lights are dimmed God, I don’t even want to care But I’m dying when I see you there Why do you have to look so great? It’s just so hard to concentrate When I know he’s holding you Like I always wanted to How come I’m just the friend And I’m always having to pretend That I’m all right with things this way And I always have to say Things I don’t really mean And lie about everything Truth is, he’s in my place If only you’d see it that way Kyle Chegwidden Missing You I don’t know where you are or where you have been All I know is I’m here dying to see you again I’ve held on for years waiting for your return The meaning of empty is just one thing I’ve learned Like the hammock outside where you used to swing and where you’d tell everything It’s still there tied to the tree where you whispered you loved me I still have the albums we slow danced to and all of the feelings that you never knew I remember when we talked There used to be such a rush I wonder if it would still be there if we kept in touch So, I’ll stay a little longer and come what will because after all this while I want you still Kyle Chegwidden 22 Eye Catcher Gene Smith My Mimi, Milly Rawleigh My Mimi, Milly Rawleigh Salt and pepper, silver streaks In coconut cream cake batter Sappy sweet syrup Fluffy feather down bed Sinky, squishy soft pillows Proper paper planning pages Dates, deadlines, due-by-when Gentle gestures, gingerbread Comfy quick cat-nap couch Fumbling fi ngers fondly fi nd Plucky piano progressions Silly salicylic acid in a Slippery, drippy, soapy dish A dozen muffi ns from the oven With crispy, crusty, puffy crowns With Mimi, Milly Rawleigh Alison Rawleigh 23 Moon Flower Michelle Bailey In the bouquet of fl owers are yellow cannas lilies, small little bursts of white cluster roses, then a large white fl ower, called a Moon Flower, with paper thin petals that spread out to be as large as a hand with outstretched fi ngers. That fl ower does not seem to fi t in the bouquet, but it is the one that is the most special. Months before this fl ower had ever even blossomed, it was just a picture on a computer screen. The fl ower was bought for Sandy, my mom’s best friend. It was bought by Sandy’s hus-band Mike Miller, my dad’s best friend. He thought she would like it because it only bloomed on the night of the last full moon of the summer. Only for one night would the fl ower be seen, and because of that, it made it even more beautiful. So he bought it knowing she would love the sus-pense of waiting for it to blossom. The day it arrived in the mail, Mike planted it in the garden. He made sure she did not see the picture of the fl ower on the box. He wanted the blossom to be a surprise. His wife was excited when he told her what he had done. She always loved surprises, especially ones she had to wait for. She loved the wanting to know but not being able to fi nd out. A month before the Moon Flower was meant to bloom, Sandy died in a car crash. That day was two days before their second wedding anniversary. They had found each other late in life but felt as if they had been high school sweethearts. Mike was completely devastated. He did not think of anything except how much he missed her. Most of all, he missed their evening in the garden. They would tend the fl owers and pick their vegetables every evening before dinner. Each night a fresh vase of fl owers would be on the table. When the funeral was over and he was able to work and start living a life without her, he realized the moon fl ower was due to bloom the next night. The same night the fl ower was supposed to bloom, my parents were going to be renewing their vows for their 25th wedding anniversary. My parents had known Mike and Sandy for over fi fteen years. They might as well have been family. We were going to have a small party at our house with family and close friends. My parents wanted Mike to read a passage from the Bible before they spoke their vows to each other. Before Mike left for the party, he noticed the moon fl ower had blossomed. He went over to the small bush with one beautifully pale fl ower. It looked so fragile that if he touched it, it would fall apart. He knelt on the ground before it and wept for his wife. She would have loved see-ing the moon fl ower. They would have sat together on the porch swing and stared at it for hours talking about how beautiful it was. If only she were here. He did the only thing he thought he should do. He picked the fl ower and put it in a vase to take to his wife’s best friend, my mom. When he got to the party, he sought out my mom. She wore a white dress and had a beauti-ful bouquet of fl owers. Mike then told her the story behind the pale fl ower. She cried for Sandy. Then came the time for Mike to read the passage and for my parents to renew their vows. In the bouquet, my mom had stuck in the moon fl ower. It did not seem to match the rest. It was beauti-ful. 24 Christmas Box Ashley Winders My Chocolate Danielle Castillo 25 Into the Mistic Diane Joyner The Flood In this land there is absence, in this river there is nothing on this tree there are no leaves, only dry twigs and shriveled berries so the dreams of all fall like dirt upon the hard pan the salt fl ats and cracked parquet of the desert fl oor in this absence there is no sorrow, no joy, no sense of belonging only the silence like an empty chair or naked bed springs. And you chant “Bring on the rain! Bring on the water! Bring on the fl ood! Cleanse this wounded land! Let the winds blow life and seeds onto newly fertile soils! Let the peace that is belonging fl ow like streams born of ocean tides and cold fronts! Bring on the rain! Bring on the water! Bring on the fl ood!” But all you hear is silence, only silence, silence of an empty chair. Jeff Williams 26 A Cold and Black December Came Early Today Watch the sky Count from ten I feel nothing Only cold My eyes are blank I can’t see the future I can’t remember the past All dressed in black I can’t focus I’m not all well I’m not all here I’m just drifting Candace Johnson Sue Jones Restless energy, hands a fl utter, creative juices fl owed. Wellspring of love, reaching others, lover of those unloved. Happy of heart, spreading joy, laughter in every story. Follower of God, lover of Christ showing the path to glory. Gentle doe eyes, sharing a smile, crown of soft brown curls. Sweet life-spirit, wife mother child, a void left in our world. I love you, Mama Kim Clark Hands Hand of contrast With the holding of two hands Hold together Lives of different worlds. Smooth is the hand of the young girl Unaware of what lies ahead. Aged is the hand of the older woman Two generations removed. One remembers a life gone by Time that just won’t slow down. The other looks beyond the days To a future not yet found. Yesterday and tomorrow Joined in the moment. Time stopped briefl y With the holding of two hands. Jennifer Parker 27 Closet Alyssa K. Herring Ashes to Ashes I turn the compost heap and add to wet dark leaves my kitchen leavings of the day. Nearby I see the cross that marks our beagle’s grave and in my heart I feel the absence of my mother-in-law, dead now a week, her leavings in the Quaker cemetery under trees alive before the Revolution. Her death compounds the major leavings of my life-- parents, Greenwood Cemetery; brother, silver box of ashes on my mantel; close friends, too many— I turn my grief and add new leavings to the compost heap that is my heart. Rosalyn F. Lomax 28 A London Alphabet All Hallows and St. Mary Abbots Church, Albert with Victoria, and Westminster Abbey. Bridges and Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, Billy Elliot, Beowulf, the Barbican, Bobbies and Beefeaters, Beatles and Bach. Castles, cathedrals, chapels, Coronation Chair, Covent Garden and Cotswolds, Christ Church and Canterbury Cathedral. Downing Street, Diana’s Walk, red double-decker bus. Elizabeth twice and the London Eye. Fanny Burney and Falstaff. The Globe and many galleries, Gutenberg Bible, Gardens of old and St. Giles’ Church, Several King Georges, and Mind the Gap! Hampton Court and several King Henrys, Handel and Herrick, Harrods and Horse Guards. The Interval (or intermission) and many an ancient inn, Sir Isaac Newton as the Thinker at the British Library (and his pew at St. Mary Abbott). Johns and Jameses and Jewels in the Crown. King Lear at the Globe and Keats and all the Kings and High Street Kensington. Leeds Castle, British Library, Lear at the Globe, New London Symphony, And Longfellow (first American at Abbey). British Museum, Millennium Bridge, John Milton’s resting place, A concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, St. Margaret’s Church, and Mind the Gap! National Gallery and Admiral Nelson. Wilfred Owen and a jaunt to Oxford. Parliament, Pygmalion, Poet’s Corner, St. Paul’s. Queens and quires, and everyone queues up. Rosetta Stone, Regina, Rex, and Royal Albert Hall. Shakespeare and a Stratford jaunt, the Sutton Hoo, And cigarette pack warnings, SMOKING KILLS! Tower of London, Trafalgar Square, Tottenham Court Road, Tate Modern, Take-Away (our take-out), the Tube (the Underground). Victoria Palace and Old Vic, Victoria with Albert, Vivaldi’s Gloria in concert at St. Martin’s. Wordsworth at Westminster Abbey, Merry Wives of Windsor at the Globe, William with Mary, and Underground signs for “Way Out.” X is in Exeter where I really must go next time! Yellow is the Circle Line on the Underground. “Whoreson zed” is Kent’s insult defending old King Lear! Never too long is the alphabet For Lomax’s London, Love! Rosalyn F. Lomax Dreaming the Gap At every stop on the London tube a pleasant voice calls out to “Mind the gap!” The gap between platform and train is not a threat until the nightmares come and then all night the “Mind the gap!” resounds each time the gap grows wide and wider till my size diminishes to Alice, whose tumble was inspired by Christ Church College stair, the Oxford guide reminds, but no kind voice warns how Millennium Bridge aquiver over Thames will lure me toward the Globe— I blithely cross that gap until my eyes grow wide when I see where I am and lose my breath and in the night the gap grows wide and deepens with each call of “Mind the gap!” Rosalyn F. Lomax 29 Looking for Lunch Gene Smith Ravenesque So a dark bird has perched on the plaster bust, turning green from rain and algae, sitting lonely on the blue wooden boards of a neglected porch. At times such as these, certain questions must be broached. For instance, are you simply asleep, suffering from quaffi ng of strange, strong liquors? Or did a friend, fi nding you gone, leave a plate of cornbread for you, only you came in the back, leaving a feast for any old avian friend to fi nd? Perhaps you merely forgot, in the rush of morn, to take your lithium, and now a price must be paid, a hallucination squatting on cheap bric-a-brac. While asking these questions, though, remember heat and air conditioning cost money, and startled birds are unpredictable. To wit: shut fast the door! Jeff Williams 30 A White Mourning Mary Spears I awaken to fi erce bangs on the door of my small sanctuary. An euphoric brother yells the joyous news through the painted wood. It has snowed! Finally, it has snowed! He loudly invites me to come, come see the glorious thing which hast now befallen us, this picturesque symbol of December that evaded our town. Yet, I do not heed his call, for it is very warm beneath three lay-ers of wool and fabric and much too early in the day for snow wars. Uncaring, I return to sleep and vague half-dreams. Later, I am awakened by a different noise, the absolute absence of sound. It seeps through well-built brick and presses against me, harsh and unnerving. From between the thin slats of window shades, soft rays pour, and the sharp gleam of winter refl ects off the walls of my bed-room. I slip out of bed and dress hastily in the chilling air. Leaving my comfortable lair, I creep through our suburban castle. The house feels like the coldest of stone chapels as I walk through it, hoping the heating will be fi xed some time before Wednesday. Shivering shadows are all around, for the lamps are off, and I dare not fl ip a switch to turn them on. In this darkened mau-soleum, any light would be sacrilege. The front door sticks as I try to open it, barring me maliciously for its own trite purposes. The knob is an iron ice cube, and my fi ngers recoil from it violently, reminding me that I have forgotten a pair of gloves atop the cluttered dresser of my room. I forsake them and go out any-way. My fi rst impression of the surroundings is one of quiet peace. There is such serenity, such calmness in the atmosphere. I inhale deeply and exhale, watching my breath gambol and gavotte around my face before it disappears. A cool, cheerful feeling stirs within me. Then, I truly notice the emptiness. The silence that fi rst assailed me earlier now crushes with its full force. There is no sign nor sound of any living thing. All that was green, yellow, or brown is now buried under a blotting white blanket. Even the sky is not blue or gray but a strange, sickening cottony color. Everything is shrouded and still. It is strong and cruel, this magnifi cent, blinding white, which now brings to mind bleached bones and marble tombstones. A beautiful death nevertheless! The horrible perfection of it is terrifying, and I search the landscape in desperation for some ugly mark, some mis-formed lump, some overlooked weakness! But there is naught. I gaze downwards in disappointment. Then, I see a muddy boot print clearly outlined on the ground, marring the frozen powder’s false innocence. Beyond it lie others, a wide trail of them, stretching off into a hazy distance. Their obnoxious imperfection comforts me. I call out my brother’s name and run wildly into the freezing air, staining the snow with my own honest dirt. Metamorphasis Ashley Winders 31 Excerpt from Capricorn Sol’s Autistic Genie J. L. Knoll I looked out the window hoping to meet Emmy that very same day. But I knew that my visit could not last long at her house. I sighed and got dressed for school. School had started only a couple of months ago, and I already knew that Emmy would not be there at school, for she was going to go to another school in New York. It was a feeling of loss and deprivation at the big move for Emmy, who was my best friend since kindergarten. She had been there through my tough times and my good times. And when Emmy was not around, I still had Danny to take care of me. But in my heart, I wished that Danny and Dad would get along like they used to back when I was younger. I shed some tears as I walked toward my locker. I wiped them away impatiently because I did not want anyone to see my crying. When I got there, I opened up my locker and found something that I had not seen before. It was a pink pearl that shimmered with the brightest pink, and it was caged and put on a pretty chain that swirled with great craftsmanship. I looked around to make sure that no one was looking, and I put on the chain. The pink pearl glowed around my neck as though it was meant to be there. I knew that someone would try to steal a pink pearl away from me, so I tucked the chain inside my shirt. I grabbed my proper books, and I rushed to class. There, Mr. Horne, the science teacher, called the roll, and when he got to Emmy’s name, I told him that Emmy would be moving very soon. He checked off Emmy’s name, and he said, “Well, I would like you all to take a look at our pictures of science.” When the bell rang ending school, I went home on the bus, hoping that Emmy had not moved away yet. I went over to Emmy’s house to say one last goodbye to her before her big move, but somehow, the pain of sadness that I was feeling deeply inside began to swell up. Emmy was helping with her packing, and she saw me and said, “I’m sorry that I have to move away.” “I know,” I replied sadly. “I hope you can come and visit me sometime on your summer vacation.” “My parents would probably be too busy by that time,” said Emmy, patting me on the back. “Maybe when they have the time, I can come and visit you during one of my vacations.” I nodded, and then, I realized that I was crying. I brushed away the tears, but it seemed like they were fl ooding out of my eyes. Emmy must have noticed my sadness, and then she said, “I really will miss you. I know how hard it is for you to make new friends when I am gone.” “I know. I will miss you too.” Emmy hugged me, and it was the last hug she gave me before she left in the morning. 32 Punky April Crow Brother, please, give up on me Can a man of your complexion walk in my direction? Brother, please, Give up on me! Don’t even try to get my detection without a BMW and a PH.D! Roethyll Lunn The Lady Behind the Glass A lonely little man In a lonely little world Stares up at a window At a lonely little girl His thoughts begin to wonder About the lady behind the glass Tempting him to toss a pebble For an opportunity to ask Robert Linley McCoy 33 The “Buffalo” Sabrina Kornegay The story begins with a woman gazing out of a window into a fi eld of buffalo. The old buffalo farthest away is frail from age and years of stress on her body. Another buffalo still fi ghts to be strong but knows deep down she too will soon suffer the same fate as the older buffalo. Finally, the youngest of the buffalo stands closest to the window, halfway down a path that forks two ways at the end. One side of the forked path leads to the other two buffalo. The other is a long and winding road of something too far away to make out, a road of uncertainty and unknown. The road is full of hills and rocks and many other obstacles that appear only as hardships and chal-lenges. The woman stares more closely out the window. She stares so closely and for so long that she can make out every detail of the buffalo. She can see every strand of reddish brown fur around its face and each small puff of warm air that blows from its snout, almost fogging the mir-ror with each of its breaths. The most intriguing observation is that of the left eye of this buffalo. The top eyelid pulsates and twitches involuntarily back and forth. Just then, her concentration is broken by the annoyance that puts her in front of the mirror in the fi rst place. She watches as her upper left eyelid dances to an unknown beat. She closes her eye and applies pressure, hoping to gain the control she must have, wondering how long, how much more she can take, how long before she ends up as deathly ill as those before her, those with this same personality. This personality motivates her and drives her to do things most indi-viduals would not in their right minds attempt. This personality forces her to aim for perfection, to never settle, to know that she can do it all. This personality taunts her when she settles for something. This personality was fi nally given a title in her PSY 150 class . . . Buffalo. Yes, I am a buffalo. I must be great at all that I do, all that I know I can do. Even when grades are not important, all that matters is that I at least make a C; I can not settle. I must push to the limit, past the limit when possible. The difference between an A and a B, an A and an A+ is haunting. Shouldn’t a B be okay, though? I’m a mom of two toddlers, work, take car of the home and money, and go to school full time. Isn’t it okay to make a B or C? No, I have no excuses. There is no point in trying to reason with myself. I am always right. My mom, too, is always right. Her mom is right as well. Even when we all disagree, each of us is right. They too are that of the buffalo personality. My grandmother’s personality has clashed with everyone else’s. Married and divorced four times, she is perfect, and all of these men are not. Nothing is wrong with her, and now she drinks away the pain of perfections each night, alone. My mom too could do it all—single mom of three working three jobs—but we knew when school started again we would always get new clothes and one pair of name brand shoes. How could any mom turn a few dollars into everything we needed and a lot of what we wanted? Nothing could stop her! She was perfect and stronger than the world until she was in the hospi-tal, 90 pounds and stressed beyond repair. She, too, has been married numerous times. She, too, is alone. I am just as strong as they are, stronger even. The stress can not take me; it will not. I keep pushing and building my tolerance and endurance. I’m stronger. I have to be. The twitch will go away; it may come back, but I will learn to control it. I will conquer it like every other chal-lenge I have faced. It will not defeat me! So, now, I stand like the buffalo at a fork in the road. How can I win? 34 Frog Shade Gene Smith Goldsboro Spring Mulberry, Walnut, Evergreen, all streets fi t for a bride, where dogwoods white and dogwoods pink proclaim the Eastertide. Their arching hues go on for blocks, a feast for hungry eyes, and in the arch a heav’nly blue backdrop of April skies. Rosalyn F. Lomax Schroedinger’s parakeet sits in his cage, grooming yellow feathers, eating seeds, twittering nervously. How will his world be different? After the appointed moment, will he fi nally be free of his nemesis, free to fearlessly fl ap his wings, or will his feline foe stare back at him, thinking as it watches the cage, will this or will this not be the day. Jeff Williams 35 Revelation Theresa White-Wallace I was fi fteen years old and was running as fast as I could down the winding hallway. Not far behind was a crowd of people who were also running to safety. Finally, I came to this enor-mous rectangle shaped room. The ceiling was high, and the fl oor was made of white marble. The longest part of the wall was made of glass. I knew I would be safe once I was on the other side of the glass wall. I also knew what lived beneath the staircase on the other side. I would be okay, but the people behind me would be hurt. The crowd was getting closer as I ran toward the double glass doors. I had to make it to the doors before the crowd got too close. I was tired and out of breath. The crowd ascended on the doors as soon as I closed them. I could hear bodies slam against the glass. From left to right, people were crawling over each other. The glass wall was now a sea of people. The crowd would eventually make it through the doors, but there was nothing I could do for them once they made their way to the other side. They would be hurt. Everything became dark as I turned my back to the crowd. I could barely see the open staircase that ran the width of the wall. The creature that lived under the staircase would not hurt me, but the people on the other side of the wall would not be as lucky. I could feel the heat from the creature on the back of my legs as I made my way down the long staircase. When I got to the bottom of the staircase, I saw two blonde haired children around four years of age. I recognized the children because I had encountered them before. I knew danger was around the corner as it always was when the children were involved. At that moment, I wished that I had not seen them. I had protected them in the past, but I was afraid that I would not be able to do that this time. Not far from the staircase was a wooden door that led to daylight on the other side. It was so dark that the children and I could barely see as we made our way toward the door. I began to hear screams as I closed the door behind us. The crowd had broken through the glass doors. The creature was waiting for them. I picked up the little girl and took the hand of the little boy. I told them that we were going to walk up the path that led to the road above. I also told them that we would be safe, but whatever they heard, they were not to look back or they would be hurt. The screams seemed to get louder as we made our way up the path. Once there, I put the little girl down and took her hand. As we stood, the fi rst of the wounded began to make their way up the path. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Everyone’s clothes were singed from the heat. Most had red burn marks, and everyone had orange size, red, round, open wounds. The scorpion that lived under the staircase had burned and stung the people. Only a few survived and managed to make it through the wooden door. The children and I stood still as the last of the survivors passed. Everything was now quiet. The screaming below had stopped. I turned to the children and said, “Let’s go.” The paved road, green trees, and mountains disappeared. Ahead, the land was fl at. As far as the eye could see was sand. Lying on the side of the road was a skull of a cow. As I looked at the skull, I noticed something unusual about one of the eye sockets. Inside the socket I saw darkness and one little star. The star twinkled. I woke up. What a dream! 36 I Walk The Line Brent Hood I Smiled I awakened to loud raining and I smiled I walked outside and saw dark clouds and I smiled The sky was black and overcast and I smiled The crisp air was bitingly cold and I smiled The wind had stayed at bay today and I smiled I waltzed through the steady downpour and I smiled Robert Linley McCoy Ominous The soft, cool spring breeze Dances through the trees Tickling slumbering humans As they lie nestled in roped berths Or on hard wooden planks of porches. Everything is in serenity. Twilight marches before dusk Broadcasting his approach. All becomes silent Deathly silent. Robert Linley McCoy 37 The Answer Marc Mahan Ruthie was born on June 25, 1966. One day when Ruthie was fi ve years old, she asked her mom and dad a very important question. Not sure of the answer, they put the question off onto someone else. “That’s a question best suited for God. One day, maybe, He will tell you the answer.” Ruthie promptly wrote to God asking him the question. Ruthie, it should be noted, believed that God was a wizened old man who lived in the clouds. On a scrap of paper, Ruthie jotted down what she most needed to know. She also included her address in case God didn’t know where to send the answer. Ruthie knew of only one way the question could reach God. She fastened the note to the end of the string of a helium balloon and let it fl oat away. The wind currents carried the balloon across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way to North Africa where it eventually lost its lift and was discovered by the talented musician Philippe. Un-fortunately, because the note was written in English, Philippe didn’t not understand the question. He went to see his American friend Melissa who he hoped might translate it for him. “Could you tell me what this says?” Melissa studied the paper with a furrowed brow. “It’s a question and damned if I know the answer. Perhaps my boyfriend Roger would know—his nose is always in a book learning about one thing or another.” That evening she handed Roger the question. “Do you know the answer to this?” Roger took the note and carefully read over the question that was written in crayon. “Most curious. What are the chances of this note making its way to me?” “Why, does the question hold some signifi cance for you?” “Indeed it does. If there’s one thing in this world that I’m sure of, it’s the answer to this question.” He slipped on his pants and began hunting for his shoes. “What are you doing?” “What does it look like? I’m leaving for America.��� “Roger, this is ridiculous; it’s just a silly little question.” “Melissa, somewhere out there,” he said gesturing to the world at large, “there is a child who needs an answer. I have to go.” He stood up with purpose. “Don’t be crazy! You could always respond by post.” “You and I both know that the African mail system cannot be trusted. I must go.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her aside. “If you leave, I won’t be here when you get back.” “Then, I guess, this is farewell.” Roger, mad with determination, swam into the ocean. After nearly drowning, he washed up on the beach. Realizing that swimming was not an option, he decided to fl y instead. He bought a plane ticket with the last of his money, leaving him penniless. Once in the air, Roger remembered why he’d left America in the fi rst place. He’d fl ed to Africa to dodge the Vietnam War draft, but nothing was going to stop him from delivering the answer. Upon landing, he was immediately arrested and thrown into prison for draft evasion. Roger served two hard years of backbreaking labor and social reform. Through it all, the dream of delivering the answer kept him from becoming bitter. After being released from jail, Roger was broke. He knew he had to make some traveling 38 money. The only job Roger could fi nd was as a garbage man. Day after day, he slung trash, and by night, he slept in a halfway house. Soon he had saved enough money to buy a bus ticket to the town in which the girl lived. Roger boarded the bus with the hope that his journey was nearing its end. His fellow pas-sengers stared at Roger in disgust and gave him a wide berth. By this time, the stench and grime of his recent profession had overtaken him. It was no matter to Roger what people thought about him because he knew the answer. From where the bus deposited him, he still had thirty-two miles of ground to cover. Had he known this, he would have worked the extra day needed to earn money to buy new walking shoes. Ten hours, and one heat stroke later, Roger arrived at his destination. Weak with dehydra-tion and covered with cracked bleeding sunburned skin, he stumbled onto the street where Ruthie lived. An alarmed neighbor promptly called the police to report a vagrant and possible deviant who had wandered into their lives. Roger stopped at a mailbox, took out the well-worn scrap of paper, and confi rmed Ruthie’s address. His heart swelled—he had made it. He knocked on the door with considered restraint. Now that he was here, he wanted to shout the answer at the top of his lungs. An older woman, Ruthie’s mother Roger assumed, opened the door. “Yes…” was all she managed before her eyes widened in terror, and the color vanished from her face. “Ruthie,” Roger croaked. “I need to see Ruthie.” This was all Ruthie’s mother needed to hear to know that his man was trouble. She tried to shut the door but Roger, ever determined, stepped forward into the house. “Ruthie!” her mother screamed. “Run to your room and lock the door!” “But I have something for Ruthie,” Roger tried to explain. Roger attempted to get pass Ruthie’s mother, but she blocked him with her body. She was willing to fi ght him. That’s when the police arrived. Roger refused to give up and went down swinging. He pleaded with the cops that he alone had the answer that Ruthie needed if only he could see her. To the cop’s ears, this sounded very bad. In the struggle with the police, he had lost the one thing that would support and defend his mad claim—the scrap of paper on which Ruthie’s question was written. The police fi nally managed to handcuff Roger and placed him into the back of a squad car. Ruthie, now that the bad man had been captured, left the safety of her room. She spotted the piece of paper on the fl oor and recognized it immediately. Nearly two years had passed since she’d written her question, but it had never, not even once, left her mind. Picking up the paper, she ran outside to the street to where everyone had gathered to watch the crazed lunatic be hauled away by the police. Roger, from the back seat of the squad car, notice a young girl emerge from the crowd with a familiar scrap of paper in hand. He met her eyes and saw understanding there. In that instant, she perceived that this wild man had traveled years and miles and suffered count-less ordeals so that he could give her the answer. The sirens started up, indicating departure. “The answer! What is it?” Ruthie frantically yelled. Tears of joy spilled down Roger’s sun burned and bruised face. Finally, he was going to be able to give her the answer after all. As the police car began to pull away, Roger put his head against the window and shouted to Ruthie. “Yes! The answer is Yes.” A smile leapt onto Ruthie’s face. She heard his muffl ed answer and knew it to be true. 39 Plates Brent Hood Dream Sparrow For the sea is a black-scaled monster who hides between the mountains we live on, waiting for someone to set foot on him so he can drag them down into his folds. But my father was smarter than the sea and sent us by air toward our goal…all of us except our cunning sparrow, who chirped that he’d rather walk. So unmeasured time passed before we would see my bird again, and while I feared he would die, he fought puddles, rivers, and waterfalls until he was stronger than us all. Yet the sea seemed undaunted as our brave sparrow approached, feathers ruffl ed, ready to kill, with his sharp beak aimed true to the sea-monster’s scaled belly. And the scales burst from the creature, turning into raindrops as they fell, and the monster lost its form and swirled back into itself, its dying cry a loud wave that swept over out mountain. So now we sail over the monster’s grave in our little ski towards the land we were told of years ago, the place that will be worth all our travels, a new place to call home. Alison Rawleigh 40 How to Kill a Balloon Animal Jennifer Lynn Hobbs Balloon animals are perhaps the most evil creatures on this planet. Sure, they are cute, and children enjoy playing with them, but something is beneath the surface that not many people know. They wait for children to fall in love with them; then, they die. They deliberately break children’s hearts! Balloon animals must be stopped! We must destroy all of them before they hurt somebody else. Killing them is simple. Bob will demonstrate how it is done. Before Bob begins, he will need a few items. The fi rst of these items is a non-see-through bag such as a purse or possibly a book bag. The second set of items he will need is tea and cook-ies. He will also need candy, preferably Twizzlers and Gummy Bears, but any kind will work. All of these items can be purchased at a local grocery store for a minimal price. Bob will also need a basic sewing needle and escargot (which is optional and will be left up to Bob on whether or not he wants to use it). The fi rst step in killing these creatures is fi nding them. Bob has to hunt down a clown. Clowns are easily recognizable, though. They are usually surrounded by lots of children and wear brightly colored clothes. If that is not enough, just look for a big red nose. Now Bob has found the creator of these horrifi c animals. He will have to fi nd a hiding place close to the clown and the balloon animal. Bob must wait for the clown to leave the animal alone (a diversion may have to be planned for this). After the clown has left, Bob will sneak closer to the animal, being careful and making sure that no one sees him. After he has chosen his method, Bob will have to get the balloon animal to come to him. This part can be tricky unless he knows what to do. Bob can always try to call it to him. He will call it just like he would a cute dog. Bob will get down on his knees, hold his hand out, and call out to it. If that does not work, there is always bribery. Balloon animals love candy. Their favor-ites are Twizzlers and Gummy Bears, but any type of candy will work. It is now time for Bob to make his move. He will have to be quick on this part and make absolutely sure that he is not seen. The target is now in his range. Bob must leap from his spot and grab the unsuspecting victim. He will quickly throw it into the bag that he purchased earlier. The balloon animal will probably be extremely scared at his time, which takes the fun out of it. Once he gets home, Bob will try to get it to relax and feel as comfortable as possible. He will try having a friendly chat over Twizzlers and Gummy Bears, and he will ask it about its fam-ily and how life has been. Bob will also apologize for scaring and kidnapping it. The animal is now relaxed and a little more trusting of Bob. The time is right for him to carry out his plan: 1. sticking it with a needle or 2. sitting on it. If he chooses to stab it, he will casually excuse himself from the room. He will pull out a basic sewing needle and quietly walk up to the back of the chair in which the animal is sitting. He will reach around and quickly prick the balloon with the needle. It will make a loud popping sound as it explodes. “Accidentally” sitting on it might be a bit easier. It requires no materials and can be dis-missed with a simple “Oops.” All Bob has to do is just come into the room with more Gummies making sure that his back is to the chair that the animal occupies. Bob will calmly sit down, pre-tending that he does not know that the balloon is there. He will wait until he hears the popping sound and then jump up and cover his mouth as he says his escape clause. “Oops” takes care of everything. 41 The deed is now done. Bob has done his part in ridding this world of the evil creatures known as balloon animals. Now, for the last step on his journey. It is time to dispose of the evidence. Bob will gather all the pieces that are left of the balloon. He can throw them in a fi re. This method is effective, but the scent is not the best in the world. Of course, there is always Plan B. It is more costly, but it’s worth it in the end. Bob can have a few friends over for a formal get together and scatter the remaining pieces of his kill into a plate of escargot. He will then serve the dish to his guests and watch as the evidence disappears. No one will ever suspect a thing because everyone knows that snails taste like balloons. Paper Bags April Crow 42 Seconds and Exponents Jon Cronin Everyone does something stupid at some point in life. The trick is to learn from that stupid something and move forward. Then again, the problem with the word “trick” is that tricks need to be learned. Some people learn quickly—others? Not so much. When it really comes down to business, it does not matter what happened, why it happened, where it happened, or whose fault it was. I have come to believe that life is nothing more than a series of interesting choices. Through hands-on encounters, I have also learned that those choices come with conse-quences. Life is fragile, and the smallest of things—one second in our lives—can have a huge impact. Scientists estimate that the time the brain spends on making a decision—a choice—is equal to about one second. Although people may dwell on something for several hours or even days, most people tend to have their minds already set on one decision or the other long before they fi nish “thinking.” In fact, according to one study, mostly the only thing done during that “thinking” phase is a battle with that crazy little thing called conscience. Parents teach their chil-dren that choices have consequences. That lesson is one that people often learn the hard way a couple of times. Interestingly enough, it turns out that this essential life lesson can be explained with math. It is time to break out a calculator and let math illustrate just how fragile life really is. The fi rst thing to fi gure is how many minutes are in 100 seconds. The calculator says that 100 seconds is equal to 1.66 minutes. So, applying the rules of exponents, it stands to reason that 1000 seconds is the same as 16 minutes and 40 seconds. Now, this is where it gets gritty. One million seconds rounded to the nearest minute is about one week, four days, thirteen hours, and 37 minutes. One billion seconds rounded to the nearest day is the same as 31 years and 285 days. Now for a break. Looking at the difference between one million seconds and one billion seconds shows the fragility of life. If a person lived to be ninety, he would hit the million second mark some 3,000 times, but he would hit the billion second mark only three times. It is a simple rule of powers and exponents, but is remarkable when illustrated in the manner of time. Next, the calculator says that one trillion seconds is equal to 3,178 years. Mankind has not even hit the one trillion second mark since the beginning of A.D. calendar, and over 2000 years have passed. Last, how long would it take to reach 100 trillion seconds? The answer there is 317,808 years. Well, that is longer than the human race has been in existence. Now, does one second seem to make a difference in a period of over 317,000 years? Well, how could it? It seems to be way too short a time. Yet, a terminal disease such as cancer starts with merely one bad cell. One bad cell can lead to a person’s death. Life is fragile, and the smallest of things—one second in a person’s life—can have a huge impact. 43 My Monster I don’t know how this happened In 2000 I wanted a web site The monster was born It was cute and little at fi rst But then I wanted more I was told that I couldn’t do it It would be too big But I didn’t listen I fought to get the password Today I have a monster on my hands Now bigger than the sky And still growing Candace Johnson The Infamous Him Walking down the hallway Palms sweating Heartbeat racing Look around to see If he is there Who you ask Him The infamous him The one I need The one I hear say I love you He tells me I am great He cherishes me in all I do I stop I turn around and see him The infamous him My prince charming Brittany Evrard The Alien Flower In an entangled swamp of green, There lies the strangest of earthly plants, A monster that awaits And devours fl ies, spiders, and ants. The deceptive fl ora stands Among the normal fl owers. But the naked eye can see It isn’t really one of ours. Who’s ever heard of a rose That ate the meat of the living? The thorns on this jagged fl ower Are not quite so forgiving. The imposter has no muscles And no stomach for its food. And it never bares a conscience For the lives it freshly chewed. So, beware the monster fl ower, For it is not as it seems. As you gaze at its fanged-mouth, You know not what it schemes. Preston Sharpe 44 No Bloodshed During Snowfall The snow dusted neighborhoods Shiite and Sunni alike, faintly falling, as James Joyce wrote, like the decent of their last end, the living and the dead…A fl urry is a swift and passing joy. -- Associated Press, January 12, 2008 The long-haired Filipino kid with dolorous eyes sits up front with me. Two more and a small Chinese Girl, Suk Li, called Shirley, ride in back We have feasted On Lebanese food at Neo Monde—kibi, tabooly, laban— and studied together for hours at the Museum of Art: Roman torsos, Egyptian heads, African masks, Melanesian pipes, a Wyeth house, an O’Keeffe church, a modern college of gun, funnel, barbed wire and rocks, early American portraits. “Those men--” Shirley pointed to three be-wigged people on the wall “look like— your Founding Fathers?” The black security guard has taken our laughing picture before a mobile with fl owers and butterfl ies shaped like a fi ghter plane. Now the radio says that is has snowed in Baghdad after eighty years. We pass a row of crabapple trees blooming deep pink in January. A fl urry is a swift and passing joy. Margaret Boothe Baddour Azalea Danielle Castillo 45 Remembering a Royal Woman Royal, the perfect name for her, slender, elegant, gliding down our halls and through our lives, never losing her life’s balance or her brilliant smile despite recurring obstacles. Practical, effi cient, effective, serious, gentle, smiling, giggling, excited. She loved good students, good papers, good books, good coffee, good clothes, good shopping, and good friends. She created beauty in her needlework and in her home, but her greatest joy was her family, beginning with her childhood sweetheart. She shed a tear as the fall semester kept her from her grandchild until evening. She fl ashed a smile sharing news of one daughter’s theater work or enjoying a dinner for women educators with her other daughter. She reveled in the story as her husband told how their grandchild had said, “B is for the Beatles.” In memory of Sharon Royal, 1947 -2008 Medical events she arranged at the convenience of her classes. Illness never stopped her kindnesses or her calls to her sick friends. Her pew at St. Stephen’s—rarely empty. Royal, the perfect name for Sharon, Queen of the Writing Center, Queen of English 113 and Virginia Woolf, Queen of American literature, a queen in many hearts at WCC, reigning still in her legacy of good teaching. Rosalyn F. Lomax
Object Description
Description
Title | Renaissance |
Other Title | Renaissance (Goldsboro, N.C.) |
Date | 2009-05 |
Description | Volume 25, (May 2009) |
Digital Characteristics-A | 2276 KB; 49 p. |
Digital Format | application/pdf |
Full Text | RENAISSANCE The Writers’ and Artists��� Magazine of Wayne Community College Goldsboro, North Carolina Volume 25, May 2009 STUDENT AWARDS Cover Design ..............................................Danielle Castillo Art .................................................................Andrew Harper Essay .................................................................Bob Hensley Essay ......................................................Jimmy David Hicks Poetry ................................................. Robert Linley McCoy EDITORS Kathryn Spicer Jeff Williams Rosalyn Lomax, Editor Emerita Marian Westbrook, Editor Emerita ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Faculty: Margaret Boothe Baddour and Torey Romero Staff: Theresa White-Wallace Student: Tanisha Eutsey Educational Support Technologies Department: Majena Howell The Foundation of Wayne Community College Student Government Association and The Artists and Writers Margaret Boothe Baddour’s poems “No Bloodshed During Snowfall,” “The Properties Mistress,” “The Transit of Venus��� are published in Scheherazade, St. Andrews Press, 2009. No part of this magazine may be reproduced without permission. Copyright 2009 Renaissance Views expressed are those of the individual contributors and do not necessarily refl ect the views of the editors or this institution. TABLE OF CONTENTS Falling Hair ...........................................................1 ............Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science Tiny Droplet ..........................................................1 ............Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science Compost ................................................................1 ............Andrew Harper, Wayne Early Middle College High School Balance ..................................................................2 ............Bob Hensley, Associate in Arts Drink .....................................................................3 ............Jasmine Hickey, Associate in Arts Deep ......................................................................3 ............Andrew Harper, Wayne Early Middle College High School How to Seem Smart ..............................................4 ............Jimmy David Hicks, Associate in Arts How Many .............................................................5 ............Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts A Song for Sasser ..................................................6 ............Beth Rawleigh, Associate in Arts Remembering W. Steele Sasser .............................7 ............Theresa White-Wallace, Secretary, Language/Communication Department Tools ......................................................................8 ............Andrew Harper, Wayne Early Middle College High School Query in Iambic Dimeter ......................................8 ............Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor A Poem is a Regurgitation ....................................8 ............Zara Rullman, Wayne Early Middle College High School Snake Family.........................................................9 ............Michelle Bailey, Associate in Arts The King of Diamonds ..........................................9 ............Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts There They Are ......................................................9 ............Alyssa K. Herring, Associate in Arts Queen Rose ...........................................................10 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Red Fez .................................................................10 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Mammy Cat ..........................................................10 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Jammin’ .................................................................11 ..........Breanna Ponzi, Dual Enrollment The Properties Mistress .........................................12 ..........Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities/Creative Writing Instructor The Transit of Venus .............................................12 ..........Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities/Creative Writing Instructor Wet .........................................................................12 ..........Ashley Winders, Associate in Arts So Much More ......................................................13 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science And the Earth Wouldn’t Orbit ...............................13 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor Spring ....................................................................13 ..........Connie Lord, Associate in Arts Why Me! ...............................................................14 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor Gone ......................................................................14 ..........Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts Shifting Sand .........................................................15 ..........Brenda Wooldridge, Offi ce Systems Technology Missing ..................................................................16 ..........Latoya Edwards, Associate in Arts To the Golden-Haired Girl ....................................16 ..........Preston Sharpe, Associate in Arts Changes and Endings ............................................17 ..........Zara Rullman, Wayne Early Middle College High School How I’m feelin’ .....................................................17 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science My Music Always There .......................................18 ..........Zara Rullman, Wayne Early Middle College High School Happy Black ..........................................................18 ..........Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts The Mother Church of Country Music ..................18 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster Dropped Change ...................................................19 ..........Kourtney Willis, Wayne Early Middle College High School Live Expression .....................................................20 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster The Myth of Solitude ............................................20 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor Not Admitting to Being Jealous ............................21 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science Missing You ...........................................................21 ..........Kyle Chegwidden, Associate in Science My Mimi, Milly Rawleigh ....................................22 ..........Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts Eye Catcher ...........................................................22 ..........Gene Smith, Division Chair, Arts and Sciences Moon Flower .........................................................23 ..........Michelle Bailey, Associate in Arts i ii Christmas Box .......................................................24 ..........Ashley Winders, Associate in Arts My Chocolate ........................................................24 ..........Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts Into the Mistic .......................................................25 ..........Diane Joyner, Math Instructor The Flood ..............................................................25 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor A Cold and Black December Came Early Today..26 ..........Candace Johnson, Associate in Arts Sue Jones ...............................................................26 ..........Kim Clark, Math Instructor Hands ....................................................................26 ..........Jennifer Parker, Associate Director of Admissions/Records Ashes to Ashes ......................................................27 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor Closet ....................................................................27 ..........Alyssa K. Herring, Associate in Arts A London Alphabet ...............................................28 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor Dreaming the Gap .................................................28 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor Looking for Lunch .................................................29 ..........Gene Smith, Division Chair, Arts and Sciences Ravenesque ...........................................................29 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor A White Mourning ................................................30 ..........Mary Spears, Dual Enrollment Metamorphosis ......................................................30 ..........Ashley Winders, Associate in Arts Excerpt from Capricorn Sol’s Autistic Genie .......31 ..........J.L. Knoll, Offi ce Systems Technology Punky .....................................................................32 ..........April Crow, Associate in Arts Brother, please, give up on me ..............................32 ..........Roethyll Lunn, English Instructor The Lady Behind the Glass ...................................32 ..........Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science The “Buffalo” ........................................................33 ..........Sabrina Kornegay, Associate in Arts Goldsboro Spring ..................................................34 ..........Rosalyn Lomax, English Instructor Schroedinger’s parakeet ........................................34 ..........Jeff Williams, English Instructor Frog Shade ............................................................34 ..........Gene Smith, Division Chair, Arts and Sciences Revelation .............................................................35 .........Theresa White-Wallace, Secretary, Language/Communication Department I Smiled .................................................................36 ..........Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science Ominous ................................................................36 ..........Robert Linley McCoy, Associate in Science I Walk The Line .....................................................36 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster The Answer ...........................................................37 ..........Marc Mahan, Forest Management Dream Sparrow .....................................................39 ..........Alison Rawleigh, Associate in Arts Plates .....................................................................39 ..........Brent Hood, Webmaster How to Kill a Balloon Animal ..............................40 ..........Jennifer Lynn Hobbs, Associate in Science Paper Bags ............................................................41 ..........April Crow, Associate in Arts Seconds and Exponents .........................................42 ..........Jon Cronin, Associate in Arts My Monster ...........................................................43 ..........Candace Johnson, Associate in Arts The Infamous Him ................................................43 ..........Brittany Evrard, Associate in Arts The Alien Flower ..................................................43 ..........Preston Sharpe, Associate in Arts No Bloodshed During Snowfall ............................44 ..........Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities/Creative Writing Instructor Azalea ....................................................................44 ..........Danielle Castillo, Associate in Arts Remembering a Royal Woman .............................45 ..........Rosalyn F. Lomax, English Instructor 1 Falling Hair Running my fi ngers through my hair Because I am bored Because it is long Because it feels good Because it reminds me of you It reminds me of your gentle touch Of how you smelled it and smiled Of how you rubbed it like soft fur Of how you twirled it round your fi ngers Of how you pulled it when you felt good Running my fi ngers through my hair Deep in thought First one hair falls Then another and yet another A reminder that time catches us all Robert Linley McCoy Tiny Droplet She fi ghts back the emotions Enduring the saline sting Trying to hold it all inside And not let herself be betrayed By such a tiny thing. A tiny droplet of water Nothing more, so it seems Slides slowly to the tip of her nose Gets to the edge And clings tightly readying for the fall. Falling off the edge The overlooking ledge Downward it travels through the air. The distance seems forever. It is suspended in space and time. Finally it impacts the ground With a deafening splash Breaking the silence. The tiny droplet waits for the others For it will surely not be the only one. Robert Linley McCoy Compost Andrew Harper 2 Balance Bob Hensley Life is a balancing act that requires inputs from several sources in order to fi nd true stabil-ity for the soul. What we do for a living doesn’t defi ne who we are; it merely puts a label on us. It is like one leg of a three-legged stool; it is necessary, but without the other two legs, we are always wobbling and never in balance. For more than twenty years, I served my country in the United States Air Force. While many call this a noble act, and I was proud to do my part, my fo-cus most of that time was putting in my twenty years and retiring to enjoy the fruits of my labors. I was so focused on that objective that I was oblivious to many events around me. When I fi nally reached my goal and retired, instead of feeling content and fulfi lled, I felt as if I had awakened over the rainbow and landed in Oz, a confusing and alien land. Something was missing. I felt as if I were adrift on a sea of emptiness with no clue to my purpose. Then, about fi ve years ago, an event happened that changed my life forever. My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and was given only a few months to live. I immediately went to him, and that visit gave me my second stool leg and a bit more balance. My father grew up with the belief that emotions were best kept bottled up, and showing too much af-fection, especially with male children, was not proper. Because of this, whether I did something that made him proud or did something to disappoint him, our outward relationship always ap-peared quite vanilla. Oh, I knew some of his past, that he had grown up on a farm, worked with the railroad, and served in the Navy before running a sales division for his company, but details of his life prior to my own were very sketchy. When he asked me if I wanted to know anything before he died, I told him I wanted to know stories of his childhood to help me understand him better. The stories he told me made him more human and three-dimensional in my mind and helped me fi nd peace and closure when he passed a few months later. Always having viewed my father as proper and straight-laced, I truly enjoyed hearing about some of the hijinks of his time on the farm. I also learned details that he had never shared; for example, on a trip to Europe back in the 1960’s, he got a parking ticket in France, which he never paid, and for the next thirty years he lived in fear that if he ever went back he would be arrested on the spot and thrown in jail. We talked for hours during that visit. When it was time for me to leave, I gave my father a hug and told him I loved him. My father then did something I had never seen him do before; he broke down and actually cried. He said he had never known how I felt about him and wished we had talked more about emotions in the past. He said he felt a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders and now felt that his life hadn’t been spent in vain, that if I felt that way towards him, as did my other siblings, then he must have done something right in life. He said how proud he was of us all. I could feel the rift that had kept us apart during life disappear and be replaced by inner peace. I started feeling as if I were on the path to truly fi nding my identity and place in life. I fi nally realized just how tenuous and fragile life is and that no one can predict how much time he or she has on Earth. This realization has caused me to look at life from different perspec-tives, to look at the environment that surrounds us and appreciate the beauty and wonder of life. This realization is the fi nal leg to our “stool of life” that gives us stability and makes us complete. We are a product of our past, our present, and our surroundings. Since then I have made a con- 3 scious effort to examine things around me; I take time to watch a sunset and marvel at its beauty; I stop to watch a spider spin a web, a masterpiece in its creativity; I watch a hawk fl oat upon air currents, free of the confi nes of Earth. While my father’s passing was probably the worst tragedy of my life, it was also the one event that helped me fi nd myself. I will always remember him as the person who helped me fi nd my identity and appreciate what a true blessing life is. Enabling me to fi nd stability, spiritual peace, and tranquility, his passing has given me the missing legs of my life stool. Drink Jasmine Hickey Deep Andrew Harper 4 How to Seem Smart Jimmy David Hicks Everyone is plagued with the unfortunate circumstance of seeming unintelligent. The situ-ation could be created from something as simple as tripping while riding an escalator or some-thing as complex as coming up with an entire argument on why videogames are pure evil and then realizing that no actual evidence is in the argument. Another unfortunate circumstance develops when people get overly excited and decide to share views on various situations even though the evidence used to base their opinions was just picked up from some guy who can’t tell the difference between a cat and a giraffe. Needless to say, if anyone in a room actually knows what he or she is talking about, the overeager person will likely look a bit foolish. Luckily, there are ways for people to give the impression that they are very smart even if their knowledge of current affairs or perhaps anything in general is less than reputable. The fi rst step of seeming smart is to conquer one’s appearance. That’s right. For some un-fathomable reason, people sometimes base an opinion of someone’s intelligence on the person’s appearance. A great way to dazzle the general spectator is to wear a suit and top hat no matter what the occasion. People wearing this attire will be assumed to be smart because, obviously, the only possible solution to how they got these clothes is that they graduated from fi ne institutions allowing them to get jobs that would make it possible to buy incredible numbers of suits. If this attire is out of the question, another handy outfi t is a sweater vest, dress pants, and dress shoes. This attire is associated only with prodigious students and people with very important interviews and is guaranteed to make people look as though they could recite a dictionary. In extreme situa-tions, wearing a simple buttoned up collared shirt will work wonders. No matter what the cost, it is important not to look like the guy who wears a beanie and sandals with socks and insists on sitting next to the only person in the room even though all the chairs are open. After the clothing is taken care of, the fi ner details may be focused on. Corrective lenses at some point or another seem to have somehow become associated with intelligence. The most impressive style of lens seems to be the monocle, which draws attention even in a crowded room. Even without corrective lenses, posture is also an important aspect of seeming smart. Sitting up straight with folded hands is a great way to seem deep in thought. If at all possible, swinging a cane while walking could be of assistance as it is a nice way to seem mildly coordinated. If good posture is not desired, it is a possible to save the appearance by making up a reason for poor posture, such as a cool sounding medical condition. A fi nal way to appear intelligent is to at least pretend to read a complicated-looking book while listening to classical music. Unfortunately, it is impossible to get away entirely with simply looking smart. Eventu-ally, some stranger won’t be able to contain himself or herself, or a long lost cousin will return and make ridiculous demands such as having a conversation. This will require sounding smart instead of simply telling the other person to go read the owner’s manual of an old handheld game console that no one ever plays. The fi rst requirement for sounding smart is speaking with an English accent, no matter how fake it may sound. The next step is to use long and painful sound-ing words and phrases such as “indubitably” and “metabolic metabolism” in situations that don’t call for them. Also, instead of saying things like “this is terrible,” a better replacement is “the 5 current circumstances are in a state of preposterously poor quality.” The fi nal rule is to talk about complicated events no matter if the material is grossly misinterpreted or if the conversation is un-welcome. A good example of this is to mix two current events together and come up with some sort of absurd theory to make them relate. A debate is likely to start eventually in any situation that involves a discussion longer than one minute. A great way to win an argument is never to admit a mistake, no matter how many times it is pointed out and beaten. While knowing something about the topic is a great asset in a debate, it is possible to at least give the impression that all knowledge on the topic is known by yawning and coughing while the other person is talking. If all else fails, a good conclusion to an argument is to mumble something and leave. This is rarely, if ever, considered to be a rude gesture, and it can make a person seem so smart that others assume the argument is not even at his or her level. Not being smart is no excuse to have a reputation that indicates as such. With so many op-tions to trick people, it is possible for anyone to be considered smart. Some people would say that it is best to not draw attention to oneself, but following this advice is not likely to improve one’s reputation. Causing spectacles to appear smart is a great way to make people think highly of whoever is doing it, whether the person causing the spectacle is actually smart or not. Seem-ing smart simply depends on how far someone is willing to go to make a lasting impression on people he or she may never meet again. How Many Danielle Castillo 6 A Song for Sasser Beth Rawleigh I swear time stopped. “I have some bad news,” Mom said quietly. “You’re going to need to pray for Mr. Sasser’s family because he passed away last night.” “Mr. Sasser?” I asked, trying to be sure that what I was attempting to fathom was real. She said it was. Some people go through stages of acceptance, but I skipped straight to grief. It was as if my heart blew up inside my chest. Not Sasser. Just then, Billy and my grandma pulled up and heard me say Sasser’s name as I covered my mouth and burst into tears. He walked up, concerned, and put his arm around me as I asked what happened and heard the whole sad story. “What’s wrong?” Grandma asked Billy. “I think she’s getting some bad news about her teacher,” he answered, rubbing my back. “Oh,” Grandma answered, “Well, she’s probably just already shaken up.” As if he were just a teacher. By the time I hung up with Mom, I was sobbing. “That’s too bad about your teacher,” Grandma said. We got in the car, and I continued to cry, not speaking. I just couldn’t say anything. What could I say? All I could think of was Sasser. Grandma asked a couple times if I were okay. I said I was, but I wasn’t. “What kind of teacher was he?” she asked. “Our music teacher,” I answered. “Aww, that’s too bad to lose your music teacher. They always make you feel good,” she an-swered. I wanted to scream at her, “He wasn’t JUST my teacher!! He was more than that! He was so much more than that!” But I couldn’t. Grandma just didn’t understand, and I couldn’t expect her to. But inside, I knew. We all knew. Me, Alison, Caroline, Mary, Judith, Anthony, Billy, Rachel . . . and the list goes on and on. All the hearts were touched by Sasser and the legacy that he left. We loved him, truly loved him. Steele Sasser was more than just a music teacher. He gave us music. He was music. And more than that, he cared about us. He waited patiently while we goofed off and then buckled down when things got out of hand. I can still see him standing in front of us, waving his hands as we sang. “Make my hair move!” he would yell, and we all messed up in the song from laughing. Sasser was bald. Somehow when we face the loss of a loved one, things go into perspective. We realize just how short life is, just how insignifi cant our problems are when we face the true tragedies life dishes out. Sasser was gone. Gone, not ever coming back. Life is just too short. I’ll never forget the night of the dress rehearsal before our concert in Spring 2008. The high- 7 schoolers had upset Sasser, and that combined with the lack of eating dinner had sent him into diabetic shock. He never remembered anything that happened during the span of about an hour when he was delirious and said a bunch of silly and incoherent things. I was patting his head with a damp paper towel while the nurse tried to encourage him. “They don’t understand,” Sasser was saying, almost unintelligibly “Music is everything.” “I know,” the nurse said, and then she pointed to all of us who were gathered around him. “They do understand. Look how much they care about you.” Sasser rolled his head back and looked up at me with a dazed look and just stared for a min-ute. “We love you, Mr. Sasser,” I said, smiling at him. Finally, he smiled, a little lopsided one, and said, “Yeah.” I hope the angel chorus in heaven can make your hair move. Remembering W. Steele Sasser Wired rimmed glasses Shiny head Sitting on the bench outside Puffi ng on a cigarette Flip Flops in the summer Sweaters in the winter “Hey, Girl, what’s going on?” “Come downstairs and have some dessert.” Wheeling you to your offi ce and car Hearing you laugh as I almost turn your wheelchair over in the elevator Bringing you candy and juice when your blood sugar dropped Reassuring you as your blood sugar rose to normal Sewing a button on your pants as you walked down the hall in your graduation gown “I am so proud of my students.” “Come listen to the chorus.” How nervous you got before each concert How well your students performed Hearing you talk about your children How proud you were of them The day I heard the news The night I saw you asleep and knew you were singing with the angels That’s what I remember about you Theresa White-Wallace 8 Tools Andrew Harper Query in Iambic Dimeter When everything that comes to mind becomes a line of poetry, the monologue within myself produces books of single lines. What if I took my single lines and printed them in one long poem? Is that auto-biography or is it just a mystery? Rosalyn F. Lomax A Poem is a Regurgitation A poem is a regurgitation That happens in the mind After putting in the pain and works Or anything you fi nd You fi ll it with the fury And hope it doesn’t melt You fi ll it with the misery You wished you hadn’t felt You assault it with the ink You beguile it with lead Add in a piece of broken heart You know it’s been well fed Then you stab it with the knives And you beat it with the sticks You acid scorch it with the tears And hope it didn’t miss Zara Rullman 9 There They Are Alyssa K. Herring Snake Family My playful cousin is colorful and bright and is always a pet for little boys to scare their little sisters with My little brother is black as the shadows he waits within to catch mice that sneak into cupboards and steal away the food My big brother is striped and strong he catches the members of our family that drive people mad with their poison I am the little sister who is small and green I catch the spiders that hide in the grass and wait for an unsuspecting victim Michelle Bailey The King of Diamonds The king of diamonds carries his crest on his thin, long, oily back. He creeps through the tall grass of our lawn, glaring at us with death-black eyes. He hides his two daggers, but we know they are there, poison-tipped, razor-sharp. My father grabs his bush ax and meets him in the middle of the fi eld. The king slips back but raises his head and shakes his beaded tail, daring my father with his eyes to step closer and meet steely fangs. The sun shines brightly as two fi gures freeze, their eyes fi xed on each other. The king sways as if there were wind. My father stands on two fi rm feet. Just as the king pulls out his blades, my father swings his ax. The diamond-crowned head of the king falls to lie twitching in the grass. Alison Rawleigh 10 Queen Rose Young women these days don’t know how to love a man Maybe that’s why men ain’t bother’n to ask for their hand A woman used to dress up and powder her face Then let her slip hang a little so they could see her lace You can laugh now, but that was the style then Women acted like ladies and men were real men I use’tah dress up and put on my “Evening in Paris” And many a young man asked for Queen Rose’s hand in marriage You can believe or not believe what I tellin’ ya Go on and grow old buying what women lib’s sellin’ ya Listen to me! Find out all about what you been missing And you’ll see no degree holds a candle to kissing I��m gonna say this, and I ain’t taking it back Have you ever wondered why all the ugh-ly women driving Cadillacs? Roethyll Lunn Red Fez When I saw you in your tribal clothing and bruised blood colored fez, you were a splendor in black and white and red. I stood there astounded, absconded in my stance, begging my Southern born hips to do a tribal dance. Roethyll Lunn Mammy Cat This isn’t the way That I really want to be But somehow, over the years, It just ended up being me. I really fought against it, but it seems as if I were bound to be one of those women that just have to run around. I tried, I joined the church I wanted to be honorably mentioned I stayed there for a year But they didn’t pay any attention. So I went back to my husband, and he ran me back to my man Now this cat is going to run around With all the fl air she can. Roethyll Lunn 11 Jammin’ Breanna Ponzi 12 The Properties Mistress At the Salvation Army I hunt for 1950s telephones— those black boxes with dials almost obsolete but not antique— a green chenille bathrobe, and a blue McGuffey’s Reader Then, slung among the 10-cents books, I fi nd Born Again: Together and remember us—stranded in a small New England town going under in Atlantis clinging at the Roman coliseum and how we touched in Kyoto, saying “Sayonara” before the blade, leapt from Middle Passage into Caribbean waters and how the courage of one kiss lasts several lifetimes. Now, I am just a Mistress—of Props but in the cave backstage where the tapestry suitcase seems packed the wrapped boxes to hold gifts the newspaper to be always today’s— art turns to life and life to truth. Surrounded by properties, I won nothing—but memory’s jolt and the taste of that kiss. Margaret Boothe Baddour The Transit of Venus Desiring your view she seduces you to look at the sun. Her soft layers fool you, too. She is rock hard the shimmering orb that hangs so low in the evening shy— a bass of sulfur a core of nickel and iron. Voluptuous Venus who double-crosses the mighty sun— only a teardrop in his indifferent eye. Margaret Boothe Baddour Wet Ashley Winders 13 So Much More You are so much more than what I deserve but being without you always seems to hurt You are so much more than all of my thoughts You’re my only companion You are all I’ve got You are so much more than I could ever show How much I love you you’ll just never know You are so much more than the fi re inside of me It started with a spark Now I’m burning endlessly You are so much more than my smile everyday You’re there to remind me that everything’s ok You are so much more than people can see All they overlook shines brightly to me You are so much more than I could explain How it seems like all smile when they hear your name Kyle Chegwidden And the Earth Wouldn’t Orbit The ocean doesn’t love me The sun doesn’t care The wind doesn’t stir Through my brown hair The rain doesn���t fall The birds do not fl y The moon doesn’t shine In my brown eyes The streams do not fl ow The sky’s never blue The stars do not blink Unless I see you Jeff Williams Spring Spring is coming; the skies are blue The birds are chirping happily sitting high in the tree The green meadows with wild fl owers springing up from here to there All around us I see the beauty that can be found Just by looking out my window At the clouds going by Connie Lord 14 Why Me! Lazy phone! Won’t ring to give me a job. Fat cells! Making everybody think I’m a slob Slow typewriter! Won’t bang fast enough to get me hired Fast clock! Always causing me to get fi red Disability people! Won’t ever give me a check Bad credit! Keep people on my neck Silly men! Won’t ever give me a ring Rich men! Always marry’n Mai Ling Adding machine! Always fi nding me at fault Slow car! Always causing me to get caught Poor me! Can’t never get a break! Poor me! Poor me! Never could get the right shake! Roethyll Lunn Gone Danielle Castillo 15 Shifting Sand Brenda Wooldridge We fi nally made it to the beach. My family usually made this trip on Mother’s Day. It was a tradition since my parents had moved to North Carolina four years earlier. Except for Christmas, it was the only time when we could all be together. My sisters and I were busy with our families and work, and we all lived hours apart from each other. This year we had to delay coming here for a few months but for a very good reason. My third child had chosen to be my Mother’s Day present. Arriving early, we unloaded our cars and steered all of our children toward the boardwalk. As I neared the bottom step, the salty smell of ocean assaulted my senses. Its slap teased me with the alluring call of the beach. The kids scampered on a little ahead of us, exclaiming nois-ily. My sisters and their husbands took off after them. Their eyes sparkled with their own child-ish delight as they raced to rein in the giggling brood. The kids were like a school of little fi sh as they darted between the legs of their parents. Finally, the game ended, and their small bodies were smothered with sunscreen. I stayed back with my parents as everyone else made his or her way to the edge of the water. Mom put her things down. Then she too walked down and along the shore. Dad pitched our big, blue umbrella and laid out the blankets. Then, with his help, I tenderly placed my precious cargo down in the soft, shady spot he had created. Finally free of the blanket covering her, my baby giggled and kicked in satisfaction. There I placed a tiny, red pair of sunglasses on her button nose and retied the strings of her bonnet. My dad would stay there with her. He usually preferred to sit there contentedly watching everything around him. His alert eyes scanned the scene as he took his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He lit one of the unfi ltered cigarettes and shifted into a more comfortable position. After about thirty minutes, I made my way slowly to a spot just short of the rushing water. Its hungry roars were louder now, almost deafening with the break of each wave. I sat there for a while em-bracing the warmth of the sand as it squished between my toes. Dreamily, I picked up handfuls of it and watched it sift through my fi ngers before gently blowing away. Laughter, loud and shrill, caught my attention. I blissfully watched the animated children once again run from the adults. It had become a silly game. The kids tried repeatedly to evade their parents before being swept up high into the air away from the water. However, as soon as their little feet touched the sand, they were off again. Darting back and forth, they looked for an opening, trying to answer the beckoning call of the surf. After a time, the exhausted adults fi nally carried the squealing bodies into the waiting arms of the monster once more. Then, tired of sitting, I waded past the edge of the great abyss. The waves slapped each other. I could feel the foaming glee of water as it hungrily lapped around my ankles. It only stayed a second before it pulled back. As the water returned to the vast expanse of its home, it took pieces of the beach with it. For now, it was satisfi ed to take a small amount at a time. It seemed to me as if the ocean were stealing a piece of the beach’s soul each time as they kissed in a never-ending ritual. Eventually, I made my way lazily back to the blanket. My dad had adjusted the umbrella to shield the baby from the movement of the sun. I silently continued to move closer to the peace- 16 ful scene. He sensed my approach and opened his eyes. He nodded at the baby, letting me know she had fallen asleep. I sat down at the edge of their oasis, trying not to disturb her. Ultimately, the wind picked up the shifting sands and smacked us repeatedly before carrying the tiny particles away on its endless breath. I grabbed the baby, trying to shelter her from the clutches of the wind. Then gathering everyone and our things, we rushed to the cars. We had scarcely pulled out of the lot before the rains came. That trip had been the last time we all went to the beach together. It would also be the last time my father saw the ocean. The coal miner’s disease had stolen his last breath with its cold, black obsidian hands. My sisters were busy watching their own little families grow up. We had each been pulled into life’s undercurrents. It would be nine years before I would visit that beach again. On that day, there was no sign of an impending storm. My children had grown, but their sun-kissed faces still lit up with intense joy and excitement as they splashed in the ocean. To me, the beach looked virtually the same. The tides still raced to feed upon the sands, scooping it into its vast body. The blinding sand was calm as it waited for the next kiss from its lover. We would make new memories on that day as we played in the shifting sand and pounding surf. To the Golden-Haired Girl When the air was still And the wind blew We held each other’s hands And they fi t like puzzle pieces. When the rain poured On your mother’s porch We stood there in an embrace And we made our own umbrellas. When the storm disturbed the world And that fury had drenched the earth All we could see were beach days And our molding the sand with our toes When the leaves plucked themselves From the dead trees Your hand slipped from mine And autumn winds carried you away. When I gaze at the skies While I’m lying in the grass I envision sapphire eyes beaming And the rippling of golden hair. Preston Sharpe Missing Latoya Edwards 17 Changes and Endings I want to run away from the world Before it says goodbye I want to be the one dropped dead Then left alone to cry I couldn’t fathom wishing That any sunset comes To see a happy afternoon End with the downing of the sun And when I see the moon I think: Why must you go away? Likewise when the fl ower blooms I wish at such state it would stay I held onto my childhood things And thought: “you’ll always be the same” But I awoke and realized I was the one that changed Zara Rullman How I’m feelin’ Like a waterfall in the desert and a fi refl y in the dark something about you is different that just sets you apart Beyond what I can imagine and all I can understand how all the world disappears when you hold my hand You walk into a room and everyone stops and looks You remind me of a princess from a fairy tale book You continue to capture my heart and appear in all my dreams I couldn’t stop this if I tried as crazy as it seems So I’ll go along with feeling and I want everyone to know I’m holding on to you forever because I’m not going to let go Kyle Chegwidden 18 My Music Always There Suddenly no signal; nothing was aloud As if the sky had opened up And bagged away the sound The wind hid behind the mountains The crickets wouldn’t play The water stilled in fountains And the robins refused say The moment was so swift As if it was not at all Like a crack in the sky Caused the music to fall My ears opened up Like wings onto the air That moment it occurred to me That it was always there Zara Rullman The Mother Church of Country Music Brent Hood Happy Black Black is the cold night in winter the pin-pricked canopy above the man in the black leather jacket sipping his coffee without cream. Black is the man from New Orleans who plays his shiny baby grand striking his favorite black keys reading the inky notes from the sheet music. Black is the movie theater during a mystery’s midnight showing a couple cuddled in the darkest corner while the fi lm’s credits scroll. Black is the hair of the mother who sings to her baby at night by the red-edged coals in the fi replace drowning in soft soot. Alison Rawleigh 19 Dropped Change Kourtney Willis Scuffi ng my sneaker clad feet on the linoleum fl oor, I leaned against the cash register. I was supposed to be doing something. We were always supposed to be busy. I thought about the repetitiveness of it all and how it must be life’s way of telling me, “you’re almost there, soon the transformation will be complete. You’ll be a mindless working drone without an original thought in your head.” But work was work I argued with my pessimistic side, and I would just have to make the best of it. It was 10:55; the stored closed in a few minutes. I was fully prepared to stand there for all fi ve of them lost in my thoughts. Crossing my arms with a huff, I gave the plastic light up keys of the register a mean glare. After a few seconds, I let out my breath and let my arms swing loose. I couldn’t help but think, “That’s great, Kourtney. I’m sure the register is really intimidated.” The sound of footsteps at the end of the counter stopped my personal tirade. Coming up the aisle through my line was a woman holding a baby in one hand and in the other juggling a quart of milk and a small loaf of bread. I say “woman,” but she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her thin shirt and jeans were on the dirty side. She set her stuff on the belt and didn’t look at me; instead, she stared at the fl oor as though she were ashamed. She was thin like she hadn’t been eating, and she could barely look over the top of my head despite being at least three years older than me. The baby she held in her arms was asleep in a soft blue onesie and looked clean and well cared for. Soft blonde curls covered his head, and he had his thumb stuck in his little pink mouth. “Hi…how are you?” I asked, motionless, really meaning it. Slowly, she looked up at me, her exhausted brown eyes looking into my probing blue ones. “Tired,” she offered quietly looking away again. Picking up the quart of milk, I ran it over the scanner and put it on the other side of the register and then turned back around to get the bread. The total came to about $6.00. I put her things in bags while she got the money together. Look-ing up at her through my hair, I saw tears in her eyes as she dug through her bag with one hand and held onto her baby with the other. Putting her bags on the end of the counter, I straightened and saw what she held in her hand. Three crumpled ones that she quickly gave to me and went back to looking in her bag. I could see her struggling to keep the hot tears from sliding down her face. Looking from her to the sleeping baby and back, I felt in my back pocket and pulled out a fi ve, the only money I had. It was supposed to be for my lunch but…I quickly dropped it so she wouldn’t see me. “Hey, you must have dropped this,” I said picking it up off the counter. Look-ing from the money in my hand to me, she looked incredulous. She knew she hadn’t dropped it. I knew she hadn’t dropped it. Pride is a delicate thing. I tapped the buttons on the register. When the drawer popped out, I put the money inside. Not looking up, I handed her the receipt and told her to have a nice night. Standing there, bags in hand, she looked at me, not at the fl oor, not at the door. She looked up at me. She didn’t thank me, and her mouth didn’t smile, but her eyes did. When she walked to the door, she turned and nodded before heading out into the dark. 20 The Myth of Solitude A poet in isolation is a poet dodging the draft— They myth of the lonely riverside garret The 4AM bottles of too warm rosé The skin so pale as to defy the sun— Lies, lies, damned lies, and statistics! The accoutrements are mere way stations. Vesuvius is a hunk of angry stone without Its Pompeii to destroy, the Mississippi A long lined snake without New Orleans. A poet in isolation is a poet chiseling the muse. Poe fell alone on a Baltimore street, body In mud and muck. His gravekeeper’s vigil Is so misplaced! He was a poet alone— His body a wasteland, his mind Post-Apocalyptic, destroyed. Jeff Williams Live Expression Brent Hood 21 Not Admitting to Being Jealous You know I’ll only fall apart Knowing I can’t have your heart That “we” will never be Even though you’re everything to me To watch you give your heart away And just to hear you say You’re loving someone new And I’m falling for you What is it I’m feeling here As I want to disappear Tirelessly trying to understand Watching you hold his hand I don’t want to think of you and him Or what’ll go down when lights are dimmed God, I don’t even want to care But I’m dying when I see you there Why do you have to look so great? It’s just so hard to concentrate When I know he’s holding you Like I always wanted to How come I’m just the friend And I’m always having to pretend That I’m all right with things this way And I always have to say Things I don’t really mean And lie about everything Truth is, he’s in my place If only you’d see it that way Kyle Chegwidden Missing You I don’t know where you are or where you have been All I know is I’m here dying to see you again I’ve held on for years waiting for your return The meaning of empty is just one thing I’ve learned Like the hammock outside where you used to swing and where you’d tell everything It’s still there tied to the tree where you whispered you loved me I still have the albums we slow danced to and all of the feelings that you never knew I remember when we talked There used to be such a rush I wonder if it would still be there if we kept in touch So, I’ll stay a little longer and come what will because after all this while I want you still Kyle Chegwidden 22 Eye Catcher Gene Smith My Mimi, Milly Rawleigh My Mimi, Milly Rawleigh Salt and pepper, silver streaks In coconut cream cake batter Sappy sweet syrup Fluffy feather down bed Sinky, squishy soft pillows Proper paper planning pages Dates, deadlines, due-by-when Gentle gestures, gingerbread Comfy quick cat-nap couch Fumbling fi ngers fondly fi nd Plucky piano progressions Silly salicylic acid in a Slippery, drippy, soapy dish A dozen muffi ns from the oven With crispy, crusty, puffy crowns With Mimi, Milly Rawleigh Alison Rawleigh 23 Moon Flower Michelle Bailey In the bouquet of fl owers are yellow cannas lilies, small little bursts of white cluster roses, then a large white fl ower, called a Moon Flower, with paper thin petals that spread out to be as large as a hand with outstretched fi ngers. That fl ower does not seem to fi t in the bouquet, but it is the one that is the most special. Months before this fl ower had ever even blossomed, it was just a picture on a computer screen. The fl ower was bought for Sandy, my mom’s best friend. It was bought by Sandy’s hus-band Mike Miller, my dad’s best friend. He thought she would like it because it only bloomed on the night of the last full moon of the summer. Only for one night would the fl ower be seen, and because of that, it made it even more beautiful. So he bought it knowing she would love the sus-pense of waiting for it to blossom. The day it arrived in the mail, Mike planted it in the garden. He made sure she did not see the picture of the fl ower on the box. He wanted the blossom to be a surprise. His wife was excited when he told her what he had done. She always loved surprises, especially ones she had to wait for. She loved the wanting to know but not being able to fi nd out. A month before the Moon Flower was meant to bloom, Sandy died in a car crash. That day was two days before their second wedding anniversary. They had found each other late in life but felt as if they had been high school sweethearts. Mike was completely devastated. He did not think of anything except how much he missed her. Most of all, he missed their evening in the garden. They would tend the fl owers and pick their vegetables every evening before dinner. Each night a fresh vase of fl owers would be on the table. When the funeral was over and he was able to work and start living a life without her, he realized the moon fl ower was due to bloom the next night. The same night the fl ower was supposed to bloom, my parents were going to be renewing their vows for their 25th wedding anniversary. My parents had known Mike and Sandy for over fi fteen years. They might as well have been family. We were going to have a small party at our house with family and close friends. My parents wanted Mike to read a passage from the Bible before they spoke their vows to each other. Before Mike left for the party, he noticed the moon fl ower had blossomed. He went over to the small bush with one beautifully pale fl ower. It looked so fragile that if he touched it, it would fall apart. He knelt on the ground before it and wept for his wife. She would have loved see-ing the moon fl ower. They would have sat together on the porch swing and stared at it for hours talking about how beautiful it was. If only she were here. He did the only thing he thought he should do. He picked the fl ower and put it in a vase to take to his wife’s best friend, my mom. When he got to the party, he sought out my mom. She wore a white dress and had a beauti-ful bouquet of fl owers. Mike then told her the story behind the pale fl ower. She cried for Sandy. Then came the time for Mike to read the passage and for my parents to renew their vows. In the bouquet, my mom had stuck in the moon fl ower. It did not seem to match the rest. It was beauti-ful. 24 Christmas Box Ashley Winders My Chocolate Danielle Castillo 25 Into the Mistic Diane Joyner The Flood In this land there is absence, in this river there is nothing on this tree there are no leaves, only dry twigs and shriveled berries so the dreams of all fall like dirt upon the hard pan the salt fl ats and cracked parquet of the desert fl oor in this absence there is no sorrow, no joy, no sense of belonging only the silence like an empty chair or naked bed springs. And you chant “Bring on the rain! Bring on the water! Bring on the fl ood! Cleanse this wounded land! Let the winds blow life and seeds onto newly fertile soils! Let the peace that is belonging fl ow like streams born of ocean tides and cold fronts! Bring on the rain! Bring on the water! Bring on the fl ood!” But all you hear is silence, only silence, silence of an empty chair. Jeff Williams 26 A Cold and Black December Came Early Today Watch the sky Count from ten I feel nothing Only cold My eyes are blank I can’t see the future I can’t remember the past All dressed in black I can’t focus I’m not all well I’m not all here I’m just drifting Candace Johnson Sue Jones Restless energy, hands a fl utter, creative juices fl owed. Wellspring of love, reaching others, lover of those unloved. Happy of heart, spreading joy, laughter in every story. Follower of God, lover of Christ showing the path to glory. Gentle doe eyes, sharing a smile, crown of soft brown curls. Sweet life-spirit, wife mother child, a void left in our world. I love you, Mama Kim Clark Hands Hand of contrast With the holding of two hands Hold together Lives of different worlds. Smooth is the hand of the young girl Unaware of what lies ahead. Aged is the hand of the older woman Two generations removed. One remembers a life gone by Time that just won’t slow down. The other looks beyond the days To a future not yet found. Yesterday and tomorrow Joined in the moment. Time stopped briefl y With the holding of two hands. Jennifer Parker 27 Closet Alyssa K. Herring Ashes to Ashes I turn the compost heap and add to wet dark leaves my kitchen leavings of the day. Nearby I see the cross that marks our beagle’s grave and in my heart I feel the absence of my mother-in-law, dead now a week, her leavings in the Quaker cemetery under trees alive before the Revolution. Her death compounds the major leavings of my life-- parents, Greenwood Cemetery; brother, silver box of ashes on my mantel; close friends, too many— I turn my grief and add new leavings to the compost heap that is my heart. Rosalyn F. Lomax 28 A London Alphabet All Hallows and St. Mary Abbots Church, Albert with Victoria, and Westminster Abbey. Bridges and Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, Billy Elliot, Beowulf, the Barbican, Bobbies and Beefeaters, Beatles and Bach. Castles, cathedrals, chapels, Coronation Chair, Covent Garden and Cotswolds, Christ Church and Canterbury Cathedral. Downing Street, Diana’s Walk, red double-decker bus. Elizabeth twice and the London Eye. Fanny Burney and Falstaff. The Globe and many galleries, Gutenberg Bible, Gardens of old and St. Giles’ Church, Several King Georges, and Mind the Gap! Hampton Court and several King Henrys, Handel and Herrick, Harrods and Horse Guards. The Interval (or intermission) and many an ancient inn, Sir Isaac Newton as the Thinker at the British Library (and his pew at St. Mary Abbott). Johns and Jameses and Jewels in the Crown. King Lear at the Globe and Keats and all the Kings and High Street Kensington. Leeds Castle, British Library, Lear at the Globe, New London Symphony, And Longfellow (first American at Abbey). British Museum, Millennium Bridge, John Milton’s resting place, A concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, St. Margaret’s Church, and Mind the Gap! National Gallery and Admiral Nelson. Wilfred Owen and a jaunt to Oxford. Parliament, Pygmalion, Poet’s Corner, St. Paul’s. Queens and quires, and everyone queues up. Rosetta Stone, Regina, Rex, and Royal Albert Hall. Shakespeare and a Stratford jaunt, the Sutton Hoo, And cigarette pack warnings, SMOKING KILLS! Tower of London, Trafalgar Square, Tottenham Court Road, Tate Modern, Take-Away (our take-out), the Tube (the Underground). Victoria Palace and Old Vic, Victoria with Albert, Vivaldi’s Gloria in concert at St. Martin’s. Wordsworth at Westminster Abbey, Merry Wives of Windsor at the Globe, William with Mary, and Underground signs for “Way Out.” X is in Exeter where I really must go next time! Yellow is the Circle Line on the Underground. “Whoreson zed” is Kent’s insult defending old King Lear! Never too long is the alphabet For Lomax’s London, Love! Rosalyn F. Lomax Dreaming the Gap At every stop on the London tube a pleasant voice calls out to “Mind the gap!” The gap between platform and train is not a threat until the nightmares come and then all night the “Mind the gap!” resounds each time the gap grows wide and wider till my size diminishes to Alice, whose tumble was inspired by Christ Church College stair, the Oxford guide reminds, but no kind voice warns how Millennium Bridge aquiver over Thames will lure me toward the Globe— I blithely cross that gap until my eyes grow wide when I see where I am and lose my breath and in the night the gap grows wide and deepens with each call of “Mind the gap!” Rosalyn F. Lomax 29 Looking for Lunch Gene Smith Ravenesque So a dark bird has perched on the plaster bust, turning green from rain and algae, sitting lonely on the blue wooden boards of a neglected porch. At times such as these, certain questions must be broached. For instance, are you simply asleep, suffering from quaffi ng of strange, strong liquors? Or did a friend, fi nding you gone, leave a plate of cornbread for you, only you came in the back, leaving a feast for any old avian friend to fi nd? Perhaps you merely forgot, in the rush of morn, to take your lithium, and now a price must be paid, a hallucination squatting on cheap bric-a-brac. While asking these questions, though, remember heat and air conditioning cost money, and startled birds are unpredictable. To wit: shut fast the door! Jeff Williams 30 A White Mourning Mary Spears I awaken to fi erce bangs on the door of my small sanctuary. An euphoric brother yells the joyous news through the painted wood. It has snowed! Finally, it has snowed! He loudly invites me to come, come see the glorious thing which hast now befallen us, this picturesque symbol of December that evaded our town. Yet, I do not heed his call, for it is very warm beneath three lay-ers of wool and fabric and much too early in the day for snow wars. Uncaring, I return to sleep and vague half-dreams. Later, I am awakened by a different noise, the absolute absence of sound. It seeps through well-built brick and presses against me, harsh and unnerving. From between the thin slats of window shades, soft rays pour, and the sharp gleam of winter refl ects off the walls of my bed-room. I slip out of bed and dress hastily in the chilling air. Leaving my comfortable lair, I creep through our suburban castle. The house feels like the coldest of stone chapels as I walk through it, hoping the heating will be fi xed some time before Wednesday. Shivering shadows are all around, for the lamps are off, and I dare not fl ip a switch to turn them on. In this darkened mau-soleum, any light would be sacrilege. The front door sticks as I try to open it, barring me maliciously for its own trite purposes. The knob is an iron ice cube, and my fi ngers recoil from it violently, reminding me that I have forgotten a pair of gloves atop the cluttered dresser of my room. I forsake them and go out any-way. My fi rst impression of the surroundings is one of quiet peace. There is such serenity, such calmness in the atmosphere. I inhale deeply and exhale, watching my breath gambol and gavotte around my face before it disappears. A cool, cheerful feeling stirs within me. Then, I truly notice the emptiness. The silence that fi rst assailed me earlier now crushes with its full force. There is no sign nor sound of any living thing. All that was green, yellow, or brown is now buried under a blotting white blanket. Even the sky is not blue or gray but a strange, sickening cottony color. Everything is shrouded and still. It is strong and cruel, this magnifi cent, blinding white, which now brings to mind bleached bones and marble tombstones. A beautiful death nevertheless! The horrible perfection of it is terrifying, and I search the landscape in desperation for some ugly mark, some mis-formed lump, some overlooked weakness! But there is naught. I gaze downwards in disappointment. Then, I see a muddy boot print clearly outlined on the ground, marring the frozen powder’s false innocence. Beyond it lie others, a wide trail of them, stretching off into a hazy distance. Their obnoxious imperfection comforts me. I call out my brother’s name and run wildly into the freezing air, staining the snow with my own honest dirt. Metamorphasis Ashley Winders 31 Excerpt from Capricorn Sol’s Autistic Genie J. L. Knoll I looked out the window hoping to meet Emmy that very same day. But I knew that my visit could not last long at her house. I sighed and got dressed for school. School had started only a couple of months ago, and I already knew that Emmy would not be there at school, for she was going to go to another school in New York. It was a feeling of loss and deprivation at the big move for Emmy, who was my best friend since kindergarten. She had been there through my tough times and my good times. And when Emmy was not around, I still had Danny to take care of me. But in my heart, I wished that Danny and Dad would get along like they used to back when I was younger. I shed some tears as I walked toward my locker. I wiped them away impatiently because I did not want anyone to see my crying. When I got there, I opened up my locker and found something that I had not seen before. It was a pink pearl that shimmered with the brightest pink, and it was caged and put on a pretty chain that swirled with great craftsmanship. I looked around to make sure that no one was looking, and I put on the chain. The pink pearl glowed around my neck as though it was meant to be there. I knew that someone would try to steal a pink pearl away from me, so I tucked the chain inside my shirt. I grabbed my proper books, and I rushed to class. There, Mr. Horne, the science teacher, called the roll, and when he got to Emmy’s name, I told him that Emmy would be moving very soon. He checked off Emmy’s name, and he said, “Well, I would like you all to take a look at our pictures of science.” When the bell rang ending school, I went home on the bus, hoping that Emmy had not moved away yet. I went over to Emmy’s house to say one last goodbye to her before her big move, but somehow, the pain of sadness that I was feeling deeply inside began to swell up. Emmy was helping with her packing, and she saw me and said, “I’m sorry that I have to move away.” “I know,” I replied sadly. “I hope you can come and visit me sometime on your summer vacation.” “My parents would probably be too busy by that time,” said Emmy, patting me on the back. “Maybe when they have the time, I can come and visit you during one of my vacations.” I nodded, and then, I realized that I was crying. I brushed away the tears, but it seemed like they were fl ooding out of my eyes. Emmy must have noticed my sadness, and then she said, “I really will miss you. I know how hard it is for you to make new friends when I am gone.” “I know. I will miss you too.” Emmy hugged me, and it was the last hug she gave me before she left in the morning. 32 Punky April Crow Brother, please, give up on me Can a man of your complexion walk in my direction? Brother, please, Give up on me! Don’t even try to get my detection without a BMW and a PH.D! Roethyll Lunn The Lady Behind the Glass A lonely little man In a lonely little world Stares up at a window At a lonely little girl His thoughts begin to wonder About the lady behind the glass Tempting him to toss a pebble For an opportunity to ask Robert Linley McCoy 33 The “Buffalo” Sabrina Kornegay The story begins with a woman gazing out of a window into a fi eld of buffalo. The old buffalo farthest away is frail from age and years of stress on her body. Another buffalo still fi ghts to be strong but knows deep down she too will soon suffer the same fate as the older buffalo. Finally, the youngest of the buffalo stands closest to the window, halfway down a path that forks two ways at the end. One side of the forked path leads to the other two buffalo. The other is a long and winding road of something too far away to make out, a road of uncertainty and unknown. The road is full of hills and rocks and many other obstacles that appear only as hardships and chal-lenges. The woman stares more closely out the window. She stares so closely and for so long that she can make out every detail of the buffalo. She can see every strand of reddish brown fur around its face and each small puff of warm air that blows from its snout, almost fogging the mir-ror with each of its breaths. The most intriguing observation is that of the left eye of this buffalo. The top eyelid pulsates and twitches involuntarily back and forth. Just then, her concentration is broken by the annoyance that puts her in front of the mirror in the fi rst place. She watches as her upper left eyelid dances to an unknown beat. She closes her eye and applies pressure, hoping to gain the control she must have, wondering how long, how much more she can take, how long before she ends up as deathly ill as those before her, those with this same personality. This personality motivates her and drives her to do things most indi-viduals would not in their right minds attempt. This personality forces her to aim for perfection, to never settle, to know that she can do it all. This personality taunts her when she settles for something. This personality was fi nally given a title in her PSY 150 class . . . Buffalo. Yes, I am a buffalo. I must be great at all that I do, all that I know I can do. Even when grades are not important, all that matters is that I at least make a C; I can not settle. I must push to the limit, past the limit when possible. The difference between an A and a B, an A and an A+ is haunting. Shouldn’t a B be okay, though? I’m a mom of two toddlers, work, take car of the home and money, and go to school full time. Isn’t it okay to make a B or C? No, I have no excuses. There is no point in trying to reason with myself. I am always right. My mom, too, is always right. Her mom is right as well. Even when we all disagree, each of us is right. They too are that of the buffalo personality. My grandmother’s personality has clashed with everyone else’s. Married and divorced four times, she is perfect, and all of these men are not. Nothing is wrong with her, and now she drinks away the pain of perfections each night, alone. My mom too could do it all—single mom of three working three jobs—but we knew when school started again we would always get new clothes and one pair of name brand shoes. How could any mom turn a few dollars into everything we needed and a lot of what we wanted? Nothing could stop her! She was perfect and stronger than the world until she was in the hospi-tal, 90 pounds and stressed beyond repair. She, too, has been married numerous times. She, too, is alone. I am just as strong as they are, stronger even. The stress can not take me; it will not. I keep pushing and building my tolerance and endurance. I’m stronger. I have to be. The twitch will go away; it may come back, but I will learn to control it. I will conquer it like every other chal-lenge I have faced. It will not defeat me! So, now, I stand like the buffalo at a fork in the road. How can I win? 34 Frog Shade Gene Smith Goldsboro Spring Mulberry, Walnut, Evergreen, all streets fi t for a bride, where dogwoods white and dogwoods pink proclaim the Eastertide. Their arching hues go on for blocks, a feast for hungry eyes, and in the arch a heav’nly blue backdrop of April skies. Rosalyn F. Lomax Schroedinger’s parakeet sits in his cage, grooming yellow feathers, eating seeds, twittering nervously. How will his world be different? After the appointed moment, will he fi nally be free of his nemesis, free to fearlessly fl ap his wings, or will his feline foe stare back at him, thinking as it watches the cage, will this or will this not be the day. Jeff Williams 35 Revelation Theresa White-Wallace I was fi fteen years old and was running as fast as I could down the winding hallway. Not far behind was a crowd of people who were also running to safety. Finally, I came to this enor-mous rectangle shaped room. The ceiling was high, and the fl oor was made of white marble. The longest part of the wall was made of glass. I knew I would be safe once I was on the other side of the glass wall. I also knew what lived beneath the staircase on the other side. I would be okay, but the people behind me would be hurt. The crowd was getting closer as I ran toward the double glass doors. I had to make it to the doors before the crowd got too close. I was tired and out of breath. The crowd ascended on the doors as soon as I closed them. I could hear bodies slam against the glass. From left to right, people were crawling over each other. The glass wall was now a sea of people. The crowd would eventually make it through the doors, but there was nothing I could do for them once they made their way to the other side. They would be hurt. Everything became dark as I turned my back to the crowd. I could barely see the open staircase that ran the width of the wall. The creature that lived under the staircase would not hurt me, but the people on the other side of the wall would not be as lucky. I could feel the heat from the creature on the back of my legs as I made my way down the long staircase. When I got to the bottom of the staircase, I saw two blonde haired children around four years of age. I recognized the children because I had encountered them before. I knew danger was around the corner as it always was when the children were involved. At that moment, I wished that I had not seen them. I had protected them in the past, but I was afraid that I would not be able to do that this time. Not far from the staircase was a wooden door that led to daylight on the other side. It was so dark that the children and I could barely see as we made our way toward the door. I began to hear screams as I closed the door behind us. The crowd had broken through the glass doors. The creature was waiting for them. I picked up the little girl and took the hand of the little boy. I told them that we were going to walk up the path that led to the road above. I also told them that we would be safe, but whatever they heard, they were not to look back or they would be hurt. The screams seemed to get louder as we made our way up the path. Once there, I put the little girl down and took her hand. As we stood, the fi rst of the wounded began to make their way up the path. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Everyone’s clothes were singed from the heat. Most had red burn marks, and everyone had orange size, red, round, open wounds. The scorpion that lived under the staircase had burned and stung the people. Only a few survived and managed to make it through the wooden door. The children and I stood still as the last of the survivors passed. Everything was now quiet. The screaming below had stopped. I turned to the children and said, “Let’s go.” The paved road, green trees, and mountains disappeared. Ahead, the land was fl at. As far as the eye could see was sand. Lying on the side of the road was a skull of a cow. As I looked at the skull, I noticed something unusual about one of the eye sockets. Inside the socket I saw darkness and one little star. The star twinkled. I woke up. What a dream! 36 I Walk The Line Brent Hood I Smiled I awakened to loud raining and I smiled I walked outside and saw dark clouds and I smiled The sky was black and overcast and I smiled The crisp air was bitingly cold and I smiled The wind had stayed at bay today and I smiled I waltzed through the steady downpour and I smiled Robert Linley McCoy Ominous The soft, cool spring breeze Dances through the trees Tickling slumbering humans As they lie nestled in roped berths Or on hard wooden planks of porches. Everything is in serenity. Twilight marches before dusk Broadcasting his approach. All becomes silent Deathly silent. Robert Linley McCoy 37 The Answer Marc Mahan Ruthie was born on June 25, 1966. One day when Ruthie was fi ve years old, she asked her mom and dad a very important question. Not sure of the answer, they put the question off onto someone else. “That’s a question best suited for God. One day, maybe, He will tell you the answer.” Ruthie promptly wrote to God asking him the question. Ruthie, it should be noted, believed that God was a wizened old man who lived in the clouds. On a scrap of paper, Ruthie jotted down what she most needed to know. She also included her address in case God didn’t know where to send the answer. Ruthie knew of only one way the question could reach God. She fastened the note to the end of the string of a helium balloon and let it fl oat away. The wind currents carried the balloon across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way to North Africa where it eventually lost its lift and was discovered by the talented musician Philippe. Un-fortunately, because the note was written in English, Philippe didn’t not understand the question. He went to see his American friend Melissa who he hoped might translate it for him. “Could you tell me what this says?” Melissa studied the paper with a furrowed brow. “It’s a question and damned if I know the answer. Perhaps my boyfriend Roger would know—his nose is always in a book learning about one thing or another.” That evening she handed Roger the question. “Do you know the answer to this?” Roger took the note and carefully read over the question that was written in crayon. “Most curious. What are the chances of this note making its way to me?” “Why, does the question hold some signifi cance for you?” “Indeed it does. If there’s one thing in this world that I’m sure of, it’s the answer to this question.” He slipped on his pants and began hunting for his shoes. “What are you doing?” “What does it look like? I’m leaving for America.��� “Roger, this is ridiculous; it’s just a silly little question.” “Melissa, somewhere out there,” he said gesturing to the world at large, “there is a child who needs an answer. I have to go.” He stood up with purpose. “Don’t be crazy! You could always respond by post.” “You and I both know that the African mail system cannot be trusted. I must go.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her aside. “If you leave, I won’t be here when you get back.” “Then, I guess, this is farewell.” Roger, mad with determination, swam into the ocean. After nearly drowning, he washed up on the beach. Realizing that swimming was not an option, he decided to fl y instead. He bought a plane ticket with the last of his money, leaving him penniless. Once in the air, Roger remembered why he’d left America in the fi rst place. He’d fl ed to Africa to dodge the Vietnam War draft, but nothing was going to stop him from delivering the answer. Upon landing, he was immediately arrested and thrown into prison for draft evasion. Roger served two hard years of backbreaking labor and social reform. Through it all, the dream of delivering the answer kept him from becoming bitter. After being released from jail, Roger was broke. He knew he had to make some traveling 38 money. The only job Roger could fi nd was as a garbage man. Day after day, he slung trash, and by night, he slept in a halfway house. Soon he had saved enough money to buy a bus ticket to the town in which the girl lived. Roger boarded the bus with the hope that his journey was nearing its end. His fellow pas-sengers stared at Roger in disgust and gave him a wide berth. By this time, the stench and grime of his recent profession had overtaken him. It was no matter to Roger what people thought about him because he knew the answer. From where the bus deposited him, he still had thirty-two miles of ground to cover. Had he known this, he would have worked the extra day needed to earn money to buy new walking shoes. Ten hours, and one heat stroke later, Roger arrived at his destination. Weak with dehydra-tion and covered with cracked bleeding sunburned skin, he stumbled onto the street where Ruthie lived. An alarmed neighbor promptly called the police to report a vagrant and possible deviant who had wandered into their lives. Roger stopped at a mailbox, took out the well-worn scrap of paper, and confi rmed Ruthie’s address. His heart swelled—he had made it. He knocked on the door with considered restraint. Now that he was here, he wanted to shout the answer at the top of his lungs. An older woman, Ruthie’s mother Roger assumed, opened the door. “Yes…” was all she managed before her eyes widened in terror, and the color vanished from her face. “Ruthie,” Roger croaked. “I need to see Ruthie.” This was all Ruthie’s mother needed to hear to know that his man was trouble. She tried to shut the door but Roger, ever determined, stepped forward into the house. “Ruthie!” her mother screamed. “Run to your room and lock the door!” “But I have something for Ruthie,” Roger tried to explain. Roger attempted to get pass Ruthie’s mother, but she blocked him with her body. She was willing to fi ght him. That’s when the police arrived. Roger refused to give up and went down swinging. He pleaded with the cops that he alone had the answer that Ruthie needed if only he could see her. To the cop’s ears, this sounded very bad. In the struggle with the police, he had lost the one thing that would support and defend his mad claim—the scrap of paper on which Ruthie’s question was written. The police fi nally managed to handcuff Roger and placed him into the back of a squad car. Ruthie, now that the bad man had been captured, left the safety of her room. She spotted the piece of paper on the fl oor and recognized it immediately. Nearly two years had passed since she’d written her question, but it had never, not even once, left her mind. Picking up the paper, she ran outside to the street to where everyone had gathered to watch the crazed lunatic be hauled away by the police. Roger, from the back seat of the squad car, notice a young girl emerge from the crowd with a familiar scrap of paper in hand. He met her eyes and saw understanding there. In that instant, she perceived that this wild man had traveled years and miles and suffered count-less ordeals so that he could give her the answer. The sirens started up, indicating departure. “The answer! What is it?” Ruthie frantically yelled. Tears of joy spilled down Roger’s sun burned and bruised face. Finally, he was going to be able to give her the answer after all. As the police car began to pull away, Roger put his head against the window and shouted to Ruthie. “Yes! The answer is Yes.” A smile leapt onto Ruthie’s face. She heard his muffl ed answer and knew it to be true. 39 Plates Brent Hood Dream Sparrow For the sea is a black-scaled monster who hides between the mountains we live on, waiting for someone to set foot on him so he can drag them down into his folds. But my father was smarter than the sea and sent us by air toward our goal…all of us except our cunning sparrow, who chirped that he’d rather walk. So unmeasured time passed before we would see my bird again, and while I feared he would die, he fought puddles, rivers, and waterfalls until he was stronger than us all. Yet the sea seemed undaunted as our brave sparrow approached, feathers ruffl ed, ready to kill, with his sharp beak aimed true to the sea-monster’s scaled belly. And the scales burst from the creature, turning into raindrops as they fell, and the monster lost its form and swirled back into itself, its dying cry a loud wave that swept over out mountain. So now we sail over the monster’s grave in our little ski towards the land we were told of years ago, the place that will be worth all our travels, a new place to call home. Alison Rawleigh 40 How to Kill a Balloon Animal Jennifer Lynn Hobbs Balloon animals are perhaps the most evil creatures on this planet. Sure, they are cute, and children enjoy playing with them, but something is beneath the surface that not many people know. They wait for children to fall in love with them; then, they die. They deliberately break children’s hearts! Balloon animals must be stopped! We must destroy all of them before they hurt somebody else. Killing them is simple. Bob will demonstrate how it is done. Before Bob begins, he will need a few items. The fi rst of these items is a non-see-through bag such as a purse or possibly a book bag. The second set of items he will need is tea and cook-ies. He will also need candy, preferably Twizzlers and Gummy Bears, but any kind will work. All of these items can be purchased at a local grocery store for a minimal price. Bob will also need a basic sewing needle and escargot (which is optional and will be left up to Bob on whether or not he wants to use it). The fi rst step in killing these creatures is fi nding them. Bob has to hunt down a clown. Clowns are easily recognizable, though. They are usually surrounded by lots of children and wear brightly colored clothes. If that is not enough, just look for a big red nose. Now Bob has found the creator of these horrifi c animals. He will have to fi nd a hiding place close to the clown and the balloon animal. Bob must wait for the clown to leave the animal alone (a diversion may have to be planned for this). After the clown has left, Bob will sneak closer to the animal, being careful and making sure that no one sees him. After he has chosen his method, Bob will have to get the balloon animal to come to him. This part can be tricky unless he knows what to do. Bob can always try to call it to him. He will call it just like he would a cute dog. Bob will get down on his knees, hold his hand out, and call out to it. If that does not work, there is always bribery. Balloon animals love candy. Their favor-ites are Twizzlers and Gummy Bears, but any type of candy will work. It is now time for Bob to make his move. He will have to be quick on this part and make absolutely sure that he is not seen. The target is now in his range. Bob must leap from his spot and grab the unsuspecting victim. He will quickly throw it into the bag that he purchased earlier. The balloon animal will probably be extremely scared at his time, which takes the fun out of it. Once he gets home, Bob will try to get it to relax and feel as comfortable as possible. He will try having a friendly chat over Twizzlers and Gummy Bears, and he will ask it about its fam-ily and how life has been. Bob will also apologize for scaring and kidnapping it. The animal is now relaxed and a little more trusting of Bob. The time is right for him to carry out his plan: 1. sticking it with a needle or 2. sitting on it. If he chooses to stab it, he will casually excuse himself from the room. He will pull out a basic sewing needle and quietly walk up to the back of the chair in which the animal is sitting. He will reach around and quickly prick the balloon with the needle. It will make a loud popping sound as it explodes. “Accidentally” sitting on it might be a bit easier. It requires no materials and can be dis-missed with a simple “Oops.” All Bob has to do is just come into the room with more Gummies making sure that his back is to the chair that the animal occupies. Bob will calmly sit down, pre-tending that he does not know that the balloon is there. He will wait until he hears the popping sound and then jump up and cover his mouth as he says his escape clause. “Oops” takes care of everything. 41 The deed is now done. Bob has done his part in ridding this world of the evil creatures known as balloon animals. Now, for the last step on his journey. It is time to dispose of the evidence. Bob will gather all the pieces that are left of the balloon. He can throw them in a fi re. This method is effective, but the scent is not the best in the world. Of course, there is always Plan B. It is more costly, but it’s worth it in the end. Bob can have a few friends over for a formal get together and scatter the remaining pieces of his kill into a plate of escargot. He will then serve the dish to his guests and watch as the evidence disappears. No one will ever suspect a thing because everyone knows that snails taste like balloons. Paper Bags April Crow 42 Seconds and Exponents Jon Cronin Everyone does something stupid at some point in life. The trick is to learn from that stupid something and move forward. Then again, the problem with the word “trick” is that tricks need to be learned. Some people learn quickly—others? Not so much. When it really comes down to business, it does not matter what happened, why it happened, where it happened, or whose fault it was. I have come to believe that life is nothing more than a series of interesting choices. Through hands-on encounters, I have also learned that those choices come with conse-quences. Life is fragile, and the smallest of things—one second in our lives—can have a huge impact. Scientists estimate that the time the brain spends on making a decision—a choice—is equal to about one second. Although people may dwell on something for several hours or even days, most people tend to have their minds already set on one decision or the other long before they fi nish “thinking.” In fact, according to one study, mostly the only thing done during that “thinking” phase is a battle with that crazy little thing called conscience. Parents teach their chil-dren that choices have consequences. That lesson is one that people often learn the hard way a couple of times. Interestingly enough, it turns out that this essential life lesson can be explained with math. It is time to break out a calculator and let math illustrate just how fragile life really is. The fi rst thing to fi gure is how many minutes are in 100 seconds. The calculator says that 100 seconds is equal to 1.66 minutes. So, applying the rules of exponents, it stands to reason that 1000 seconds is the same as 16 minutes and 40 seconds. Now, this is where it gets gritty. One million seconds rounded to the nearest minute is about one week, four days, thirteen hours, and 37 minutes. One billion seconds rounded to the nearest day is the same as 31 years and 285 days. Now for a break. Looking at the difference between one million seconds and one billion seconds shows the fragility of life. If a person lived to be ninety, he would hit the million second mark some 3,000 times, but he would hit the billion second mark only three times. It is a simple rule of powers and exponents, but is remarkable when illustrated in the manner of time. Next, the calculator says that one trillion seconds is equal to 3,178 years. Mankind has not even hit the one trillion second mark since the beginning of A.D. calendar, and over 2000 years have passed. Last, how long would it take to reach 100 trillion seconds? The answer there is 317,808 years. Well, that is longer than the human race has been in existence. Now, does one second seem to make a difference in a period of over 317,000 years? Well, how could it? It seems to be way too short a time. Yet, a terminal disease such as cancer starts with merely one bad cell. One bad cell can lead to a person’s death. Life is fragile, and the smallest of things—one second in a person’s life—can have a huge impact. 43 My Monster I don’t know how this happened In 2000 I wanted a web site The monster was born It was cute and little at fi rst But then I wanted more I was told that I couldn’t do it It would be too big But I didn’t listen I fought to get the password Today I have a monster on my hands Now bigger than the sky And still growing Candace Johnson The Infamous Him Walking down the hallway Palms sweating Heartbeat racing Look around to see If he is there Who you ask Him The infamous him The one I need The one I hear say I love you He tells me I am great He cherishes me in all I do I stop I turn around and see him The infamous him My prince charming Brittany Evrard The Alien Flower In an entangled swamp of green, There lies the strangest of earthly plants, A monster that awaits And devours fl ies, spiders, and ants. The deceptive fl ora stands Among the normal fl owers. But the naked eye can see It isn’t really one of ours. Who’s ever heard of a rose That ate the meat of the living? The thorns on this jagged fl ower Are not quite so forgiving. The imposter has no muscles And no stomach for its food. And it never bares a conscience For the lives it freshly chewed. So, beware the monster fl ower, For it is not as it seems. As you gaze at its fanged-mouth, You know not what it schemes. Preston Sharpe 44 No Bloodshed During Snowfall The snow dusted neighborhoods Shiite and Sunni alike, faintly falling, as James Joyce wrote, like the decent of their last end, the living and the dead…A fl urry is a swift and passing joy. -- Associated Press, January 12, 2008 The long-haired Filipino kid with dolorous eyes sits up front with me. Two more and a small Chinese Girl, Suk Li, called Shirley, ride in back We have feasted On Lebanese food at Neo Monde—kibi, tabooly, laban— and studied together for hours at the Museum of Art: Roman torsos, Egyptian heads, African masks, Melanesian pipes, a Wyeth house, an O’Keeffe church, a modern college of gun, funnel, barbed wire and rocks, early American portraits. “Those men--” Shirley pointed to three be-wigged people on the wall “look like— your Founding Fathers?” The black security guard has taken our laughing picture before a mobile with fl owers and butterfl ies shaped like a fi ghter plane. Now the radio says that is has snowed in Baghdad after eighty years. We pass a row of crabapple trees blooming deep pink in January. A fl urry is a swift and passing joy. Margaret Boothe Baddour Azalea Danielle Castillo 45 Remembering a Royal Woman Royal, the perfect name for her, slender, elegant, gliding down our halls and through our lives, never losing her life’s balance or her brilliant smile despite recurring obstacles. Practical, effi cient, effective, serious, gentle, smiling, giggling, excited. She loved good students, good papers, good books, good coffee, good clothes, good shopping, and good friends. She created beauty in her needlework and in her home, but her greatest joy was her family, beginning with her childhood sweetheart. She shed a tear as the fall semester kept her from her grandchild until evening. She fl ashed a smile sharing news of one daughter’s theater work or enjoying a dinner for women educators with her other daughter. She reveled in the story as her husband told how their grandchild had said, “B is for the Beatles.” In memory of Sharon Royal, 1947 -2008 Medical events she arranged at the convenience of her classes. Illness never stopped her kindnesses or her calls to her sick friends. Her pew at St. Stephen’s—rarely empty. Royal, the perfect name for Sharon, Queen of the Writing Center, Queen of English 113 and Virginia Woolf, Queen of American literature, a queen in many hearts at WCC, reigning still in her legacy of good teaching. Rosalyn F. Lomax |
OCLC number | 21895524 |