Zephyr

Zephyr 2009-2010

W elcome, reader. The English Department of

Santa Fe College and the staff of Zephyr

thank all of the students who contributed to this

inaugural edition of Zephyr. Many were encour-

aged by faculty and many found us on their own.

We honor you all.

This year’s journal has been a shared faculty/

student endeavor, and has, through that collabora-

tion, made all the participants a little bit smarter.

We have enjoyed building not only this journal,

but also a new opportunity for students who under-

stand the magic of writing.

This year’s intrepid staff:

Clay Arnold

Zach Bryant

Romi Gutierrez

Andy Jordan

Frank Lambright

Steve Robitaille

Holly Sprinkle

Aliesa Zoecklein

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Contents

Failure 4 Frank Lambright

Life on the Half-Shell 5 Kristina Mullins

indian child 11 Sarah Koehler

The Mission that Took My Soul 12

Brandon Crider

Listen 15 Frank Lambright

Sad Clown 16

Navarre Simpson

Lost in the Okefenokee 17

Andrew Potochnik

The Bush 20

Heather Jarosz

Road to Nowhere 21

Michael Neff

3

The Argument of Reason 24

David Richardson

The Hole 30

Amber Stone

Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam

& Haberdashery 34

Frank Lambright

The Dance 36

Sarah Hutchinson

Cover image “Self Portrait” by Lauren Beckham

4

Failure

Frank Lambright

I have attempted, with much frustration,

to write a sonnet, and three villanelles

with seven syllabic meter poems.

I even contemplated a pantoum,

only for a moment. A very brief

moment. These poem forms are exciting,

even exhilarating, but without

a muse, a love, or even a simple

emotion, the image will not appear.

It is like painting in the dark with broad

brush stokes, only to find the burgeoning

blue-green pastels of the landscape

are merely water. I always found blank

canvases intriguing, like the sculptor

who sees the form inside the stone and works

to set it free. The blank page is the same.

The pen is the rock hammer, the chisel

or the brush, a tool for freeing the form

inside the mind's eye. If that eye is blind,

even for a short time, what happens then?

What if the inspiration is lacking?

I have witnessed art forced onto itself

for the sake of itself. It is ugly

and formless, lacking the spirit to move

the artist. The square peg can not fit with-

in the round hole no matter how hard you

hit it with your hammer. I keep swinging.

Sooner or later, after many more

square pegs I might just reach down and pick up

the right one. Could this be the right one?

5

Life on the Half Shell

Kristina Mullins

A fter weeks of trying to get my head straight, I had fi-

nally found that profound calm I used to know. The

answer had come so suddenly I still wasn’t used to my stom-

ach not being in knots. Shoulders thrown back, head held

high, I felt polished in my best suit. I could smell my own

aftershave it had been so long since I’d last worn it.

Approaching the large glass, front of the restaurant I

used the reflection to straighten my tie and fix a few rough

hairs that had gotten loose in the taxi ride over. Walking to-

wards the entrance the door swung open, seemingly on its

own accord until I noticed the forearm of the stiff maître de

in a half bow and motioning me inside. He was smiling but it

did not meet his eyes until I slipped a fifty into his palm and

walked through the door. He reacted with a startled ‘Sir!’ and

then side-stepped me to get to the hostess who was standing

behind a podium marking into a ledger. The restaurant was

cool and dimly lit causing my vision to struggle for a mo-

ment before bringing the large dining room, littered with tiny

tables, into focus. The unused napkins were folded tightly

with defined edges and the ample amounts of silverware had

been laid with precision. It was the kind of place you met

the CEO’s at to iron out the final details of a big deal or

brought a woman to when you’re finally ready to pop the

question. I was only standing for a minute or so when they

pulled me from behind several waiting couples and a party of

business men to be seated immediately.

“A booth, sir? Or maybe somewhere more private in

the back?” the maître de asked through his nose. I could hear

the disapproving murmurs of the people who had been wait-

ing.

“There.” I said, leaning around him pointing to a

small table in the center of the room. The attendant looked

perplexed. The table was crowded in on all sides and danger-

ously close to two messy, noisy children who were over-

dressed and being ignored by bored looking parents.

6

“But sir, we have a nice window seat, just on the far

side of the room…”

“No, no,” I cut him short, “that table will do just

fine. Thank you.”

“Very, well.” With that he was rushing off to pre-

pare it.

Now it was the hostess’ turn to ooze.

“Evening, sir! How many will be joining you to-

night?” she said through her fake smile.

“Just me.”

She offered an ‘Ah’ as we started for the table, but

didn’t divert her eyes fast enough to hide the shock. I knew

what she was thinking; hell I’d have thought the same thing.

Why spend a small fortune for a meal if I wasn’t here to im-

press anyone? Her smile was suddenly warmer, but the tim-

ing was off. She obviously thought I was someone important,

which was just like a woman, affection easily bought by the

mere suggestion of wealth. This thought reminded me of

why I had come here tonight, and the sudden, unexpected

thought of my wife tightened my stomach and brought it up

into my chest. I calmed myself, knowing that I had solved

that problem, or was about to anyway. With a deep breath my

muscles released and my insides dropped back an inch or

two. I realized the hostess was still standing there, waiting

for her tip. I gave her a polite smile that said ‘Fuck off.’ She

gave me a smile back, silently letting me know she thought I

was a prick and probably gay. No matter, she wouldn’t be

seeing me out anyway.

Opening the menu I passed up the soup and salads

outright. Eagerly flipping pages I stopped when I hit steaks,

realizing I had gone too far. Back-tracking I found what I

was looking for. The sleek page had Seafood curling across

the top making the English word look French at a quick

glance. Passing my finger down the page I read the entrees,

getting excited.

“Would you like to see the wine list, sir?” The

waiter had managed to sneak up behind me as I browsed.

“Your best champagne, please.”

“Sir, are you sure? We have a 1988 Krug a Reims,

which can be quite pricey after a few glasses.”

7

“Fine then, the bottle, please, as I’m in a mood to

celebrate.”

“Yes, sir! Right away!” he scampered away hoping

for a tip to help with the car payment.

The rest of the staff must have caught on that I was

a man to be catered to, because before waiter number one

had made it to the bar there was a second waiter closing in

from the other side.

“Evening, sir,” he said professionally, “have you

had enough time to see the menu?”

“Yes, I have.” I paused, waiting for him to gather

pen and paper. “I’ll have oysters, two dozen, raw. The fried

clams and crab legs, king crab, if you have them. A shrimp

cocktail, and the shrimp scampi, but add scallops to that, and

a bowl of the seafood gumbo, what sides are included with

the gumbo?”

“Normally a vegetable or potato, but let me assure

you sir, our entrees are quite large enough…”

“I don’t need your assurances, waiter. Substitute the

vegetable with crab cakes; I don’t want to see a goddamn

veggie on my plate anywhere. I also want a plate of boiled

crawfish, with extra butter for all of it.”

“Yes, sir. Of course. An order of this magnitude will

take some preparation time. If your aversion to vegetables

doesn’t extend too far, might I recommend the house salad?

We boast the employment of Brian Lowery, the best salad

chef in the state.”

“Is there shellfish in it?” I asked.

“No, sir. We could put some in, however…”

“No, bring the salad as it comes.”

I hadn’t planned on getting a salad, but ordered one

anyway upon hearing the salad chef bit. I hadn’t known such

a position existed and needed to see what the fuss was about.

Watching waiter number two blatantly run for the kitchen,

waiter number one swooped back over and popped the cork

on my champagne. He poured a glass and stood back, staring

at me expectantly and waiting for me to try it.

“Waiter, have you ever tried the champagne that you

serve?” I asked.

“No, sir we don’t normally…”

8

I picked up an empty glass and set it in front of him.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, we aren’t allowed to drink

on the job and...”

“I really must insist,” I said as sincerely as I could

muster and looked him straight in the eye until he half sat in

the chair across from my own moved for the glass.

“Good man! A toast!” I called out as we held our

glasses high. “To the bitch who ruined me, may her guilty

soul burn eternally in hell.”

The waiter glanced apologetically at the table with

the children as they stared in disbelief but then dutifully

drained his goblet for my honor. The taste didn’t seem much

different from the cheap stuff we had served at my wedding

and I was stuck thinking of how ironic it was that marriage

had been the last time I’d had champagne at all.

“Hear, hear.” He said and stood to leave. “Will there

be anything else, sir?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Will you add a lobster to my or-

der? The largest one in the tank.”

With a strange smile and a curt nod he shuffled for

the kitchen.

In no time at all they were bringing me a huge salad

bowl. It was colorful, with an array of vegetables, some I

couldn’t recognize, and even fruits and nuts. It included a

large variety of oils and dressings that all seemed to merge

and blend throughout the bowl.

“Please, waiter, can you see to it that all of my

dishes come out at once. This is extremely important.”

“Of course, sir.”

For the next half hour I grazed over the food slowly,

scrutinizing it harshly, then surprisingly admitting to myself

that it was the best salad I’d ever eaten. People came and

went from my table leaving sauces of various kinds and re-

filling my glass now and then but never to bring out so much

as a dinner roll.

Then abruptly both waiters and several cooks

poured from the kitchen, each laden with plates crammed

with multiple dishes to make all of the food fit on my tiny

table. There was a commotion as the other diners stopped

their conversations and set down their forks to stare at the

9

spectacle. Someone removed my salad plate and refilled my

champagne again and in a matter of moments they had all

shuffled off to their respective parts of the restaurant again to

gossip about the man who had ordered everything.

Setting a napkin into my lap like a gentleman, I

smiled at the small boy leaning over the back of his chair to

openly gawk at me. I said a quick prayer and thought of the

look on my wife’s face when they told her. I ate as fast as I

could, stuffing my mouth to capacity, jumping from plate to

plate, mixing things, and grabbing with my bare hands. I

dumped wet oysters into my open mouth as I chewed and

when the crab legs gave me trouble I bit through the shells,

letting them crunch between my teeth. I slurped the shrimp

scampi and bit into the crab cakes like apples. I washed it all

down with huge gulps of expensive champagne. I felt it first

on my hands and the corners of my mouth, the itching and

swelling and then burning. I was running out of time. Eyes

watering, I was still pushing food down my throat as it

started to close. The lights of the restaurant grew dark and

multicolored stars blocked my vision as my breathing was

cut off.

“I’ll show her,” I thought. My wife’s face, stricken

with grief and despair, swam before my hallucinating eyes.

Utterly detached, I could feel the upheaval around me as I

fell from my seat a purple, swelling mess, smiling over what

I had achieved. She would know that I had done this because

of her. She had sent me to my grave with her infidelities and

my memory would haunt her for years to come. It was at this

moment a thought struck me that almost made me scream out

loud, had that not been physically impossible. She’d get it

all. I’d been such an idiot, I’d never switched the paperwork

over. She’d get my life insurance, the house and cars, what

little I had left in stocks. We were never extremely well off,

but after everything was settled she’d be rich. She could

probably even sue the restaurant for not saving her poor,

crazed husband in time. She’d spend everything I’d worked

for on her lover! With every ounce of strength I had in me I

wanted to live! I dug deep to pull my consciousness back to

the surface.

As if will power alone had the power to reverse

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death I seemed to be coming around. I took tiny, forced

breaths and eventually my eyes opened just a slit and I could

see a room full of people standing around me looking con-

cerned and appalled.

“The hell…?” I gurgled out of my throat. Rolling

my head to the side I realized my arm had multiple syringes

poking out of it standing straight up in the air. Sitting up

slowly I pulled them out, one by one, my movements left

trails and I felt drugged.

An angry manager loomed over me, he was yelling

but it sounded miles away, the only sound being my throb-

bing head. I laid back for a few minutes until my breathing

stabilized

“Sir! Were you aware of your allergy to shellfish

when you entered the restaurant? Thank God for Brian! ”

“The salad guy?” I mumbled, and with blurred vi-

sion, looked up at him.

“Salad chef, sir. He has a horrible allergy himself so

we keep an ample supply of Epinephrine on hand at all

times. We’ve called an ambulance, is there anyone you’d like

to be notified? A wife maybe?”

“My fucking wife, indeed.” I stood drunkenly, like

my legs didn’t want to work. As I headed for the door, using

tables and doorways to support myself, I was already formu-

lating a new plan. My outlook on the situation had drastically

changed in the last thirty minutes and I saw the truth. Obvi-

ously it wasn’t my fault that the marriage had failed, she had

committed those heinous acts.

“Sir, you shouldn’t be walking…” Someone called

out as I pushed through the front door and into a heavy, dark

night. I hailed a cab and prepared myself for what was to

come.

11

indian child

Sarah Koehler

she pulls at red earth with her feet,

wriggling her toes in clay

like lost earth worms turning sun baked.

clouds slip over her skin,

and a confetti autumn cascades

in oranges,

yellows,

and reds…

wind-runaway-robin feathers

turn into headdresses

and nursery rhymes

elevate into chants of mother moon.

spy the unfortunate beetle

caught in glass jars and forgotten.

she is mesmerized by the golden halo of the firefly,

she is

a wild child raised by stories

instead of wolves,

she falls asleep with dreams of savages

and a new world.

12

The Mission That Took My Soul

Brandon Crider

I n war, there are only two ways out, you either leave in a

coffin or you live to see the destruction of your soul. I

learned this lesson first hand when I was twenty one and a

member of the U.S. Army Infantry serving in Iraq. I had been

tested many times in scores of bloody battles over that year

of heavy combat, most of which I can barely remember.

However, I do remember one mission that was so horrific

and dark I have never been able to forget it. Courtesy of my

twisted subconscious, I have to endure reliving this battle

every night I close my eyes. I awake in tears or screaming.

Either way it ends up, the beginning is always the same.

As a thunderous explosion erupted shaking me

down to my core, my eyes became lost within the depths of a

massive plume of smoke and fire. It was only after a few

seconds, which seemed as if hours, my eyes were struck by

the carnage laid out in front of me. For this rustic dirt road

had been transformed into a river of crimson red. Corpses

were scattered about in a contorted and erratic manner, while

limbs and flesh fell appallingly from the sky. The blood from

this battle truly conquered the scene of that day. It pounded

the streets, battering it like a devastating tidal wave crashing

against the shore. The aroma of the essence of life became

even more powerful and pungent with ever breath, as blood

intermingled with the air.

Shots rang out accompanied by a ballad of explo-

sions before I had time to take in all that had played out in

this horrifying scene. An ambush, a death trap we now found

ourselves centered in. With out hesitation my unit responded

back by unleashing hell in all her fury. Silhouettes that had

been moments ago standing in opposition now dropped blan-

keting the streets like volcanic ash. I threw myself behind a

collage of corpses and used them for cover as well as a make

shift shooting platform. While entrenched in battle I felt the

cold damp feeling of blood emerge and penetrate through my

uniforms fabric. I was horrified at the sight of my now crim-

13

son colored BDU’s. It was as if I had bathed in blood. The

revelation of this mere thought pinned a sickening feeling in

my stomach. As if emerging from a sea of blood, I instinc-

tively sprinted to a new position, leaving a ghastly crimson

trail along the way.

I attempted to ignore the carnage surrounding me, as

I focused on protecting my brothers in battle. My comrades

emerged in combat on my left and right were fighting not

only for their lives but also for mine. As adrenaline and fear

pumped through our veins, our emotions were replaced by

our instinct. Only through muscle memory were we able to

forge forward in our desperate fight for survival. Methodi-

cally we pulled our triggers sending the dead and dying in-

stantaneously to the ground. We silenced our enemies with

artistic precision, casting corpses to the ground like color on

a canvas. So gifted in the art of death, even the devil no

doubt had to revel in this day. We forged forward without

hesitation or thought. We felt as though nothing could de-

stroy us, that is until the devil finally played his hand.

My heart shattered when realizing that there were

children entrenched within the fight. I cringed after every

shot, as I reunited these confused children mixed up in man’s

conflict with their deity of choice. I tried to find some sense

of comfort in that their innocence had been stripped away

long before I stripped them of their life. That sense of com-

fort never came for I could never get past the hollowing and

heavy feeling in my heart.

I buried these feelings only momentarily as the bat-

tle raged on. Charging from position to position we fought

our death sentence back. I stumbled over limbs, no longer

attached to their host in an attempt to reach my platoon. It

was then the ground showed me it too was as frail as life

itself, braking away beneath my feet. My ankle almost

snapped in half as I hit the bottom of that newly formed fis-

sure. My momentum flung me face first into the remains of

a child swallowed by pools of blood. The pain emanating

from my boot and heart pleaded for me to stay down. I lay

there for a split second contemplating my predicament. My

injury caused me to be unintentionally left behind putting me

about a hundred feet away from my unit. Surveying my sur-

14

roundings I spotted one of our abandoned vehicles. Gritting

my teeth I crawled towards the only hope of reaching the

safety of my platoon. With a surge of adrenaline I climbed

into an up armored. Driving over mounds of burning corpses

littering the street, I made my way over to my platoon’s posi-

tion.

Once in position, I again entrusted my life in the

hands of my blood brothers as they placed their lives in

mine. My attention only shifted as I became transfixed on

two men kneeling while engulfed in flames. No longer fo-

cused on my own pain, I ran over to attempt to smother the

flames that were entrapping these two men. However just as

I made it to them it hit me. They had crawled out of the sui-

cide bombers vehicle. My heart became numb and turned to

ice. I reflected on the fact that these two men had placed this

day’s mayhem and death at my feet. These men who lacked

the courage to face us on the battle field, instead brought

blood and the war it’s self onto those innocent streets. As I

deliberated on rendering aid the eerie image of a lifeless

young girl caught my eye. Frozen in hate I was left to make

one final decision. To show human compassion for a man

who showed none or play God and act without. While delib-

erating I again turned towards the body of the child. Only

this time I did not see just a child but my own daughter. With

this self projected image my compassion and humanity

drifted away. With that the notion, the thought of rendering

aid quickly faded away. I sought retribution in my decision

not to extend them the relief from their torture and pain. I

watched as they dripped away from their miserable exis-

tence. Their screams and pleads in another tongue merely

echoed in my now vacant heart. Showing no remorse I

looked at my brother to my right standing in utter awe.

“Flame on,” I exclaimed as we both chuckled at this ironic

twist of fate. Walking away we left behind our pity and si-

lenced forever our emotions. For on this day, it didn’t matter

who you were, the old, young, brave, coward, strong or weak

of man, woman and even a child. It all played out the same

for their lives were taken along with my soul here on this

day.

15

Listen

Frank Lambright

This poem was written for a class “first line” exercise. The

poem I was given was “Song” by Brigit Pegeen Kelly and

the line was “Listen: there was a goat's head hanging by

ropes in a tree.”

There was a goat's head hanging by ropes in a tree

and I swear when I stared that it looked back at me

swinging in rhythm, marking the time,

guarding the fallen, bemoaning the crime

of innocence lost in a war none could win

by fighting for nothing in this world full of sin.

Their flight for survival, a grasp for the ring,

sacrificing their rivals with none left to sing

of victories won, villain's deceit,

heroes forgotten, narrow defeats,

And a last stark reminder hung low in a tree,

left hanging in memory for people to see.

What foibles in life can stand in that sight,

a backdrop of fire, fleeing shadows and strife,

building in tempo, squelching the song,

swirling in anger, apathy, wrong.

A battle imbalanced, a tide set to turn,

when daybreak arrives, the nightmares will burn.

Now I stood there in silence looking up t'ward the hill

at the elm on its summit resting quiet and still

wishing for vengeance, wounding my soul,

crying in earnest at the base of the knoll

with the goat's head hanging by ropes from that tree

and I swear when I stared that it looked back at me.

16

Sad Clown

Navarre Simpson

The face of Pagliacci

brought to surface.

Oh what wondrous joys and smiles

you bring unto people

like a miracle worker working miracles

on the lives of others.

No one truly understood

nor their desire to do so.

You wear a mask

same as a human

Oh what a marvelous mask you wear

representing the true nature of thy being,

unlike the colorless ones worn by others.

The blue eyes complement the white blank

that is your heart

that is also red with anger

and black with sorrow

along with the blessed words

from your mouth that momentarily cures the minds.

Oh my how much sorrow you show.

It practically covers half of your face.

You poor pompous clown,

as shown by your exquisite hat

trying to give face to the world that won’t understand.

And as the clown you are, the anger is not shown but repressed,

and used with a honk honk.

So my friend do not threatened

thyself with a stoker.

For you are the same as the humans who laugh at you.

Liven up, tough it out

and he who laughs last, laughs best.

17

Lost in the Okefenokee

Andrew Potochnik

J ohn treaded slowly through the peat, legs trembling, with

his dog's blue tattered collar clutched firmly in his hands.

He stepped over a patch of chain-ferns, their long stems tick-

ling his bare feet. He had abandoned his water-logged shoes

further back, they were impeding his progress. Night was

setting fast over the swamp, the prime time to catch the fiend

that ate his yellow lab, Gunther. The Native Americans

called the swamp the Okefenokee, "The Land of the Trem-

bling Earth," after deposits of decaying organic matter called

peat that covers the swamp floor. Gas boils up from beneath

the waters of the swamp and bursts under the peat, making it

seem as if the swamp itself is moving.

John found a patch of elevated ground where a large

pond-cypress stretched into the swamp canopy. Resting

against the tree he looked out into the swamp and shivered.

With the setting of the sun, came the rising of the swamp

denizens. Out before him was a large body of water that sat

nestled in the swamp; this was where the old reptile would

be. Only a monstrous alligator could inhabit such a place.

Only a monstrous alligator could take down Gunther.

John managed a weak smile, knowing his mother

was probably worrying herself into a fit over his absence.

Her tales of ghosts and monsters hadn't worked this time.

Tales that he figured she had concocted to prevent his ven-

turing into the swamp. There was no South Georgia Pig

Man, Skunk Ape, or Indian ghost; or, at least John hoped

there was not. At ten years old, he considered himself quite

brave. But as soon as he had reassured himself of the non

existence of monsters, the deep, bellowing, rumble of an

alligator destroyed his resolve.

John flattened himself against the cypress tree,

the rivets in the trunk digging into his back. The sun could

no longer be seen over the swamp. His courage was disap-

pearing with the light. He fingered the small, red Swiss

Army knife that he kept in his pocket. He realized then

18

how inadequate of a weapon it would be against the alli-

gator.

"What am I doing out here?" he asked himself,

voice cracking.

He looked back from where he came through the

swamp. He had no real sense of direction, walking for

most of the day, taking no heed to where he was going.

John was lost in the Okefenokee. The thought settled over

him like the darkness of nighttime. He curled up, wrap-

ping his arms around his legs. He held Gunther's collar

tight between his hands. Overhead, the hoot of a barred

owl pierced the night. He glanced upward, the Spanish

moss hung low over the boughs of the cypress trees, look-

ing like claws in the dark. He grabbed his flashlight that

he had tucked in the side of his jeans and hurriedly flicked

the switch on. He shined the flashlight over the water.

Pairs of yellow eyes lit up in the beam of the light, like

tiny candles burning over the water's surface. There were

multiple monstrous alligators in this body of water.

The revenge that had so strongly consumed Johns

mind was chased away by his fear. He held the dog collar

close to his chest.

"I wish you were here, Gunther," he whispered.

John shuddered, reliving the moment when the

alligator took his dog. He had been napping on the back

porch of his house, when a loud thrashing in the nearby

creek awoke him.

He ran down to the creek to find Gunther's collar

on the bank and the alligator descending into the water. It

was a massive creature. Lunging into the creek, John dove

after the monster, tears streaming down his eyes as he

screamed for it to stop. The alligator was gone. Crawling

up the bank, he grabbed Gunther's shredded collar and

darted into the house. He knew what he had to do. Wast-

ing no time, he grabbed his Swiss Army knife and his

flashlight, and set off after the creature.

Now here he was in the thick of the Okefenokee,

lost and afraid. He had no doubts then, that there were

monsters and ghosts in the swamp. He could see in his

mind the Pig-man, walking hunched over from the weight

19

of its hairy back, lurking through the muck and mire of

the swamp. He could see its red eyes scanning the night

for human prey, licking its yellow tusks in anticipation.

Alligators would seem tame by comparison.

The splash of water resounded in the distance and

John jerked the flashlight in its direction. The beam

caught a flash of yellow, and then it disappeared behind

the cypress. It was the Pig-man, coming to take him to its

lair. John began to shiver uncontrollably, the flashlight

falling from his hand. He tried to pick it back up, but his

hand wouldn't stop shaking. It would take him, the Pig-

man would, and then it would slowly roast him over a fire

like a skewered pig. John was crying now and the tears

wouldn't stop. He was about to dart into the swamp,

screaming for his life, when something wet rolled across

his cheek. John screamed and fell back onto the ground.

Something wet, furry, and smelly, descended upon him.

He tried to fight off his assailant in the darkness, but soon

realized it wasn't eating him, but rather it was licking him.

He grabbed his flashlight and shined it on the creature.

His heart jumped in excitement. A familiar yellow face

was there to greet him. Gunther sat obediently before him,

covered in mud, tongue hanging happily from his mouth.

He embraced his dog, tears flowing from his eyes.

"I thought I lost you, boy," he cried, burying his

face in the dog's neck. "I can't believe you found me." He

could feel a patch of missing fur below Gunther's head. Shin-

ing the light on it, he saw a set of bite marks.

"You got in a fight with the neighbor's dog, that's

why your collar was off." John couldn't believe his stupidity.

"Why did you let me think that gator had got you?"

John held Gunther tight against his body, amazed at

his own stupidity, surprised that his dog had found him, but

safe none the less knowing he had his best friend to protect

him. The next morning a search party of friends and family

found John sleeping against the cypress tree. He was holding

Gunther tightly in his arms, protecting him from the alliga-

tors, ghosts, and pig-men that haunt the swamps of the Oke-

fenokee.

20

The Bush

Heather Jarosz

There’s a gardenia bush outside my bedroom window.

It stands as tall as the broken-down fence that wraps

around our modest acre lot.

Sometimes it blooms

white flowers that shelter the stone rabbit that crouches

eternally under its low branches.

This is Grandma’s bush.

Silky white petals are not the masterpiece for the woman

who could once craft a beautiful dress,

the owl that once stared at us over the fireplace.

Even that is gone.

I can see the bush from my window,

and Mom can watch it while she sews.

Yet we never speak of the white gardenia flowers,

and we never pluck the purity from their branches.

These are Grandma’s flowers,

the last remaining glory for the woman who now teaches

the angels how to paint a proper sunset.

I wish I knew her better.

21

Road to Nowhere

Michael Neff

O n the table, four glass shakers stand in a line: one for

pepper, one for oregano, one for salt, and one for sugar.

The salt and sugar are indistinguishable from each other.

Neither jar has a label. Even if they had a label, it would

probably only be a useless ‘S’. How many meals have been

ruined because of these shakers? Salt added to iced tea.

Sugar poured on pepperoni pizza. So much misery caused by

deceptive appearances and worthless labels.

She finds her urge to pour salt in her own tea to be a

strange but a familiar desire. She reaches across the table for

a packet of artificial sweetener. Twenty-six and twenty

pounds heavier than she was in high school, and to many this

was a formula for sorrow and loneliness. She stirs in the fake

sugar and takes a few sips, and she begins to think why she

was waiting in this dull vinyl booth.

It was all because her friend wanted her to meet this

guy. Her friend said he was a perfect match and that she had

already given him her phone number, so she should expect a

call from him soon. The perfect guy called her later that day,

and he asked if she wanted to meet up for lunch tomorrow.

She knew the restaurant he suggested; it was a place where

all of the workers were covered in tattoos and wore shirts of

Che Guevara or local bands like Them! or Slight Prick.

Later that night she checked out his online profile.

Fortunately, his photos were public. The perfect guy wasn’t

half bad, she thought. He wasn’t unattractive. His status was

set as single, as was her profile. The interests, books, and

movies listed on his profile seemed in line with hers, or at

least what she told everyone she was interested in.

Something quickly unsettled her about his photos.

She soon realized it was because most of them were cropped

in some fashion. In each photo lingered the top of a redhead

or a bit of blond hair and half of a cheek. Another photo had

the top of a brunette’s head in the center of his chest, the face

strategically cut off. She wondered how many had come

22

before her, and then thought about how many had come be-

fore him.

She then went through her profile, and she saw she

had plenty of photos with people who had been cropped out.

Good pictures were hard to come by she told herself, and she

wouldn’t let whoever she was with at the time make the

photo unusable forever. They were mistakes she could crop

out, but they were difficult to fully remove. Looking through

her photos she would often find a mysterious arm on her

shoulder or a guy’s chest and shoulders behind her, framing

her face. She tried to remember who these headless torsos

and mysterious hands belonged to. The first one she recog-

nized was Dan, the multiple growth hormone body-builder. It

was a purely physical relationship, painfully absent of any-

thing else. It lasted six months. Another was Scott, the one

who didn’t like to label their relationship, but had no trouble

labeling it as 'over' once he was done with her. Nine months.

Then Dave, who was in a band and was upfront with her

when he told her he would see other people while seeing her.

She was allowed to do the same and even mimicked his be-

havior. Fourteen months. Then Mark, he was nice but so

vanilla. Three months. Dale, the Conservative Christian who

only wanted sex, refused to buy birth control, but quickly

paid for the Plan B that one time. Five months. Greg. One

week. Derrick. Three weeks. Dave number two, and Doug,

and…

She paused and laughed thinking why so many of

the names began with ‘D’, but then she felt herself become

vaguely ill inside. She had given so much to them all. Every

time there was a piece left behind, like the lingering hands

and jaws in the photos. She couldn’t help but think of Lot’s

wife, and how she turned to salt when she looked back on

her past. She thought she needed to let the past go, or she

would become hard and petrified by it. Then she thought of

Eurydice, and how when her true love looked back, she

faded away forever. She wanted true love, but what if she

found it only to have it fade away. There had been too many

cruel distractions and wrong turns.

Starting immediately, she would no longer lower her

standards. The moment this perfect guy says something out

23

of line, is rude, or anything else, she would leave. Maybe not

leave, but she would definitely not go on a second date.

24

The Argument of Reason

David Richardson

Characters:

Right: Right is a woman. She is stunningly beautiful, wear-

ing a white cocktail dress with blue trimmings. Right is

young, and has a very matter-of-fact attitude. She is some-

what shorter than wrong, but not by much. Right is English,

and always uses correct grammar.

Wrong: Wrong is a middle-aged man, slightly devilish look-

ing sporting a goatee. He wears a black suit, with a red but-

ton up shirt underneath. His tie is black as well as his vest.

He is charismatic yet there is something that is almost creepy

about him. He is also English and his grammar is usually

correct.

Both Right and Wrong are meant to give off a classy per-

sona.

The Undecided: The Undecided could be anyone; you, your

friends, family, etc. The Undecided is simply a majority.

Setting:

The dialogue takes place in a dark; possibly pitch black

room where Right and Wrong are arguing. This dark room

could represent The Undecided’s conscious.

Right: Entering the dark room. A light shines on her. All

right! It’s about time that I set things straight!

Wrong: Strolling in nonchalantly from the opposite side of

the room. A light shines on him also. Wait! Wait! Wait just a

minute! What do you think you are doing?

Right: I’m about to set the Undecided straight. There is no

telling what kind of trouble they’re going to get into! Espe-

cially if they make the wrong decision.

25

Wrong: Well then! (Sarcastically) Can you please inform as

to what is the wrong decision.

Right: Well… (Pauses) Yours is of course!

Wrong: Really?

Right: Really!

Wrong: Why?

Right: Why? What an absurd question! You know how this

goes. (Pointing to herself) I am right. (Pointing to Wrong)

and you are…

Wrong: Wrong?

Right: Exactly.

Wrong: Are you sure?

Right: (Pompously) You are asking me if I am right?

Wrong: Yes.

Right: Well of course I am!

Wrong: (Appears to be in deep thought. Stroking his beard.)

Hmmm…

Right is staring at him expectantly with her arms crossed,

Wrong just keeps on stroking his chin.

Right: Well…

Wrong: Well I was just thinking.

Right: (Interrupting) Oh Lord this is never good!

Wrong: (Irritated) I was just thinking!

26

Right: Yes…

Wrong: Let’s switch roles.

Right: For Heaven’s sake that wouldn’t work! How could

you be so foolish!? To think that you are capable of making a

right decision! Humph! (Crosses her arms a little tighter, her

nose tilts towards the air just a little bit.)

Wrong: (Still stroking his beard. Pointing to himself and

then her.) This would have anything to do with me being a

man and you being a woman would it?

Right: Of course not!

Wrong: Well then… Why?

Right: Because I’m right and you’re…

Wrong: (Interrupting and rolling his eyes.) Wrong. I know!

I know! But…

Right: But what!

Wrong: Well surely I’m not capable of making the worst

decision.

Right: (Tapping her foot) Umm…Have you forgotten ex-

actly what side of the shoulder you’re on?

Wrong: Exactly my point!

Right: What is?

Wrong: Well, (Pointing back) they’ve got us on their shoul-

ders right?

Right: Right.

Wrong: And they can’t see us right?

27

Right: Right…

Wrong: So isn’t it reasonable to assume that there must

surely be characters just like us on either of our shoulders

also?

Right: (Stops tapping her foot)

Wrong sees that he has caught her attention and displays a

devilish smile.

Wrong: Hmm…?

Right: (Pauses for a moment then loses her composure just a

little.) Well even if there are little people on our shoulders.

You would most certainly have men on BOTH of yours!

Wrong: (Wagging his finger.) Ah Ah Ah! Surely you don’t

mean that.

Right: (Realizes what she said stops, a very slight bit of sur-

prise creeps over her face.) Well of course not!

Wrong: Well then why did you say that?

Right: It was a joke!

Wrong: It didn’t sound like a joke when you said it. You

had passion! Why is that? You always have more passion

than I do when it comes to our little arguments.

Right: (Frowns) It is because you’re cold and calculating.

Wrong: Be careful, it sounds like your “left” side is getting

the better of your “right” side. (Uses his fingers to put the

words into quotes.)

Right: (Regains her composure.) Well, assuming that your

theory has some truth, what exactly are you getting at?

28

Wrong: As I was saying before. If we’ve got little people

on our shoulders, one would be Right and one would be

Wrong.

Right: Okay….

Wrong: So it is safe to assume that I have a right side!

Right: Yes, but it is still on the wrong side of reason.

Wrong: True, but suppose that I was the only one available

to make a decision.

Right: But that would never happen!

Wrong: Suppose it did.

Right: I suppose that you would have to choose between to

wrong decisions.

Wrong: And… If I made the better choice out of the two,

wouldn’t that make it right?

Right: No.

Wrong: Admit it. For once I am Right, and you are Wrong!

Right: Do you really want to know what I am.

Wrong: Sure my dear.

Right: Confused!

Wrong: So would you ever let me play your role?

Right: Would you like to wear my dress also?

Wrong: Well if that’s what it takes… I have to say I’ve

probably contributed to more ridiculous things than that of a

man in a dress with all of my… wrong decisions.

29

Right rolls her eyes.

Wrong: I’ll tell you what; I’ll give you another scenario.

Assume that one of our “flock” has to make a decision of

whether or not they must get into a little bit of a tussle with

another. The “right” decision would be to avoid this conflict.

The “wrong” decision would be to beat the other like a dirty

rug. However, what if by making this “right” decision, others

see that this person is a pushover, one that can be taken ad-

vantage of. In fact, what if, by not getting into this fight, this

man, or woman is seen as a weak and is therefore beaten up

just because of that fact. Where does the right decision lie in

that case?

Right: Your logic never ceases to amaze me.

Wrong: You have to admit that I have a point.

Right: And what exactly would that point be?

Wrong: That sometimes our roles are somewhat switched.

Sometimes people are forced to be put into situations that

don’t have a right or a wrong answer. Sometimes there is

only a choice, nothing more, nothing less, just simply choice.

Could you agree to that?

Right: (Thinking hard.) I suppose. This doesn’t mean I was

wrong though. I just wasn’t looking at it from your…

perspective.

Wrong: So how about switching roles every now and then?

Right: I don’t think so. Obviously you sometimes get your

way, or else all would be good. So, how about you stay on

your side, and I stay on my side, and you can play your little

mind games over there. Agreed?

Wrong: Agreed.

(Both exit.)

30

The Hole

Amber Stone

T here was a hole in the backyard. It was nestled next to

the tall, wicked looking tree that would make faces at

me through my window at night. When all the lights were

out and my parents were sleeping in their bed upstairs, I

would see it. The tree liked to glare and while the wind

would howl through my creaky old house the long, gangly

branches would try to reach into my window and take me

away.

And yet I still loved the night.

My mother did not want me going near the hole.

Every time I would ask her, she would look up at me through

bloodshot eyes and out her bottle of poison down and say,

“Margaret, that hole leads to Hell. If you go to it, you will

burn for eternity.”

On the rare occasion my daddy was home and he

and Mother weren’t screaming about perfumes and lipsticks,

I would talk to him about the hole. Daddy never seemed all

that concerned with it, though, and simply told me I might

get hurt if I fall in. When I told him that Mother said it led to

Hell, he got angry and said Mother knew nothing of Hell

save for what her bottle of Whiskey taught her.

Daddy was home a lot less after that.

I remember when I turned nine that my greatest

wish was to finally go to the hole. I wanted to know if my

mother was right, if it truly did lead to Hell. But I couldn’t.

No matter which direction I would come from, the tree al-

ways watched me. Anytime I would get too close, the

branches would reach out and try to snatch me up and drag

me into the unknown. I began to realize that the tree was the

hole’s guardian. It made sure that no one went it, but if they

did, it made sure no one came out. It frightened me and I

went to my mother.

“Mother,” I said. “If the hole is Hell, then is that

wicked tree the Devil?”

My mother began to weep. I did not know why.

31

Weeks passed by before I saw Daddy again. He

seemed overjoyed and relieved to see me, as though he ex-

pected not too. He came charging in the front door with this

expression of pure rage on his face that all but disappeared

when he saw me standing in the hallway. He scooped me up

into his arms and kept muttering my name over and over

again. It was bewildering and so I just hung there until he

put me down. He stared at me with this serious look and

asked me where Mother was.

I did not know; I hardly ever knew where she was.

I told that to Daddy.

He was angry again. Instead of yelling, he very

calmly told me to go upstairs to my room and gather my

things together, that we were going on a little vacation, just

me and him. When I asked him why, he just repeated that I

needed to get all my things, and quickly. I asked about

Mother, and he snapped at me to hurry and that she was not

coming. Baffled, I slowly started the climb up the stairs.

It took me a few minutes to pack my backpack with

the things I thought I would need. I grabbed my favorite

dresses and shirts and pants, my toothbrush, hairbrush, and

my favorite teddy and stuffed them all into my bag. As I was

leaving my room, Mother burst in and knocked me back-

wards onto the floor.

“Where are you going?” she screeched.

I looked up at her and saw her bottle was empty.

“Daddy is downstairs; he says we are going on a trip.”

Her ugly face contorted and she plundered down-

stairs. I followed more slowly and leaned against the railing

to watch as she stopped just in front of Daddy. Shouts and

screams began to fly from both of my parents. Daddy

shouted that my mother was unfit, that she could not just call

someone to say what she had said, to threaten to do that to

someone else’s child. He shouted that she was useless and

that I should not be forced to put up with it. Mother

screamed at him that it was all his fault she was the way she

was, that I was a perfectly content little girl, that she and I

were doing just fine without him. She screamed that she had

a plan for us that would make everything beautiful and easy

and it had nothing to do with Daddy.

32

Daddy did not like that. He grabbed hold of

Mother’s shoulders and bellowed right into her face words

that I could not make out. His face was almost purple in

anger and he seemed oblivious to Mother’s nails that clawed

at his hands to let her go. They kept shouting and screaming

and swearing and I turned around and walked back to my

room. The last thing I heard before I shut my door was the

sound of Mother’s bottle shattering against the wall and the

front door slamming shut with a horrifying finality.

Darkness had settled onto the world like a heavy

blanket. I sat myself before my window and stared outside.

The tree was there, and as it always did, it stared at me

through the black. Its face glared and its hands reached to-

wards me and I shivered. The tree seemed amused by my

fear and it smirked with its evil, depthless eyes. I could see

the hole sitting just behind it, as though it was cowering be-

hind its protector, and I glared right back.

There was no moon this night.

Time disappeared while I sat, but the creak of my

door opening tore me away. Mother walked in and stood

against the door frame. Her eyes were gleaming in the dark-

ness in an almost demonic way and she reached a hand out.

“Margaret, my Margaret,” she murmured. It

sounded like the croak of a dying cat. “Come, we are going

to the hole.”

I did not get up. Something was wrong, I could feel

it. “Why? You said the hole is Hell.”

Mother laughed and I fought not to cover my ears.

“Oh child, don’t you worry about that. I didn’t mean it. Now,

come with me.”

I swallowed. The desire to go to the hole was rag-

ing in my veins and even though I had a horrible feeling, I

stood and walked to my mother. I had to go, I had to see, I

had to find out. We walked together to the backyard but I

stopped before we could get too close to the tree. I had not

noticed before, but Mother was holding something in her

hand. It was dark and it, like her wild eyes, gleamed in the

darkness.

“Mother, where is Daddy?”

“He’s gone home. Stand here, girl.” Her voice was

33

no longer soft but hard and sharp.

I slowly stepped up beside her, all the while not

taking my eyes off the trees limbs. They were moving in the

breeze, and I swear they were moving towards us, towards

me. I knew that at any moment, Mother and I were going to

disappear. I tried to step back but Mother’s hands were sud-

denly on me and holding me in place.

In one of her hands, Mother was holding a gun.

I stopped moving and stared at it for a long moment.

Suddenly, I understood. I understood what my parents were

always fighting about, I understood what the lipsticks and

perfumes meant, and I understood what they had been fight-

ing about today. I understood why Daddy had come barging

into the house and then been so relieved to see me…

Alive.

I understood that Mother had been telling the truth

about the hole. As we stood beside it, and as hot wind bil-

lowed out and blew our hair around our faces, I realized it

really was Hell. But the tree was not the Devil; the tree was

only a minion. My mother…my mother was the Devil. Her

hair morphed into horns upon her head and her mouth split

into a wide and evil grin. She held my wrist tightly in her

clawed hand and raised the other that held the gun. It

touched against my forehead lightly, almost as though it was

kissing me, and then it abruptly disappeared.

I tumbled violently down into the hole and I real-

ized that Mother was right. Hell truly did burn.

34

Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam & Haberdashery

Frank Lambright

Wonderfully well-manicured blue-hued hands

hold tightly to a crystal rocks glass and matching decanter

adorned with gold filigree and filled

with an equally blue-hued sparkling liquid.

These same blue-hued and well-manicured hands

are connected to the bald blue man

in a white well-tailored Zoot Suit,

who himself is leaning

on the mahogany of a time-worn drink rail

in the jazz room of Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam & Haberdashery,

while drinking from his gold-filigreed crystal rocks glass.

Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam & Haberdashery

is a whirlwind of activity accentuated

by the tangy gray cigar smoke swirling

above the cacophony

of striking tenor saxophone music,

jubilant patrons,

and the constant ballet

of the fully competent wait staff

that works the jazz room of Phil's establishment.

Intrigued by the presence of the bald blue-hued man

in a white well-tailored Zoot Suit

standing so near to the normally secluded

corner table in Phil's jazz room,

I decided to slake my curiosity

and find out the nature

of the sparkling blue-hued concoction

that he is drinking from the gold-filigreed crystal decanter.

Seemingly surprised

to be interrupted from his enjoyment

of the striking saxophone solo,

35

the bald blue-hued man

in the white Zoot Suit

turns slowly in the direction

of my position

along the mahogany drink rail of Phil's jazz room

and with consternation simply answers,

“water.”

36

The Dance

Shaun Hutchinson

There is a moment:

a white glow,

close to the ground, moving in

rings as it silences the room,

even as the music can be felt

in the teeth,

and his hand presses

across your shoulder,

hangs there, heavy,

supporting all of him

until fingers softly slide

to the nape of your neck.

And though no ice

falls below your collar,

an exhilarated chill

unifies the whole body

with its environment

as each of your vertebrae

begin to move.