Currents39 (2005)

Fiction, Plays, & Poetry byAngie Anderson, Jeff Anderson, Ashlee Bassa, Jason Bockman

Joe Brogan, Tracy Brown, Stephanie Burns, Matt ComeauNickie Davis, S. Ferrari Dennis, Tess Detering, Zachary Florence

Colin Frost, Terry Hartmann, Kevin HoganRebecca Hoy, George Huestis, Christine Ingoldsby, Joshua Ingram

Alix Johnston, Kevin Kelly, Lauren LaVenture, Doug LumpkinSean Manion, Macy Meyer, Sarah Midkiff, Constance Reichold

Chris Richards, R. Susan Shoemaker, Nathan Want, Leah Weber

T h e R i v e r C a l l s © 2 0 0 5 b y M a r k F l o w e r s

Currents39 (2005)

St. Louis Community College--Meramec

Currents, 39 (2005)

Student Editor

Leah Weber

Faculty Advisor

Richard Long, M. A., Ed. D.

Postal Address

CurrentsEnglish DepartmentSt. Louis Community College--Meramec11333 Big Bend BLVDSt. Louis, MO 63122

About Submissions

Currents welcomes submissions from all SLCC--Meramec studentsduring the last four weeks of the Spring and Fall semesters. Guidelinesare available from the English Department in Communications North.Currents is published annually in the Spring. Information about creativewriting at Meramec can be found in the end matter of this issue.

Currents, 39 (2005)

Contributors

Angie Anderson received her bachelor's degree in elementary educationbefore she began pursuing her MBA. Halfway through her pursuit,she decided instead to settle into a career as a copywriter.

Jeff Anderson is working on a communications degree. In his freetime, he likes to read, write, draw, and cheer for the Boston Red Sox.

Ashlee Bassa is interested in both theater and English. Her hobbiesinclude performing, writing, singing, running, and flamenco dancing.

Jason Bockman is a business major who enjoys playing basketballand writing.

Tracy Brown is majoring in English, with an emphasis in creative writing,and minoring in French.

Stephanie Burns is leaning toward a major in English. She once didskydiving to overcome her fear of heights. It worked, but she hasn'tjumped from that high up again.

Matt Comeau is going to Meramec to get a business degree. He enjoysnew experiences, so he decided to try his hand at writing.

Nickie Davis is a ridiculously single ballroom dancer who lives with twocats. She changes her major every semester.

Sean Dennis is an English major, a father of twins, and an aspiringnovelist. In the rare case of free time, he enjoys playing the piano.

Tess Detering is a musician and horticulturist.

Ben Effinger is studying art and film.

(continued on page 98)

Currents, 39 (2005)

Contents

Fiction

Domestic Disturbance by Angie Anderson 8Last Fourth of July by Jeff Anderson 11A Night on the Town by Tracy Brown 24Learning to Skate by Stephanie Burns 25Octaped Art by Matt Comeau 29The Reward of Selfishness by S. Ferrari Dennis 32Whoosh by Colin Frost 38Cradle by Terry Hartmann 40gravity; by Rebecca Hoy 42IM:PULSE by Rebecca Hoy 44Mentality by Joshua Ingram 62The Kid Who Peed Gold by Kevin Kelly 64Ecstasy by Sean Manion 74Fighting Words by Chris Richards 83Places Where Pigeons Live by Chris Richards 84American Orchards by Nathan Want 88Last Puff by Leah Weber 93Whole Milk by Leah Weber 94

Plays

Fishing by Ashlee Bassa 12The Antelope by George Huestis 46

Poems

Final Farewell by Angie Anderson 7He Slept by Angie Anderson 10Ran Through by Jason Bockman 21Where Sea Meets Sky by Joe Brogan 22Familiarity by Tracy Brown 23Addiction by Nickie Davis 30A Traveler’s Sadness by Nickie Davis 31Plastic by Tess Detering 34Word by Tess Detering 35Beach Fire by Zachary Florence 36Ghetto Beast by Zachary Florence 37This Year by Colin Frost 39The Last Twenty Five Seconds by Kevin Hogan 41The Day Blue Eyes Discoverd the World by Ben Effinger 57Boy by Christine Ingoldsby 58I Saw an Infomercial for Leporsy by Christine Ingoldsby 59Eight AM by Joshua Ingram 60Story Teller by Joshua Ingram 61Geisha by Alix Johnston 63Torn by Lauren LaVenture 71Bound by Doug Lumpkin 72Bhoireann by Sean Manion 73Sukhumvit Road at Night by Sean Manion 76Air Guitar by Macy Meyer 77Dryer Party by Macey Meyer 78Lonely Boy in Joyland by Sarah Midkiff 79Metallic Smiles by Constance Reichold 80Black Sheets by Chris Richards 81Complimentary Silence by Chris Richards 82Apple Harvest by R. Susan Shoemaker 86The Hay Ride by R. Susan Shoemaker 87

Currents, 39 (2005)

Angie Anderson

Final Farewell

Her wind-shifted hair glimmered in the sun asbees twirled to the melody of feathered songs.

The recital of ancient poemsin the warm death of morningshimmered in the pool at her feet.

And as the soulful farewell of Tapstore through her body,the cloudless sky flooded her heart.

7

Angie Anderson

Domestic Disturbance

I’d been washing my hands at the kitchen sink when the screamslured me to the porch. Light streamed through the windows on bothfloors of the neighboring house; shouts and grunts exploded into theshadows.

“You goddamn whore!”The sounds of a blunt object repeatedly striking flesh and

bone mixed with desperate sobs made me slightly queasy. I strolledback into the house to call 911.

A few minutes later, sirens shattered the neighborhood,summoning residents to their windows, braver ones moving outside. Iwanted my video camera.

From inside the house I heard, “Who called the fucking cops?Shit! Oh, no-no-no you don’t.” And the blows resumed.

Lounging against the porch railing, I observed the textbook copentry and wished for popcorn.

“You call the cops?”I jerked at the question, which came from the direction of the

sidewalk. Half of him was in the light, half in the shadows.“Jesus, you scared me.” I glanced back to make sure I’d closed

the blinds.He shifted into the light, smiled. “Sorry about that, man. You

new to the neighborhood?”I hesitated. “Yeah, just. I didn’t realize what I was getting into,”

I said, gesturing toward the commotion.“That’s been going on for years. First time anybody called the

cops though.”I grunted in acknowledgement as the tumult escalated. “You

want a beer?” He accepted, and I went in the house to get a couple.I picked my way through the cluttered living room and headed to thekitchen. I shoved the table up against the wall and took a moment torearrange that particular mess so I could get to the fridge. After washingmy hands and verifying that my clothes were still clean, I grabbed thelast two beers and twisted off the caps.

“Sorry it took so long,” I said, handing my new friend a beer.“Couldn’t find the bottle opener.” The noise next door diminishedsome, and a female cop gently guided a hysterical woman into the

8

front yard. I imagined that, on normal days, the battered woman wouldlook like every other wife and mother in this slightly worn suburb.

“Moving sucks, doesn’t it?” he asked, taking a swig. “Can’tever find anything.”

“Even worse, these were the last two beers,” I said.We stood in silence as three cops hustled out a cuffed 6’5”,

300-pound man. “My God.”“Huge, huh? Now you know why nobody ever called before.”

He tipped the bottle again.An officer walked toward us. “One of you guys call us?”I told him I had.“I need to ask a few questions,” he said as he climbed the

porch steps. My new friend thanked me for the beer and hustled off.“Want a seat?”I gestured to the wicker chairs at the end of the porch. As the

cop moved away from the door, I let my breath go. I should haveclosed the storm door.

“Your name?” he asked me.As I answered, they shoved the gorilla-man into the back of a

squad car. “Lived here long?”“About a week.” The gorilla’s eyes found me, and he snarled.As the questioning continued, the woman broke into fresh sobs.

“He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me.” She began to flail andended up bashing the head of the female officer.

One of the other cops called for assistance, and the one I’dbeen talking to told me he had more questions and would be backshortly. I breathed a little easier when he rushed back over to the groupthat was attempting to restrain the woman.

I downed the rest of my beer and went inside to straighten upsome of the clutter and wipe things down. I knew I didn’t have timeto do anything about the girl’s body, so it really wasn’t necessary toclean up the blood. But where was the knife? After a frantic search,I was relieved to find it in the sink.

After quickly surveying the house, I went back outside to verifythat the cops were still otherwise engaged. Satisfied, I strolled downthe street, whistling Moon River.

Angie Anderson

9

Angie Anderson

He Slept

He sleptin the glare of the soundless screen,struggling through shallow breaths,weakened without hope like a grapewithout water.

The nursecharged into the darknessto check his vitals.We watchedfrom the corneras he whispered a need--his first words in two days.

The nursedashed back in minutes later,soaring like a vulturearound the blipping screen,and announced the waitingwould soon end.

My brotherheld his hand,whispering words of love and Jesus,as I ricocheted betweenthe bed and the elevator.

The clockticked in rhythm with my steps,and his rhythm had gonebefore I heard the soundI’d been pacing for.

10

Jeff Anderson

Last Fourth of July

When I woke that morning, sobriety quickly became the last thing onmy mind. With a glance at the time a few harsh words shot through theremains of my formerly blank head. The smell of Aristocrat still on mybreath reminded me of the deliverance that had taken place thenight before, when quakes and booms, preceded by an array of light,penetrated my already half-chucked body. I couldn’t believe that it allhappened right above me. The suns had given in and died; I wantedto reach out to grab a piece of sparkling skin. And the people aroundremarked it was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

They clamored with their claps and insidious laughs, stumblinginto barricades and spilling over them, still calling for one last beer.The air absolved me from the smoke and the toxicity in my blood.They became livestock cautiously directed with waving flashes acrossthe prairies and through the valleys back to the lives they knew theywould eventually lose. That’s what stayed them in that particular placeprimarily. It was as if it was there last night on Earth and they wishedto remember it in the most unmemorable way.

The next thing I remembered was the alarm clock and its infernoof tones, slowly tightening its vise-like grip on my head. I stumbled forthe clear solution and let it soothe me with its warmth.

11

Ashlee Bassa

Fishing

Characters

STEFF: neurotic, a bit of a hypochondriac but in a fun-loving way,20’s (tonight, however she is irritated and apprehensive becauseshe must finish a story)

JOSH: quirky and out of sorts, excited easily, 20s

KAT: also quirky but more controlled than Josh, not a valley girl,20s

Scene

Steff is sitting in her apartment on her bed with notebook andpen in hand. Her roommates, Josh and Kat, are sitting acrossfrom her on a couch attempting to help her think of ideas for ascript she has to write that is due the next day. It is evening andthey have been fishing for ideas all night.

JOSH: (Explaining intently) Ok, so then they’re trying to find their kites,right, and after spending a half hour in a tree and frolicking through afield, they head home, a bit defeated might I add, ok, and then theyfind a note on the door of her house from her mother and it reads:Fishes can’t fly, and the other two got away.

STEFF: Ok.

JOSH: Right? You know, fishes can’t fly and the other two got away…goodstuff, huh?

STEFF: Josh, see I ....

KAT: (Interrupting abruptly, excited) Oh! Oh! No, no, no I got it! Youshould write about our group of friends from high school and the daywe created Meat-tag!

12

STEFF: I’m not sure that anyone else is ready for meat-tag.

KAT: Meat-tag, meat-tag is this game we created on Salisbury steakday in the cafeteria and what we did is-

JOSH: Wait, what? Meat-tag? Interesting.

KAT: Right, and so what we did was stab our steak with the plasticfork and then passed it down so the next person could stab theirsteak to see how many steaks could be stabbed with one fork andyou just kept passing it all over the cafeteria so people could stabtheir steaks.

JOSH: That is sweet!

KAT: I know!

STEFF: I can’t write about Meat-tag and Salisbury steak.

KAT: Yeah, and they’re still playing this game!

JOSH: No!

KAT: Totally! It totally caught on and whenever we go back to visit theytell us about the last crazy day of meat-tag!

JOSH: Awesome!

KAT: Totally!

JOSH: Incomparable to the day of interpretive dance at Six Flags!

KAT: I was totally there!

JOSH: I know! Wasn’t it amazing?

Ashlee Bassa

13

STEFF: Hey that’s where you lost the ring for your ear, isn’t it?

JOSH: Yeah, that sucked, but the dancing totally made up for it!

KAT: I think so. I think the people watching thought so as well. We rocked.

JOSH: Psh! Yeah!

KAT: Yeah.

STEFF: Ok, story guys! I need a story!

KAT: Oooh! You know another fun day was the day of 62 emails in likeone hour!

JOSH: Oooh! Yeah, I hated that day.

STEFF: I can’t write about getting emails- I have to have blocking andmovement and I have to at least attempt to make it interesting…

KAT: I thought it was extremely interesting when Emily replied and wroteabout your bug phobia.

JOSH: Yeah, when she wrote about the potpourri and spraying bug.

KAT: Oooh! And how you thought your car was going to explode becauseyou lost your gas cap!

STEFF: Well it could have exploded if the gas had possibly splatteredout of the place where the gas is kept-what’s that thing called?(Realizing she doesn’t need to explain herself) You know what? Sowhat? So I hate bugs and I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.

KAT: (Child-like, with insinuation) I think that makes for a prettyinteresting story line.

Ashlee Bassa

14

JOSH: Yeah, people like reading about freaks all the time.

KAT: Yeah, and you’re a freak like that so people would probably liketo read about you!

STEFF: What? I am not a freak, bugs are freaky, all creeping’ intoyour house and sneaking’ up on you in your room, sneaky little crap-weasels.

JOSH: Yeah, I hated that day.

STEFF: You weren’t even there!

JOSH: Yeah but I bet I’d hate it if I had been. Bugs are weird. (Businesshere, some type of movement showing that he’s a bit off in his ownworld)

KAT: Yeah, bugs. What’s that all about?

STEFF: OK! Seriously! Story! There’s been enough talk about the flyingof kites and meat-tag and interpretive dance and humiliating emails.I need a story and it’s to be typed and turned in tomorrow!

JOSH: Hey, calm down. You’ll get a story and it’ll be awesome andyou’ll turn it in and it’ll be awesome and then you’ll come home andyou’ll be, like, “Guys, I turned in my script,” and then we’ll be all like,“Was it awesome?” and then you’ll be like, “It was totally awesome!”and then we’ll all be like, “Awesome!”

(Steff gives Josh the are-you-actually-saying-this look and he’s justnodding his head as serious as he can)

JOSH: Oh! Especially if you write about the day of silent film starringat the fountain in the Central West End!

Ashlee Bassa

15

KAT: Oh! That was an exquisite day! Love, love, loved it!

JOSH: Totally! With the fountain and the silent film starring....

KAT: Oh! And the bubbles from the soap someone had dumped intothe fountain!

JOSH: Good times.

KAT: Great oldies.

STEFF: (Lost again) That was a fun day. Until I got pushed in…

JOSH: Yeah, but you totally rocked it!

KAT: Yeah, you were so rocking’ out in the fountain.

JOSH: Yeah, you were hard core man. Good job.

STEFF: You know what I won’t do a good job on though?

KAT: What’s that?

STEFF: This script! I’m not getting anywhere, you two aren’t gettingme anywhere! I’m getting some water. (Gets up, walks off stage)

KAT: Honestly, I think we’re being pretty helpful.

JOSH: Totally being helpful

KAT: Maybe if she could somehow write about all of it you know? Thekites, the meat-tag, the informational emails....

JOSH: Not the emails

Ashlee Bassa

16

KAT: But the fountain.

JOSH: The fountain.

KAT: And the interpretive dancing?

JOSH: Definitely the interpretive dancing

(Steff walks back onstage with a glass of water. She sits back on bedsetting water down beside her. Picks up notebook and pen, scribblessomething, tears off paper, crumples it and throws it down. Kat andJosh look at one another puzzled.)

KAT: So we thought-

STEFF: No kites

JOSH: Ok, but the....

STEFF: No interpretive dancing.

KAT: (Hesitantly) Alright…. What about….

STEFF: No emails or silent film stars at the fountain! No more crapabout crap!

(Kat and Josh sit silently, a bit surprised at Steff’s small outburst)

KAT: (Naively) What about meat-tag? Seriously?

STEFF: (Staring at Kat) Look, I need something real, something withconflict and resolution, something with ambivalence, somethinginteresting…worth reading, you know? All those stories are so random.Who’s really going to take interest in them? (Shakes her head, lookingdown at notebook) This is hopeless.

Ashlee Bassa

17

(Steff begins to scribble in her notebook again. After another attemptshe tears it out, crumples it and throws it on the floor. Josh and Katlook at each other once again. Both get up and pick up the crumpledpapers from the floor. They each open theirs and read from them.)

JOSH: “Girl lying on her bed talking on phone to romantic interestwho lives hours away. Mark’s line: Bo journo Principessa.” What thecrap is this?

STEFF: Ok, yeah, what are you doing? That’s my stuff and I don’treally think I’m comfortable with you....

KAT: “Girl lying on bed reading. Roommate enters. Roommate’s line:Have you seen the matches?”- what’s with the girl and the lying on thebed? And the matches? What’s that about?

STEFF: Ok, observe the crumpling of the paper you’re holding.Obviously I don’t have an argument for either one of those.

KAT: And you’re still against combining all those random storiestogether?

JOSH: It could be awesome.

STEFF: It could also give me a poor grade. Besides, this is going to beperformed in class tomorrow and I’d rather be spared as muchhumiliation as possible please.

JOSH: It’s going to be performed? That rocks! Do they need an actor?I could totally do it!

STEFF: No, it’s our class, Josh, but it doesn’t matter anyways becauseI have absolutely nothing!

JOSH: Right, right. Well, I think what you’ve got. Sucks.

Ashlee Bassa

18

STEFF: I know!

JOSH: So maybe if you wrote about an experience or experiencesyou’ve had with like some extra twists and flips and stuff.

KAT: Like meat-tag!

(Steff shoots her a look)

KAT: Eeeek. Alright, alright…

(All sit thinking for a couple of beats.)

(Finally, after long pause)

JOSH: Oh! Oh! How do you feel about midgets?

STEFF: Josh! This is freaking hopeless.

KAT: (Sitting with eyes closed, fingertips on head, as if meditating)No, no, no! I got it!

(Steff and Josh kind of lean in a bit looking at her curiously)

KAT: Wait for it. Wait for it.

STEFF: I don’t have time for this. I haven’t had time for any of this!

KAT: (Opens eyes removes fingers from head) There it is! You shouldwrite about a girl in her apartment, lying on her bed, since that seemsto be of some significance to you, ok, and she can’t think of anythingto write for her script that’s due for class the next day!

JOSH: Oooh! And then two midgets can enter her room andinterpretive dance for her!

Ashlee Bassa

19

KAT: Josh! Shhh!(Steff sits, thinking about it for a moment)

STEFF: Wait. No, no, that’s good. I like that.

KAT: (Excited, even surprised) Yeah?

STEFF: Yeah

JOSH: Totally. Even the part about the midgets?

STEFF: Uh, no midgets this time Josh. Maybe in the next one.

JOSH: Sweet

KAT: Awesome

STEFF: Ok, so. (Begins writing and saying what she’s writing aloud) Agirl, Sara, is sitting in her apartment on her bed with notebook and penin hand. Her roommates, John and Kim, are sitting across from her ona couch attempting to help her think of ideas for a script she has towrite that is due the next day. It is evening and they have been fishingfor ideas all night.

JOHN’s LINE: Ok, so they’re trying to find their kites, right?

CURTAIN

Ashlee Bassa

20

Jason Bockman

Ran Through

Sugar Canyon Creekis a virgin turned jezebel.She was as slim as Miss Mcbeal’s hips andI hid in her lap.Clay banks,soft thighskept playtime private as a solitary song sungon a daytime drive.You were my table top toilet imaginary classroom and tonka truck track,My Walden Pond.Liposuctionhouse constructiondream destructionstole the concave tummy that welcomed triceratops huntsand starship flights.We used todance.Now never off your back fuckedby urban sprawl,prefab houses hide contours of the creek that oncestained my clothes.I miss you.Despite red brick panties and botoxed buildings thatcheapen your figure, I would trade Ralphfor Osh Kosh to run throughyou once more.

21

Joe Brogan

Where Sea Meets Sky

Rolling waves ride the breeze to the coast.Reaching out like a small, innocent child,

then dragging what earth it could gatherback into the deep.

White caps break out on open waters,bobbing to attract would-be watchers into thinking

that something is lost at sea.

The fizz of salt water foamand colliding walls of water

invade my ears.The leaves rustle and tumble behind me

as the wind whistles, whips, and windsthrough the boughs of gathering annuals.

The salt water steals the sand I stand on,and chills my ankles, heels, and toes.

I can taste the early morning airdancing in from far away lands.

As I look out to the gray skiesthen stare into endless horizons.

I wonder if anyone else is on the beachand if anyone else is looking back.

22

Tracy Brown

Familiarity

Latching onto wordsfloating in a tangled heapabove the tablesurrounded by my friends.Familiar laughter pierces the airlike heat lightingon a muggy summer night.A familiar facelights a cigara cloud of concentrated smokerises above the crowdin an intricate patternof swirls and dives.A beer can hissesfollowed by agun shotas two drunken familiar fingerspry the top open.A familiar faceashing his cigarettea familiar faceslumping back into a chaircurrently occupiedby her other half.Tapping my glassstaring into spaceI feel far removeddistancedfrom thoseI have knownall my life.

23

Tracy Brown

A Night on the Town

Pulsing music vibrates the air as endless chatter struggles to rise aboveit. People are jammed into every corner and crevice, drinking andlaughing at nothing in particular. Vodka spills over the side of a martiniglass as a woman struggles through the faceless crowd to the otherside of the bar where her friend is waiting.

“This is a disaster waiting to happen,” the woman says as aman stumbles to the stage with a microphone. Completely hammeredand tone deaf, the man belts out one more time with great gusto.

Down the street, a gentleman wearing ridiculously largesunglasses is puttering down the road, swerving sporadically as hehums to himself. As he slows down to five miles per hour, a trail ofangry, honking cars behind him, he searches for the street sign. Thereit was! Yanking the wheel and stomping on the accelerator, the manbegins fishtailing down the street.

An explosion rocks the bar as plaster falls from the ceilingand sheens of white dust flutter on the crowd. The tail end of an ‘87Buick wedges itself into the brick wall of the bar as the speakers dronesout the last verse of Britney Spears.

The man looks around with a friendly nod, and meandersthrough the ruble. Silence replaces the banter and music that had justearlier filled the bar, leaving stunned faces and bewildered looks.

“Can anyone point me to Fifth Street?” he asks.The bartender wipes his hands on a towel and plunks a glass

down on the counter. “What can I get you?”

24

Stephanie Burns

Learning to Skate

“You have to be careful with the potassium. It’s the potassium thatcould be a problem,” the doctor had echoed, weeks ago, from his stiff,too-white lab coat.

What is potassium anyway, thought Carrie, as she lay in therecliner watching her blood life pulsate through the sterile plastic tubetowards the tightly coiled artificial kidney? Carrie imagined it was somekind of trickster hero that kept her alive and then pulled the plug atwhim.

It no longer bothered Carrie to watch the nurse stick a needle—larger than any she had ever seen before—into a surgically altered veinabove her left wrist so her blood could filter through the kidney andreturn to her, refreshed. Dialysis, they called it. Giver of life to theotherwise dead.

The nurse, in green scrubs, pulled up a stool next to her. “Sohow is it going, Carrie?” she asked. “She probably really wants to know,”mused Carrie, looking up, but avoiding her eyes.

“As well as it can be for someone in law school, whose armlooks like a junkie’s and who has to schedule life around a washingmachine,” Carrie said sarcastically, motioning in the direction of themotorized box that held the artificial kidney.

“Seriously, Carrie. Have you been feeling pretty well?”“Seriously? I feel terrible when I leave here, get better the next

day and then start feeling bad again the day after that. But that’s theday I get to come back here. Just plug me in and I’ll start the wholeprocess over again.”

The nurse stared at Carrie for a minute. “Well, have you givenany thought to setting this up at home so you can set your ownschedule?”

Carrie looked at the machine. A mechanical Merlin, the rollerswere spinning, squeezing and changing her blood through some strangealchemy. She imagined the little red cells tumbling dizzily against oneanother in confusion and wondered how they knew where to go andwhat to do once they ventured back into her veins. A red light flashedand a piercing series of bleeps sounded. Like an obedient nun, the

25

nurse knelt before the machine and reverently made an adjustment.Carrie pictured this steel-gray life force in her bedroom, issuing itscommandments when it was running, and coldly observing her whenit was not. She shivered.

“No, I really haven’t,” she lied.For four hours, the twirling rollers squeezed and the artificial

kidney coils hugged her body’s fluids. Her blood left its excesses behindand returned to her. Carrie turned away from the rollers and the tubing,toward the picture window. From the sixth floor of the hospital dialysisunit, she could look down upon the park across the street. It was midNovember and the ice-skating rink was open.

Carrie peeked at the several miniature skaters on the ice.Some were flying along, performing spins and attempting jumps.Others appeared unsteady and awkward. She smiled as one skaterfell and skidded toward the edge of the ice. Having taken a few yearsof lessons, Carrie had loved to skate when she was younger. Fallingand getting back up to try again was part of the excitement.

As she watched, she began to realize she missed ice-skating.She remembered her nose and cheeks numbing in the face of the coldair as she picked up speed. When she could no longer feel her face ormove her lips after gliding for hours into the cold wind, she learned toskate backwards. Every day after school, she walked the few blocks tothe rink. Many times her parents would show up at the rink after dark,anxiously looking for her. No matter how she had tried to keep track ofthe time, it would fly by as fast as her blades on the ice and she wouldhave to endure her mother’s scolding.

“I’m going to skate after I leave here,” thought Carrie, as thenurse pulled the needle from her arm and Carrie applied pressure tothe puncture site.

Arising carefully, Carrie stood for a minute. Slowly, she beganto feel the rise of heat from deep inside—perhaps from her pulsatingblood, which again belonged to her. White stars came at her and, likean orbiting planet, her head began to spin. What happens to her lifeas it revolves through that machine, she wondered? Carrie leanedagainst the recliner, attempting the appearance of standing straight.

Stephanie Burns

26

“Perhaps, you’d better sit down for awhile,” said the nurse,who had taken her arm and guided her back to the recliner.

Carrie fell back into the chair, straining against the burningtears that began to creep into her eyes. Staring out the window, shenoticed the skaters appeared even smaller, a film of fog shroudingtheir distant motion. She closed her eyes, hard, and then openedthem again. The skaters were clear again.

“Now remember, you have had a blood thinner while you werehere, so you may have a little bleeding over the next few hours,” thenurse was giving instructions. “ You have to be care…”

Carrie shut out the sound of her words. She was going skating.Again, she stood up, gradually, hesitantly. Her feet grabbed the floor.Her legs were strong and unbending. She could see her arms hangingat her sides, evenly balancing her body. Although her head seemedweightless at first, the stars were stable in the universe. Her bodyovercame the gravitational pull and became a possibility.

“Thanks so much! I’ll see you day after tomorrow!” Carrie smiledback at the nurse, whose mouth was hung open in mid-sentence.

Out the door of the hospital, Carrie almost jogged down thesidewalk. It was cold, blustery and near dusk. The brown, fallen leaveslay like grave mounds near the side of the walk. Carrie gave a lusty kickinto one of the piles. A gust of wind grabbed some of them, spinningthem like a small tornado, then thrusting them to the ground. Sheshuffled through other piles of the leaves, crumbling the brittle onesand sending others airborne on wind spurts. In a matter of minutes,she had reached the rink and rented a pair of skates.

As she bent over to tie her skates, some of the dizzinessreturned. Carrie sat on the bench waiting and wondering if it wouldsubside. She watched as two laughing skaters zipped by. She pulledherself up onto her skates and stood. Like a beginner, she took short,choppy skating steps across the ice. There were some gray clouds inthe darkening sky, but a few stars glinted through.

Focusing, Carrie performed a very deliberate, short glide onone skate. The words of the nurse “Remember, blood thinner wasused. You might have bleeding,” returned to her and she wobbled.

Stephanie Burns

27

Sliding to a stop, Carrie stood and breathed in, then out. She wantedto skate.

As if the moves had just arisen from her memory, Carrie startedskating. She pushed on one skate, then the other. Floating on her blades,she picked up speed and began skating, one revolution after anotheraround the rink. She then turned around and started skatingbackwards. She could feel the sharp wind in her back and see thefaces - sometimes smiling, sometimes panicked - of the peoplefollowing her. Faster and faster, she circled around the rink’s edge.She could hear the spectators talking, some intimately and others ingroups. She knew it was hot dogs she smelled, probably from theadjoining concession stand.

Breaking off to the center of the rink, Carrie decided to try aspin. Arms held out to her sides, she launched her feet into the spin. Asshe pulled her arms in closer and closer to her body, she picked upspeed. By the time she had crossed her forearms in front of her chest,the revolutions had reached her fastest speed. She hugged herself atthe height of the spin and held on. The moonlight glimmered frombetween the shifting clouds on the ice crystals at her feet. Then slowly,reluctantly, Carrie halted the spin. She was a little dizzy, but skatingleisurely around the rink would cure that as it would cure her wobbliness.She glided around the rink one more time, smiling at one skater whonodded at her and laughing with the little girl who had just completedher first unsteady single jump. Carrie skimmed for the exit, lookingforward to her walk home, where she may or may not bring her artificialkidney machine; but where she would wake up in the morning knowingwhat happens in the rolling, squeezing coils.

Stephanie Burns

28

Matt Comeau

Octaped Art

It must be perfect. No sense in going hungry over one measly flaw. Butsuch a chore! I missed a spot. Must fix that. This is art, my signature, ifyou will. A beautiful structure to be torn to shreds. Sad, but worth theeffort. I need this art. It is my only way of meeting and having company.No one ever wants to stay for dinner, but they do, and I feel I’m a goodhost.

Here comes a stranger, now. I better hide. I always thought Iwas pretty, but I still scare others with my appearance. I wonder why.Pulsing with excitement, I watch from my hiding spot as my potentialguest draws near. Damn! The stranger turned the other way. Oh, well,lonely me still has my beautiful art. He must not have seen it, or else hewould have come closer.

He’s coming back! Maybe he did see it. He needs a closerlook at this magnificent work. I understand. How can one resist? Heapproaches quickly but doesn’t slow down. He crashes into it. He’sstuck. Did he not see it? Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve caught him. Irush out to welcome my new guest. I wrap him in a blanket and begin tomake him dinner.

29

Nickie Davis

Addiction

she coughed up smoke,great puffs of gray,laughed and continued.her teeth now yellow,her voice no longer sweet and lady-like,but crass and deadly.everything about her screamedDeath.she put on her fake nailsthat seemed to leak yellow.she put her thinning hair up,and caked on her greasy makeup.she wore those short shortsbut knew as she sat,legs spread wide,her index and middle finger tightly,but oh-so gingerlyclutching her Addiction.only One could love her now.

30

Nickie Davis

A Traveler’s Sadness

We took the express trainall the way into Temple Bar.In our cells,they called compartments,we made loveon the trundle bedsunder the duvet.

We arrived at the endand worked our way to the beginning.Having mapped out everything before,the happiness rides, the crying parks,and the memory museums,I sat on a park benchand cried silently.No handkerchief in handyou gave me your heart.

Full with iron.I knocked about as ifchasing a bumble beeor the day light.And you—you were my aspirinmy mouth foamy from the taste of youwithout water.

31

S. Ferrari Dennis

The Reward of Selfishness

At the very least, he gave me a second chance. For all I knew, thebullet could have continued its trajectory and ended my life instantly.In retrospect, upon my encounter with the infamous fiend, one coulddescribe him as sympathetic, merciful, even commendable. Of course,I would be disdained to no end if I spoke of Satan in such a way.Nevertheless, I am grateful for my life, but conscience will foreverweigh heavily upon my shoulders.

I remember the alleyway just as the mayhem began. I remembergunshots mixed with ricocheting bullets against the dumpster. And Iremember the frightened expression of the old man crouching behinda trash can across the passage. He looked over at me once or twice,evaluating our positions, just before making a break for a more protectedspot beside the dumpster. We stood a long while, wordlessly, until wewere convinced that the firefight had ceased.

Technically, I should have died then, but the bullet stopped inmid air. Time itself, for all purposes other than my thoughts and theperpetually spinning bullet, stood still. Then he came to me in the formof a handsome adolescent and made me an offer. I had the choice toaccept this fate that ended my life or to change it by committing theultimate act of selfishness. I tried to duck and could not. I tried torun, but my legs were frozen. I knew the option he wished me to take.Believe me, I pondered the concept for what seemed like eternitybefore succumbing to it.

I remember the sensation of warm blood and bone against myface. I remember the perplexed state of the officers responsible forthe shot rushing to me, explaining with haste that they didn't know wewere back there. And I remember the emptiness of my soul as I walkedhome, past the children playing chess in the living room, past my wife

32

S. Ferrari Dennis

who had been slaving over the stove for hours, straight to thebathroom to wash myself of the guilt. For the rest of my life, I wouldstare at the face in the mirror, into the reflected eyes of a man whohad succumbed to evil, to the will of a being that could potentially bedeemed as sympathetic, merciful, or commendable.

At the dinner table that night we talked and laughed and ateas usual, but I was a different man. I would be chained to my memories,doomed to reminisce about the past. Years later, after my childrenhad gone away, after being paralyzed from a car accident, and afterwatching my wife suffer and die from cancer, you know what I remembermost? Not the experiences that had been granted to me by mycontinuing life, but rather the remorse upon looking down at the oldman's corpse after clutching his jacket in my hands and throwing himin front of the bullet.

33

Tess Detering

Plastic

He’s lonely,but he’s got a lot of plasticand he’s willing to spend.She’s lonely,and she’s got a lot of problems,she’s been looking for him.

34

Tess Detering

Word

Lungs loaded with smoketwisted like wisps of lovely clouds.Over the moon I writhe and dangletrying to holdmy breathjust a little bit longer.I twitch with impertinencyand exhale, pick up a sweaty glassfilled with swamp,pressing my lips to the ridge and dumpthe drink down the runnel of my throat,hoping it will wash away the half-wit frogin my voice down into the blacknessof my belly, where to his alarmnothing will be there to console his woe.

35

Zachary Florence

Beach fire

The Mare stands unmoving on the shorelineDull black eyes reflect the fireI mount barebackher hair clasped

The hooves awaken the ground.I am strong, muscle horse trotting onShore beach, shore beats, sure beats.

Natural brown finds the shine of her coatDims in the dark setting duskLetting go of theSun.

36

Zachary Florence

Ghetto Beast

My car rattles down the road,wobbles and weaves.I love her,every bolt, dent, ding,rusted panels so precious.

Sun-faded red,bald tires to boot,she gnaws the roadlike a toothless old manchewing on bark.

duct tape dangles from the bumper,and her windshield shatters in slow motion.

oil leaks and chains chokesymbol of her bad back,I am in her worn fitted seatI help her across the street.

37

Colin Frost

Whoosh

The doors breathed open. Another train, another day, he thought.Parting them, he steps into bright whiteness glaring against hislingering sleepiness. He glances down through thick glasses, the kindimpregnated with bifocals and the floor leaps at him, a trick of optics.This is yet another sign of the future to come he thinks; these tricksand miracles of medicine inserting themselves into his life. Lookingup, he sees the vinyl covered plastic seats are smothered with thefestering flesh of humanity from blob to toothpick, each of themcompacting themselves to fit in this impossible space, deathly afraidof any accidental human contact.

So he stands. Bracing himself against the impending onslaughtof gravity, he looks up and gingerly grasps the hanging loop ofunidentifiable material wary of sticky substances. Off to the next station.Three more to go, he thinks, wiping sleep from his eyes. Staring blatantlyat a bad advertisement, as to not invade the personal space of anypassenger, he slinks back towards sleep.

Suddenly the thing his friends have been talking about, thething he wishes his ex-wife was dealing with, the thing he had beenthinking about ever since he had to shave off his sideburns becausethey were turning gray. A woman, diminutive in nature was looking athim in a very self conscious way. She looked away, then up again.Several times she repeated this, like a flickering fluorescent light.Rising unsteadily in the rhythmic motion, she lurched to the strapnext to his. Please take my seat she said.

38

Colin Frost

This Year

This year,August’s fires have yet to light.Summer smolders in flashesof heat, doused by the cool of the north.My machine of winter has laindormant, like a frozen pond.Windows instead have stood open,portals to nature in the night,pregnant with crickets, frogs, and cicadasthey roar and then die.As foliage withers and wheat grows ripeI regret this August lost to autumn early.

39

Terry Hartmann

Cradle

Kim’s eyes wandered over Frank’s body. His mantle of youth she oncelooked upon soon slipped away when his urinary tract began to failhim. Frank was found on several occasions huddled in a corner, upsetfor losing control on the floor. His fading hair was the last imperfectionthat ended their periodic lovemaking. Then there was Roger.

Roger was younger than Kim and Frank; his hair was blonde,luxurious. He was a strapping young male. Kim took an immediate likingto Roger and made several successful attempts to sleep with him whileFrank was away. Then there was her daughter, Vicky.

Vicky was the youngest and most beautiful of all and when hermother Kim wasn’t around, Roger would visit her in more ways thanone. Roger never noticed the extra toe Vicky had nor would he havecared if he did. Vicky wasn’t self conscious about it. She wasn’t selfconscious about too many things. She didn’t know about her motherKim’s affair with Roger. Though Vicky was very beautiful, she lackedintelligence. She had had trouble with the glass door. Vicky had mistakenit for being open once or twice by walking into it.

Frank was as ignorant as his daughter for not seeing what wasgoing on between Kim and Roger, yet Kim had no idea that Roger wasviolating her and her daughter in such vulgar ways. What was the mostvulgar about this was that Frank did not know his brother, Roger, wascapable of this. Vicky had unknowingly slept with her uncle. Frank alsonever knew he was Vicky’s uncle as well as her father.

Frank soon caught Kim and Roger together and attacked Roger.Vicky fought back at her father to protect her uncle, Roger. When Kimnoticed her daughter’s affection for her lover, all she was able to murmurwas, “Meow.”

40

Kevin Hogan

The Last Twenty-Five Seconds of a Cow Before Execution

God, I love grass—Its intoxicating smell.The way it slips and slides through allFour of my stomachs, andLike a caterpillar marching up an oak it crawls back upMy throat only to fall back down for digestion.It’s clockwork.God, I love grass.

Here comes Farmer Brown.Hopefully we can go for a walk.I can walk and chew grass at the same time.I’m special, or that’s what Farmer Brown says.“One last walk around the yard, Ethel,” he whispers to her as his leatherWork gloves wrap a noose around her neck.A door closes,And an unnatural shrief deafens the farm air.Farmer Brown tips his hat as tears fill the crevasses of hisSun burnt cheeks and slowlyWalks inside.A mile from the last highway exit in Pop’s Burger joint you sit and say,“God, I love burgers.”

41

Rebecca Hoy

gravity ;

The tires hummed a deeper song as he slowed the vehicle andcrunched on the gravel as he made the turn. The headlights bounced,slicing a path into the thinning fog. Already, daylight was upon him.Sunlight danced on the horizon, adorning the lacy greens of buddingfoliage.

To his left, a strip of ancient buildings, some crumbling, othersalready fallen. On the right, a vintage café. He pulled over and got outof the car, and the aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastriesoverwhelmed the dewy, earthy smell of early spring morning. A grimacemade his lips twitch, yet he stood and simply stared over at the café,almost hypnotized.

You step inside, and that scent hits you like a metal fist. Youmight consider it unpleasant if you have more time to dwell on it, butyour son comes around the corner to steal your breath away. He’swearing a mess of loosely fitting clothes— the gray cotton shirt hangsslightly off one shoulder and exposes the smooth, pale skin beneath—and his delicate hands are dusted with flour. His blond hair is tousled,and he’ll attempt to brush it from his eyes with the back of his hand.You find yourself grinning despite the situation at hand, and he smilesjust to see that.

42

And that’s when you think you’ve shot him, because the breastof his shirt is crimson, and you know you’ve shot him, because you’veno control over your hands anymore, and now it’s finally happened—you’ve finally lost enough of your mind so that other people will beable to tell. Your mouth falls open in dismay, and you consider raisingyour hand to cover it, yet you’re paralyzed by the fear of shooting himagain.

Your son’s beautiful blue eyes widen, trail down to follow andmatch your own stricken gaze, then he smiles again. Because it’sonly jam on his shirt, and now you really are losing your mind. Yourknees buckle as you discover yourself suddenly too weak to supportyour own weight, and he reaches to catch you and break your fall—

After a moment’s hesitation, long enough to wrench his thoughtsfrom his own morbid daydream, he gathered the boy into a tightembrace, feeling his hot cheeks against his chest, and his hands, warmagainst his ribcage. He could feel the beating of his son’s heart.

Rebecca Hoy

43

Rebecca Hoy

IM:PULSE

The shadowed streets seemed to grow more sinister at midnight. Themoon was hidden behind veils of mist, looking pale and sickly againstthe black sky. No stars glimmered in the heavens—their light was tooweak to pierce through the long, gray clouds. Almost no one could beseen on the streets, no one except the boy. The faint moonlight seemedto illuminate him so that it gave the impression that he was a ghost, aspecter of the shadows, alone and forgotten.

He was there again. The place in his mind where nothing waseverything and everybody was nobody. The place time and space hadabandoned. He could almost taste the blackness. That was the onlyway he could describe it - black, all black. He could feel it; a comfortableblanket of velvety hatred brushing against him, making him cry out.Alone was its name. He was not afraid of the Alone, he was afraid ofthe pain it caused. The Fear. The Nothingness. The Void. It had manynames, answered to all.

It was reason that he had often abandoned while sulking in theAlone, wishing with all his heart that one day he might just wake up andrealize that he had been wrong. Nevertheless, he was alwaysdisappointed. Backing up a step, he leaned against a lone lamppost,tilting his head upward to catch a better view of the starless sky. Asudden wave of nausea came over him, and he broke into a long runtowards the dark forest beyond.

Some miles later, the boy doubled over with his hands pressedto his knees, struggling to breathe as his heart beat erratically. He daredto turn his eyes to the evening sky between the trees—a few faint starswere visible in those heavens now that the fog had settled. If there wassome way for him to break the chains of gravity and fly to touch thosedistant stars, he was sure of what he would find. They were only illusions.Like everything else was an illusion.

44

Rebecca Hoy

The boy opened his mouth and screamed to the sky with allthe passion his aching lungs could provide. He yelled and ripped atthe branches of any nearby trees until his hands bled and his throatwas raw. There was no reply from the silent forest. No one could hearhim, and no one would have listened if they could. He was alone.Completely and utterly alone, screaming at the sky.

When he thought his lungs would give out any moment, hestopped, letting the quiet seep into him. Leaning his back against atrunk, he let himself slide down until he was seated at the base. Theboy hugged his knees to his chest and rested his head upon them. Thenight was cold and he began to shiver, teeth chattering, eyes movingover the forest.

He buried his head behind his knees as the first sob shook hisbody along with the cold. He shut his eyes, trying to hold it in, but thestinging tears massing behind his eyelids forced him to open them.

As he sat in the darkness of the forest, it began to rain.

45

George Huestis

The Antelope

Characters

SHELLYDONALDMARYTOMTHE WANDERING PHILOSPHEROFFICEROFFICER2

Setting

A two-room building with a hall to the right and a door to theoutside on the left. Dividing wall between the rooms isoptional, but there must be a window in the living room, andthe kitchen should have a stove and a bar.

Any lines that are not separated are intended to be spokenon top of each other.

(The stage lights come on to reveal a man sitting on his living roomfloor staring blankly at the dead antelope that is, oddly enough, takinga central position on the rug. Enter SHELLY)

SHELLY: Hi honey, I’m home. Why is there a dead cow on the floor?

DONALD: It’s an antelope, dear.

SHELLY: Oh, I see. Why is there a dead antelope on the floor?

DONALD: If I knew why there was a dead antelope on the floor, don’tyou think I’d have done something about it?

SHELLY: (deadpan) Well, no. Actually I’d pretty much expect you towait for me to get home to clean it up.

46

George Huestis

47

DONALD: I clean up everything else in this place.

SHELLY: Only because you don’t have a career.

DONALD: As if that shelving position you hold so dear is a career.

SHELLY: it’s a job, if nothing else, and I’m a file clerk, I’ll have youknow. Oh, Tom and Mary are coming over for dinner, by the way, socould you be a dear and put that, that thing out of sight?

DONALD: it’s an...

SHELLY: Antelope. I know. I know it’s an antelope, but the fact thatit’s an antelope is entirely beside the fact.

DONALD: You thought it was a cow.

SHELLY: Beside the point! It’s dead, it’s rotting, it’s in my living room!

DONALD: Your living room?

SHELLY: I pay the bills on it, don’t I?

DONALD: I used to pay them.

SHELLY: It’s not my fault you can’t hold a job.

DONALD: Actually, what I had was a career. Grab the haunches, wouldyou dearest?

(DONALD, SHELLY exit stage right dragging the antelope out of sight.)

(A knock is heard at the door. HELLY goes to answer. TOM shouldremain completely silent and look just slightly frantic until otherwisenoted)

George Huestis

48

SHELLY: (Ignoring TOM) Mary dearest, let me take your coats, youmust be freezing!

MARY: Not at all, you overbearing wench, but it’s so cheery in here!Tom and I know where the closet is, you needn’t worry your tiny littlemind about it.

DONALD: It’s a very large mind, actually, it’s just that she’s evil andpretentious.

MARY: Oh don’t be harsh. Not everyone had the benefit of aneducation growing up. Shelly has done just fine without it, haven’tyou dear?

SHELLY: Why thank you, dearest, but I think you had it harder than I(aside) anything to avoid that education. Ah, shall we? Dinner will beready soon, I’m sure.

DONALD: Don’t worry dearest, everything is under control. I orderedpizza. (MARY laughs ironically. SHELLY does not.)

(MARY and TOM proceed off stage to the right.)

SHELLY: That, that arrogant bitch!

(SHELLY proceeds to mix a potent-looking drink at the bar)

DONALD: The whole neighborhood knows it, why repeat the point?

(A scream from offstage. Several shots are fired. MARY rushesback on stage, followed by TOM, who has fallen into a Clancey-esquepose behind her)

MARY: (Visibly shaken) What the hell is that, that thing in your closet?It nearly killed us!

George Huestis

49

SHELLY: You tell her, Donald, me too stupid to remember what cowthing is.

DONALD: (Fiddling with the oven) It’s an antelope, of course.

(SHELLY at this point has been seated on the futon, where sheappears quite faint while TOM peers suspiciously back into the hallwayto stage right, gun held at a right angle to the floor)

MARY: But why? Why would you have such a thing in your house?

DONALD: (Still fiddling with the stove, touches something hot) Ouch!Shit!, Mary, it beats me. It was here when I got home.

SHELLY: Home? Where did you go that you were coming back home?

DONALD: Shopping. You know. For food.

SHELLY: Oh, right. Where?

DONALD: (visibly uncomfortable) You know. The place.

SHELLY: I see. That explains it.

DONALD: What? What does it explain?

(SHELLY begins to weep uncontrollably. At this point another, veryforceful knock is heard at the door. DONALD moves to open it, butthe door is kicked in before he gets there.)

OFFICER: Is everybody okay? Freeze! Yes, you, hell, especially you!Put the gun down! On the floor! Hands behind your…. Why is there adead antelope on the floor?

DONALD: Can I get up?

George Huestis

50

OFFICER: No?

(SHELLY continues to cry on the floor)

OFFICER: (Forcefully) No. No. First tell me why there’s a deadantelope on the floor.

DONALD: Your guess is as good as ours.

SHELLY: (Sobbing) Lying bastard.

DONALD: What the hell are you talking about Shell?

SHELLY: (Still sobbing) You know why that antelope is there.

MARY: Can I get up? I need to pee.

OFFICER: Pee there. I’m calling for backup, and nobody is movinguntil it gets here.

(TOM dive-tackles the OFFICER, kills him with butt of his own gun)

MARY: Oh dear.SHELLY: On my god.

DONALD: Mary, why did your husband just kill the nice police officer?

MARY: it’s just a problem he has. It’s nothing to worry about. Tom!You have to hide the body! Quick! They’re coming back!

(TOM falls back into Clancey-mode, grabs the OFFICER’s corpse bythe cuffs, and drags him out the door.)

MARY: See? No problem at all. We do this all the time. Once he atean entire twelve-year-old in the span of two days, bones and all! They

George Huestis

51

never did find the poor dear.

SHELLY:(faintly) All the time? You do this all the time?

DONALD: See now honey, doesn’t that make an antelope seem likesuch a trivial problem?

(THE WANDERING PHILOSPHER begins to enter through the window,with great difficulty and not without the notice of the assembledpersonages.)

SHELLY: You’ll get yours later Donald. Donald, someone is climbinginto our house?

DONALD: Yes, I agree, it’s very odd, as the front door is wide open.

MARY: It wouldn’t be odd otherwise?

DONALD: No, Shelly’s lovers do it all the time.

SHELLY: But this time it’s a woman?

THE WANDERING PHILOSPHER: I heard there was a dead antelopehere, but I never dreamed I’d be so lucky as to find a dead policeofficer too. There’s so much irony to be had.

(Everyone stares blankly)

TWP: Well, isn’t it obvious? The Officer died attempting to ascertainthe meaning of another death, making his efforts essentially fruitless.He merely managed to compound the problem he wished to solve!

TWP: I see. You would claim that the Officer’s curiosity lay more in therealm of why the antelope was here, not why it was no longer living. Ican see that the basic principles of philosophy have not penetrated

George Huestis

52

here, and must be taught.

TWP: The dead cannot speak, so we must assume they were farmore intelligent than they were, lest we overlook what intelligencethey did have. Underestimating a person and losing a great idea bydoing so is a grievous crime. Therefore, we assume the Officer was athinking person, and that he thought extensively about the antelope!

DONALD: He was aware of the antelope for about five seconds beforehe died. I don’t see much room for thought in that.

TWP: This is not his lacking, but yours, that your mind is so small thatyou lack the ability to comprehend the meaning of his sacrifice. Hedied for truth, while you live for nothing.

(THE WANDERING PHILOSPHER exits through the door. Muchhammering is heard.)

MARY: What the hell is she doing out there?

SHELLY: Let’s turn on the TV to find out.

(Stage light’s down, during which time the antelope is lain across thefront door. When the lights come on, morning sounds should be playedto indicate that a night has passed. DONALD and SHELLY enter theroom yawning, while TOM and MARY are asleep with their faces onthe coffee table.)

DONALD: Oh, dear.SHELLY: Let’s wake them. Maybe they put it there.

(DONALD shakes TOM and MARY awake, while SHELLY drags theantelope back from the open door. SHELLY does not shut the door.)

MARY: Morning. The hell is that doing out here?

George Huestis

53

DONALD: We thought you might know.

MARY: Hardly. I’m not touching your antelope with a ten foot pole.You get a dead antelope, it’s your problem to take care of, but it’snot like I’m going to go telling the neighbors.

TOM: Oh, that? I figured, since none of us knew what to do with it,we should just put up a flag. Good old local support ‘n all that.

(everyone stares blankly)

TOM: What? I’m not always a nut-job you know. (Peering out thewindow) Oh, and it looks like the philosopher is hosting a salon aroundthe grave of the dead cop. We might want to put a stop to that, beingas it’s attracting attention.

(blank stares)

DONALD: What do you suggest we do?

TOM: What else? Call the cops, tell them a weird cult has killed one oftheir guys, buried him in our flower garden, and is now sitting atopthe grave giving treatises. Give me the phone.

SHELLY: But you killed him.

TOM: So?

(DONALD hands TOM the phone. The antelope should, again, be inthe middle of the living room floor, and the door should be open.)

SHELLY: How fast do you think they’ll get here?

MARY: Beats me, but we should do something about the antelope.

George Huestis

54

TOM: Why? I we throw it outside and blame it on the philosopher, too.

DONALD: Tried it, but it won’t fit through the door.

TOM: Then how the hell did it get in here?

DONALD: If I knew that, we wouldn’t have this problem, would we?

(Police lights through the door... shots fired... enter OFFICER 2.)

OFFICER2: Thanks for the tip, we’ve been looking for that woman forweeks. There’s a dead antelope on the floor.

DONALD: Yes, well, the philosopher, see, she....

OFFICER2: I see. Well, in that case, let’s get it out the door.

(OFFICER2, with help of DONALD’s household, attempts to removethe antelope through the door, and fails.)

OFFICER2: So this isn’t your antelope, you say.

DONALD: Well, we’re not really sure where it came from.

(SHELLY breaks down sobbing)

MARY: Oh, can it, Shell. Everyone’s husband creates a dead antelopenow and again. If it were a big deal, no one would ever stay married.

DONALD: What?

OFFICER2: So this is your antelope, sir?

DONALD: I don’t know where it came from! Why is everyone lookingat me like this is my fault?

George Huestis

55

OFFICER2: I think I’m going to have to ask you all to stay here fornow. Between the philosopher and the dead antelope, I believe afew courts need to convene before we decide what to do about it.

DONALD: Can’t we just take it out the door in pieces?

SHELLY: Only you would think of something so sick.

DONALD: It is a dead animal!

SHELLY: You have no respect for human life!

MARY: Antelope life, dear, antelope.

TOM: Technically antelope death.

SHELLY: it’s all the same thing!

THE WANDERING PHILOSPHER: (from offstage, but with great volume)Brilliant! Finally someone understands my life’s work!

OFFICER2: I’m leaving now.

DONALD: Someone get me a fucking chainsaw!

SHELLY: No! You created it, you’re going to fucking take care of it!

DONALD: That’s what I’m going to do with the chainsaw.

MARY: It really might be the best way to solve this dilemma, Shelly.Besides, it’s dead and can’t feel pain.

SHELLY: It’s not about the antelope, it’s about Donald.

TOM: Actually, it’s mostly about the antelope. It’s starting to smell.

George Huestis

56

SHELLY: It’s not about the fucking antelope!

MARY: You all do realize that we don’t have a chainsaw, and thisentire argument is consequently beside the point?

SHELLY: it’s always beside the point with him. Nothing’s important,not even the life of his own antelope.

DONALD: The antelope is dead, Shelly.

TOM: We should probably hurry this up, being as a SWAT truck justpulled up outside.

MARY: Oh great. See? If we’d just gotten rid of the antelope whenwe had the chance.

DONALD: this is probably more about the dead officer, actually.

MARY: (peering out the door) Maybe, but there’s a lot of protestorsbehind the police line, and they’re not here for the dead guy.

SHELLY: What are they protesting?

MARY: I can’t make it out, but no one protests the death of a cop.

TOM: (Pulling out his pistol) Here they come.

MARY: Oh dear!SHELLY: On my god!DONALD: Tom!

Curtain

Ben Effinger

The Day Blue Eyes Discovered the World

helpless steps into a train she would never once look to the past.hearts do bleed.

she would find this out too soon.all aboard third engine

a million memories left cold.vacant seats

showy, blinking, fluorescent bulbs invade the solitude she thought she had.

the blur of city lightsstream into glowing lines.

exploring escape,the train attacked the railing.

periling along, stability becomes insecurecontinuing down paths of intuition.she is going somewhere this time.

vulnerable spinal chords of precious glass.collide. regret. spoil.

57

Christine Ingoldsby

Boy

There was a boy in a tank,and he wasn’t breathing.He was just sitting there.

It was a tankfull of water.

People watched.No one seemed worried.Rather,they were amused.

And the boyseemed contentto sit thereat the bottom of his tank.

58

Christine Ingoldsby

I Saw an Infomercial for Leprosy

Disjointed images,sickening blue lightflickering,filtering throughthat black box.

Mounded ridges of fleshleading tosunken noses....Blistering nodules,a grotesque parodyof acne.Those clubbed feet and hands,sheathed in crumpled plating.

And a lonely figurecurled up on a comfortable couchable to feel remorsebecause of the knowledgethat she is safe.

59

Joshua Ingram

Eight AM

The young lady greets himAll smiles, showing golden teethThe old man turns away

Seven old friends gatherGlad for a reason to riseCheap coffee goes by fast

Sitting in salt-infested seatsDodging fries on the floorVisiting a parody of a men’s room

Remembering a family around a tableA food fight they all laughed atAnd Danny being free from diapers

The kids are all gone nowTheir wives mostly tooAnd they once were nine.

So they joke, moan, and complainWithout worry, fear, or yearsAnd sip coffee like fine wine

Soft memories float over the speakersThe harder ones will wait

60

Joshua Ingram

Storyteller

NASA doesn’t do space justiceNight is no preparationIt’s black, sure, but bright.Every inch of darknessHosts innumerable jewelsMoxen, Kryptonite, CoruscaAnd Heaven itself shines through.

And the planets, scattered therein!The inhabited are nothing newBut undiscovered Edens aboundLavender skies over fields of lilacsScent and silk enough to drown inOr worlds where the very air is musicHandel breeds hurricanes; Sting, a cool breeze.

Stare at me; study, probe, record.Padded rooms are an irrational fortressThere is more room inside than out

I’ll wait for you by Orion.

61

Joshua Ingram

Mentality

I’ve seen a lot of stuff here. Probably not going to hear as much aftertonight.

The damn extra innings kept everyone here. Why they didn’tjust file away their cases and turn loose their detainees, I have no idea.Then they could have been watching the game on a big screen at a barwith a bunch of other hollering lunatics, or in their plush recliners athome, and left me to my work. It must have been the extra innings. Noone wanted to miss the last pitch.

And now they are going as crazy as the meth sellers, standingon tables, clapping hands, high-fiving the idiots they just put cuffs on.Pretty soon the neighbors will start complaining, and they’ll have toarrest themselves.

The Westlake kid jumps up to where the TV is hanging, turns upthe volume full blast as the hero rounds third, and promptly turns andscreams, drowning it out. Big fat guys are picking up smaller guys,each waving around cups of warm water and cold coffee and makingsure I’ll be here till dawn. No one’s started to make a unified cheer yetbecause they all know that will end eventually and none of them, crookor cop, want that. I’m sorely tempted to start it, but just keep my headdown and keep sweeping.

The Yankee boy is over at his desk in the corner, crying into thefamily annihilator file he’s working on and whispering something aboutnext year. Then he takes his anger out on the floor and tosses a dampKleenex down for me to pick up later. The bastard.

Another guy isn’t celebrating quite as much either, a big baldguy that’s shouting just enough to not be noticed. While the cop turnsto cheer with a guy he can’t stand but loves anyway tonight, the baldguy picks up some paperclips and a letter opener that I just cannotbelieve that idiot was stupid enough to have laying out by his coffee.Wait, it’s Harrison. I can believe it. Oh well.

That prisoner glances over, and our eyes meet, and we bothknow that neither of us is going to say a damn thing. I also know thatthe letter opener is probably going to be found, but those paper clipsaren’t, and with that guy’s muscles, some of these kids aren’t going tobe coming in to work until the funeral. Serves the bastards right.

I turn to the TV and finally feel like I can cheer.

62

Alix Johnston

Geisha

She is no more than a doll.A grown-up child who pins her hairWith gems, butterflies, and ornamentsHer kimono, a work of artAs it rests on her soft form.The fine fabric made of silkIs as red-rich as copper and rust.The obi tied with the utmost careKeeping her clothing from falling away.She is all hidden,From head to split-toed feet.Even her face is shielded from all,By the soft ivory mask.The only real part of herAre her eyes made of the sea.Everyone who looks at her,May only see her ivory mask,Or her jeweled and ornamented hair,Or perhaps the soft sheenO her silken clothes.She sings, dances,She entertains them,Because she has no choice.All who look at her,See a toy for a king.But I see a strong woman.

63

Kevin Kelly

The Kid who Peed Gold

“Ok Mrs. Wideass, let’s take a look at your chart.”“It’s Mid-as, Dr. Shiphead,” said Sally Midas, enunciating both

syllables with perturbed determination.“You know, like the muffler shop,” something she had said

millions of times since she married Joe Midas, the fourth cousin ofthe Midas clan who, unfortunately, had a bad relationship with themuffler millionaires.

“Yes, yes dear,” the doctor said. “We’ll get to your intestinalproblems in a second, first we’re going to need to take a look at yourfetus, so if you could take your shoes and socks off…” Dr. Shipheadturned and eyeballed Sally from behind the thickest pair of glasses shehad ever seen on a human being’s head. He smiled and it looked likea mix between an orangutan and a retarded guppy. Sally’s husband,Joe, and she had always joked about the Magoo-ish behavior of theirinsurance-approved physician with a slight unease that this manhandled the health and general well being of their family. There wasn’tmuch they could do about this, though, until the union strike ended atthe Grayville Nuclear Power Plant where Mr. Midas was currentlyemployed as a uranium licker. Sally politely chuckled, if only to endthe fishbowl stare of the elderly man in front of her.

“Alright, Molly,” the doctor said. “We’re going to perform anamniocentesis on you. Have you ever had one of these before?”

“Well, it’s Sally, and no, because this is our fir..”“Oh, you poor dear,” he cut her off. “No, no, my name is

Lawrence. You must be awful nervous to forget an old friends namelike mine!”

Sally caught the glint of a scalpel resting on a tray to the sideof her and, for a split instant, appealed to the Freudian urge ofdestruction inside her mind’s eye. Shaking the morbid thought aside,she snapped back to focus. The doctor, sadly nodding his head, walkedover to the counter where a hollow needle had been resting on atray, next to the previous patient’s syringes for arthritic relief. Mr.Burns, the previous patient, had been on gold shots to relieve therheumatoid arthritis he had been suffering from for many years andfor some reason, Dr. Shiphead had gathered the gold shots next to

64

the hollow needle which would withdraw amniotic fluid from the sacsurrounding the fetus. Slowly, he walked towards Sally.

“Alrighty Mallory, if you could just roll on your side towardsme,” said Shiphead. Sally turned shifting her weight unwittingly on toa nurse call button which had been resting below her knee. Thehospital staff had given the device to the doctor who, from previousfalls down the wheelchair ramp and occurrences of ending up in theelevator shaft, required such a beacon just in case. He must haveset it down before retrieving the shots, Sally realized, as a piercingshriek echoed through the halls. The door bolted open just as thedoctor was making his way towards Sally, knocking into his elbowand sending the tray sky high. Dr. Shiphead rubbed his smarting elbowsand glared at the attendant. The fat nurse surveyed the scene realizingnothing was wrong.

“Shiphead…you shit head!” the robust nurse said as she turnedon her heel and exited the room. The doctor, now frazzled from theordeal, grabbed the needles with one hand and sat in the chair next toSally. Unwittingly, he grabbed an unused gold shot of Mr. Burns and,with unusually expert hands, jabbed it into Sally’s stomach sixmillimeters from the fetus’s abdomen.

“And now time to withdraw the fluid,” said Dr. Shiphead. “Letme just grab the ultrasound to make sure I haven’t pierced the kid,hah!” The doctor winked at Sally, who was now slightly more terrifiedthan an Alzheimer’s patient playing Twenty Questions. The doctor quicklyswiveled around in his office chair; his elbow accidentally nudging theneedle seven millimeters more into the fetus. Inside the womb, thethin needle pricked the baby and secreted a single drop of gold into itsformulating kidneys.

Two Months Later

Alan Joseph Midas stretched his scrawny newborn arms whichwere still pink from the exit procedure a few hours earlier. Joe smiledat his wife with that ever present “I knocked you up” look as Sally sat inquiet relief, the last bead of sweat evaporating from her forehead.

Kevin Kelly

65

“Let me hold my boy Sally,” Joe said. “Let him embrace hisfather.”

Joe looked at his son and, in the ever repeated process offathers over the globe, glanced down at his son’s plumbing to makesure everything was in order.

“Good Lord, Sally! This boy is gifted!” said Joe, chuckling andadmiring the genes of the Midas clan.

“That’s his umbilical chord, Joe,” Sally said tiredly.“Yeah…I know…I was just testing.” Joe said as he looked

around sheepishly. Papa Midas unswaddled his newborn boy and heldhim up to the life affirming fluorescent light just like the old monkeyin ‘Lion King’.

“You are…my son!” uttered Joe in a strange African accent,imitating the famous scene from his favorite animated movie. Thecold hands on young Alan’s body sent shockwaves through his nervoussystem, making it’s self known in the child’s urinary tract. Thenewborn’s kidneys, which were the normal size and shape of theaverage kidney but with a burnt yellowish glow to them, began pumpinglike two tiny gerbils on a hamster wheel. The boy sputtered forthfrom his tiny member a liquid gold that flew through the air landing onhis father’s gaping smile. Instantly, the liquid bonded to Joe’ssomewhat discolored teeth filling his mouth with more gold than alottery winning pimp.

Two Years Later

It didn’t take long for the Midas parents to realize their youngson’s special talent. Every morning for two years, Sally would enterher child’s room and remove his diaper to find the equivalence of ahalf year’s salary from the power plant resting betwixt two squattylegs. The gold was always slightly tarnished with a greenish cast to itand molded in the shape of a Huggies, but Joe had built a smallrefinery, out of an old water heater, an oven, and thirty-three cookiesheets to melt, purify, and form the gold into shiny gold discs exudingthe appearance of a glossed over, mineral pancake. Joe may not

Kevin Kelly

66

have been the brightest bulb in the socket but he had his mechanicalskills down pat. Two years of piss had turned into quite a fortune forthe family who secretly stashed the loot away in the attic next toGrandpa’s slides. Every couple of months, the family would look forbuyers via eBay and sell the urinated gold discs to the highest bidder.Joe and Sally were proud of the secrecy they had instilled with littleAlan and were confident of their future as their little son continuedpissing away Sally’s college loans, their new house mortgage, a newLexus, and a plasma screen television that dominated the family room.Even at this young age, though, little Alan could pick up on a slightoddity within his parents. Whenever he had play dates with theneighborhood kids, he noticed that the other children would cry andwail about whenever they had wet their pants. Then, the ensuingchild’s parent proceeded to scold the youngster on what had occurred.However, every time Alan felt the urge and couldn’t make it to thecollection bucket, his parents would smile at each other and givehigh fives uttering phrases like “new hot tub” or “red duvet.” Thechildhood innocence of Alan’s spirit began to pick up on a feeling ofgreed from his parents, a concept he wouldn’t learn until, oh… aboutthree years later.

Five years old

As we all should know, the secret of a little boy that pees goldis something that cannot be held on to very long, especially whenthat boy goes to school. Alan’s father, the less morally inclined andrational one in the marriage, was determined to pump his little goosedry but Sally was a caring mother, who had only let the prospect ofinfinite riches overshadow the love for her son slightly. Sally hadobjected her husband’s idea in the first days of Alan’s arrival to outfitthe boy with a specially cleft foreskin that would allow him tospecifically sculpt/form/mold any jewelry/coin/figure in gold. Sheheld the firm ideal that her son was an oddity and not a freak. WhileJoe had been thinking up superhero names for Alan such asGoldenrod or Captain Au, Sally had been worrying how her son would

Kevin Kelly

67

function socially and if he would ever be able to spend the night, andunlike anyone who had ever come before him, not clog the toiletdoing number one instead of the usual number two. So when Alanbecame old enough to attend an educational institution, his motherinsisted that Alan go to a local public school.

“Mother,” he would say every night before he went to bed.“Am I a normal kid?”

“Of course you are, son,” Sally would say with a look of mixedfeeling across her face and a smile. “You’ll see.”

Young Alan would lay back in his bed pondering his mother’suneasy smile yet comforting words and wonder if he truly was normal.

Of course, Alan was normal like all young boys his age exceptfor one major difference, he peed gold. Thus early into the schoolyear on a brisk fall day, a crisis erupted. Alan was playfully enjoyinghimself during recess when he climbed upon the slide and felt theurge to make gold suddenly arise.

“Let me climb back down,” uttered Alan to the child behindhim. “I have to go the bathroom.”

“No way,” said the sandy haired, squat child on the ladder.“There are three others behind me.”

“I can’t go down, the slide is too cold and I’ll pee my pants.”“Tough luck, poo face,” replied the brown haired tub, shoving

little Alan on to the cold metal surface of the slide. Alan subconsciouslyflashed back to the hospital room as an infant when his father’s coldhands spurred his first gold rush. The cold/warm solution of liquidgold instantly flooded the seat of his pants making it impossible forhim to bend his legs at the end of the slide and instead sliding straightlegged into his old crabby teacher breaking her femur. It was chaos.The children erupted in laughter as his kindergarten teacher wailedin pain from having the densest bone in her body break. The principalof the school rushed down to the recess area upon hearing the hellishmix of old woman shrieks and young children laughs, angry to beinterrupted from his cigarette break.

“Midas, what have you done?” uttered Principal Dickersonupon realizing the folly at hand. “Stand up this instant!”

“I can’t.”

Kevin Kelly

68

“And just why not?” said Dickerson. The old, crippled teacheryelled in the background for Dickerson to shut the hell up and get heran ambulance, referring to his mother as a bitch and Principal Dickersonas the son of said bitch.

“Mrs. Krownloski,” Dickerson said, thoroughly shocked. “Pleasedo not interrupt me while I am in the middle of a disciplinary action.You will not undermine my authority! Now Alan, stand up!” he yelled asa large vein in his forehead bulged. Alan started to cry and continuedcrying until the principal walked over and tried to pick him and his solidgold pants up. The rock hard pants now weighed sixty pounds overAlan’s fifty which caused Dickerson’s hernia to inflame and slip adisk in his spine, instantly igniting a wave of pain that made him blackout. Channel Four Eyewitness News was the last to leave theplayground at nine o’clock that night.

Alan cried himself to sleep that night even after his mother’sregular assurance that he was normal.

A year later

Turning on the television any day that year, one could havepicked up on an interview from the little boy that peed gold. He was asad looking young child that would remain mute until the host/hostesshad finished making cracks at his expense. After a few minutes of onesided conversation, the little boy would proceed to pull his pants downand, out of a little FCC blurred spot, perform his talent for the viewingaudience. It started off with Jenni Jones and Maury Povich beforeballooning into David Letterman and Jay Leno and then ribbon cuttingceremonies, presidential dinners, graduation commencementspeeches, corporate rally seminars, and so on and so forth. In thebackground of all these events would be the swindler Joe Midas who,after a heated argument with Sally over media exposure, divorced hiswife and paid off the judge with a bucket of piss to win custody of Alan.

“Father,” young Alan would ask, “How much more do I have todo?”

“Oh just a couple more appearances this week.” Was the replyevery time.

Kevin Kelly

69

“I want to go back to school,” said little Alan. “I miss mom.”Joe made his son hit every single media outlet available.Unwittingly, his greed became the enactor of his own demise.

The media attention created a buzz within the financial world causingthe gold corporations to hound Alan. After getting a sampling fromthe boy, they studied and determined the gold to be of only a slightlybetter quality than Pyrite, or Fool’s Gold. Joe’s father was sued fromall the people he had sold his son’s pee to and eventually ended updrunk in a gutter with disgusting abnormalities from his previouscareer as a uranium licker.

Without his father/agent setting up countless appearancesand interviews, Alan’s once unique gifting faded quickly from the publiceye. Alan was happy once again to be with his mother who remarriedto Dr. Shiphead, a strange and misunderstood man who, nonetheless,cared for Alan like he was his own son.

Alan began re-meeting his new friends from school slowly butsurely one year after the playground massacre.

“Hey, you’re the kid who pees gold, aren’t you?” said the brownhaired tub whose memory had been damn near vanquished by videogames and pixi-sticks. “You broke Mrs. Krownloski’s femur and sentPrincipal Dickerson in to early retirement before touring the countryand gaining instant celebrity if I recall?”

“Uh, yea, I guess so…,” responded Alan who felt extremelyuncomfortable and uneasy. “What about it?”

“Nothing.” It’s cool that’s all. Besides, a kid that pees gold?That’s pretty regular steed these days,” said the portly kid as he winkedwith his chubby left eye. “Yea, you’re nothing ever since they foundthat Jewish kid in Brooklyn that poops diamonds.”

Alan smiled and laughed as the two children made their waytowards the playground. The rest of the day was spent running around,going to school, drinking juice, and watching crappy cartoons, allperfectly normal things to do when you are six years old.

Kevin Kelly

70

Lauren LaVenture

Torn

The ceiling hoversfar above my headbut the air inside feelsstale and stuffy.Classical paintingsof gilded angels hangon the tall yellow walls.Their wood frames twicethe size of me.

A young man dragshis feet through the corridorsof the home.His skin hangson his cheeksdamp with resentful tears.His forlorn face is unfamiliarbut I know we are herefor the same tragic reason.

I ache from the absenceof your definedfreckled faceand your smooth deep voice.I resent that I will neveragain ride shot gunin your old teal Honda.

My cheeks are bone dryand my tired eyes burn.I drift among the anguishedpeople like a homesicktraveler longing for home.

71

Doug Lumpkin

Bound

A train docks to the station,with an electric sign that reads“Barcelona.” Sounds of laughter, andCrying fill the airas some are arriving and some are leaving.

A music man sits alone by thecafe‘ that bakes the sweet smellingbreads and cakes he can’t afford, hishead full of dreams of America.

Business men and women don’t give him a glanceWhile Children sprinkle change sparsely in hishat as ghosts pour from his fiddle.He is bound to this station, everwatching those escaping. Playing musiche will die to.

72

Sean Manion

Bhoireann

Acid-washed rockof windblown earth,

honest landscape,ground of deep greens and rough granites,stretches for miles,heads southwest against thedeep blue’s blow.

And when the land rushes forward,Atlantic air backflips and fliesover the thinning grass.

And the rock that runsoutward slices straight down,diving furious heightsto the buffeted boulders below.

The wavesshoot fierce sheets of water.Power heaves them,tearing up the dizzying cliffs.

These giants,ageless and strong,break the ocean’s strengthinto a million airstreamsthat sweep through and over county Clare,energy old as the stones.

And on the time-beaten flattops,all the winds swim wildlywhere the world ends.

73

Sean Manion

Ecstasy

He walked along the alleys of the night, and fell in love with them. Hefell in love with the mangy dogs and their popping ribcages, wrestlingfor scraps of the street-side food vendors. He fell in love with the cripplesbegging on the blackened curbs. He fell in love with the rank stench ofstreets whose people had surrendered to the darkness of these nights.He even fell in love with the smog that nearly choked him. He fell in lovewith the attention from the dark eyes of dimly lit second-story windowsand bar corners, attempting to woo him into one place or another, andthe welcome churning in his stomach when they would approach him,caressing him, trying to pull him in. He was sure he knew them, all ofthem somehow related to his life and so he loved them.

Other times he would have been tense, full of apprehension ofbeing alone and not knowing where he was going. But here he wasconfident and clear and alive, living in this freedom of the unknownand the love he felt from everyone.

And so he walked further, with mooneyes and in love with thistime and place. And as he walked, a heavy deja vu took his legs andspun him, turning him left, towards a neon sign. This sign was from hisdreams; he was certain of it. He ducked his head, as he was nowaccustomed to doing, as he waded through the beads dripping downthe entry. Inside, he was instantly intoxicated by the mood of this place,for this place was not like the others. There was no overpowering blanketof cigarettes and dope. There was no house disco which made youdrunk if you weren’t already, and oblivious to everything if you alreadywere. Here, the scent of singed lotus blossom hung sweetly in the air,while three musicians played in a darkened corner, glowing from therings of the burning incense at their feet. The music soothed him,enveloped him with the feeling anything could happen.

And then he saw her. He knew now why he had had the deja vuand the dreams, and it seemed that every point in his life now madesense and all directed him here to this very place at this very time. Thiswas the love he had been looking for, and he was sure of it as theylocked eyes.

He watched her float across the floor towards him, and as shemoved everything seemed to flow with her. The light wisps of incensesmoke followed her curves, curling around her shoulders and hips. The

74

music trailed her, drew energy from her, expanded, rolled from her tothe walls and back again. The soft purple light silhouetted her only,and left the rest of the room unknown, suddenly void of action and life.

Soon, he realized the bar had emptied and they were alone,and as she drew closer to him his heart started throbbing, blood racingthrough his veins, reaching out to every inch of his body until he felthimself buzzing, levitating above the floor, waiting for the moment henow knew was coming his entire life.

And when they met, they kissed in the middle of the floor,exploding into a million bright red flowers gushing with life, an orgasmof the senses and heart that he never had felt before. He took his handsand guided them over her smooth dark skin. And as they weretogether, he felt warmth surging all through his body. They hoveredthere, so right and so comfortable, and he felt he had known herforever.

But he had not.Although aware that several others were now in the room, he

was not bothered, for he was with his love. He was shining in the truestmoment of his life, and nothing could have deterred him from theexperience. They drew slightly apart, and stared into each other’s eyes.Nothing was going to interrupt this, he told himself.

Even as a long dark object was drawn adjacent to his head, hewas reveling in the moment. Even when the metallic click could beheard, he was not fazed. Even when the hammer hit the bullet top andsent it like a bolt of lightning into his head, he was overjoyed. And evenas his body slowly toppled over, away from her, he was smiling.

Sean Manion

75

Sean Manion

Sukhumvit Road at Night

One thirty in the morning,out and into the jungle.Pad Thai for a buck,flavored by smog and spice.Stroll the strip,if you’re feeling up for it.

Soi 19 at night,wild to my western eyes.The babygirls hang out;“mister, where you go?”.Hiding my nervousness,my response saves me.

Throngs of faces,quizzing blatant stares.Hot smells and sweat;dry season.Wonder if the weathermakes a difference.

76

Macey Meyer

Air Guitar

Wild, flailing red haira jerking body, drenched in sweatlights hitting his silhouetteone of many epileptic bodiesa sea of anarchy and harmonykicking, punching, screamingtogetherone swinging bodyrocking out

77

Macy Meyer

Dryer Party

The red shirt grabs the lonely white tube sock,Looking for his mateThey twirl and tumble togetherThe red camisole smiles through it’s sequinsIt nudges the faded jeansThe jeans move in and the sock is free A free fall into the white skirtAre you my mate?She slips away So suddenly the music stopsThe lights shut offEverything freezesIt is cold

78

Sarah Midkiff

Lonely Boy in Joyland

Little boy in his roomNo one knowsWho caresCleaning out the filthHiding in the lightDodging ghostsIdle rantings with his bearDark shadows dance across his faceAll aloneNo one thereJust a boy, his bear, and a bloody knife.

79

Constance Reichold

Metallic Smiles

I see some with painted lips,as if brushed by Michelangelo himself.Their rosed cheeks tinted perfectlyto be set on display by the worldThe bouncy bobs on top of their headsflaunt perkiness to the extreme.

Bronzed skin, with slick shiny hair,They look like manufactured dolls.

They seem to flock to each other.One by one, they gather and multiply.They don’t sit alone like me.

I wonder why Godmakes them so beautiful.Why did he carve their empty bonesfrom the smoothest ivory?Do their voices,glazed and fake,really mock the angels?

I pretend not to envy themwith their crystal piercing eyes,and dark condemning brows,with metallic smiles,that could blind all men for miles.

Armed with only manicured tipsand text message cell phonesthey eye out their next victim,or ignore the other species purposely.

I still wonder...why God makes some women so beautifulon the outside.

80

Chris Richards

Black Sheets Walking down Paul Bryant Drive our eyes catch.A high speed game of chickenUnder the two o’clock moon.I remember why it’s hard to hate you. We acted the script that staged our first encounter,And I know we’ll end up where we did then.Pretend you’ve never met meAnd you still think I’m as beautiful. We tease ourselves over breaking bordersJust to make our bodies beat faster.But you drive my lines differently now. With you love’s so easy to fake.But there’s no shame in this,Not when you knew me so well once. Waking up at nine it’s still dark out,But then I remember it’s justBlack sheets over your windows.

81

Chris Richards

Complimentary Silence At 22 you’re way past legal.You can drink and smoke.But you don’t,Cause your blood pressure’s too highAnd you read something aboutCigarettes and cancer. So I blow rings around your headLike a moving target. You tell me things aboutQuantum physicsAnd human existence.But I think sometimes lifeIs better left simple. And maybe I’ll love you one day.When you tell me I’m beautifulAnd my sight takes your words.Maybe that’s already true.

82

Chris Richards

Fighting Words It was a time when kneeling down to pray would get you a swollenthroat and teary eyes. Blood and semen ran through the gutters likewater, and vagabonds raised their glasses to drain pipes and drankof it until they were full. They would go belly up, like dead fish, andonly flinch against the fleas’ bites. Brother would raise his fist againstbrother in hot pursuit of heavy breasted women. Crawling from barsthe gentlemen would stumble through the streets. With wild eyesthey threw cheap bids to try and fill their hunger. And the ladiesblushed as they bounced up and down on beds or in alleyways.

Standing alone, a figure glanced regretfully at a graffiti splashedwall. His clothing was branded by dirty kicks aiming to beat the virtueout of him. When children threw stones that pelted his tender, whiteskin the ladies gathered to try and sooth his wounds by pressing theirthrobbing bodies into his. It was at times like those that he looked intheir eyes and said, “You are the hurt ones.” The women licked dirtyrags and blotted his blood caked skin as he spoke of truth and beautyand safety. They flocked with open minds to the feet of this liberationbecause they’d begun to fall in love, like they didn’t know they could,with the idea of freedom.

But the quiet died fast because cold beds furrow brows andclench fists. The men united with common cause and took up armsagainst the ways of compassion. They plotted for a massacre, but deathcan be sweeter on the hands of the innocent. Scouring the streets indrunken madness, they came upon a young woman dancing herselfhome. She was seized and their sour breath ran over her as they forcedher to choose between her life and her love. She fell to her knees andbeat her chest, sobbing.

That night a fearful young woman graced the door of the man. Her soft knock was answered, but she remained standing in the opendoorway, face to face with her savior. She tearfully brushed his facewith her hand and then thrust a cold dagger into his heart. His kindeyes turned sorrowful as he fell to the floor. And with his final breathhe said to the woman, “Sin cannot be removed from the hearts of thewicked.”

83

Chris Richards

Places Where Pigeons Live

A bum with a full-bred wiener dog, tight on a leash, begs for somemoney to feed himself, and I’m thinking, “If you’re so hungry whydon’t you just eat your dog?” He smells like he’s been wasted for thebetter part of a decade, so at least I know he’s not going to keel overout of thirst.

There’s a suit rushing from a high-rise office building. He runsto the side of the street and throws his hand up in the air. A cab drivesright past him and he chases after it yelling, “Hey! Come on!” You canalways tell the out-of-towners by the way they hail a cab. It’s like theythink chasing it will change the fact that someone’s already there. Or itmight be one of those checks-and-balances things. ‘Cause we all knowthat a white collar WASP doesn’t stand a chance against a black cabdriver.

In a sunken-in doorway there’s a sleeping guy with hisshoestrings tied in knots around a door handle so no one can steal hisshoes. I guess someone, somewhere, wants to steal a bum’s shoes.Those doorways always stink like piss and poor, so I know to hold mybreath when I pass them. I used to flare my nostrils in disgust, but Ilearned real quick that only gives the smell more space to travel.

Someone with a billboard sign around his neck is passing outorange flyers and screaming like he’s Jesus, preaching the word ofthe real live God. The wind catches the handouts that have beentaken and thrown in the street and sends them flying. A woman in apinstripe suit and high, high heels leans up against a wall so shewon’t totter and fall while she picks off a flyer that stuck to her shoe.Her skirt is entirely too short for this time of year or for any season inthe corporate world. Her cell phone rings and she plunges a hand

84

into her purse, groping around blindly for it. She yanks it out urgentlyand says, “Yeah?” into the receiver. It’s funny how easy theworkingwoman flusters.

I pull out my pack of Camels and try to light one with a matchfrom a book I picked up somewhere. They’re the nice matches madewith wood instead of cardboard. It’s easily blown out so I try again, thistime cupping my hand around the flame as I suck the smoke in. Walkingin the lunch hour traffic, people scrunch their noses and make obviouscoughing noises in my direction. When I was 13, they didn’t card meand gave me a free lighter with purchase, and now it’s like you can’teven light up a smoke without someone harassing you and thinking it’sa personality flaw.

On the corner of a street there’s a crowd around a guy makingmusical sounds with his mouth. A kid moves in and “beat boxes” besidehim so I can’t help but stop and admire the scene. I spill some changein the cap, sitting on the pavement, and the band’s new additionscrambles for it. The player grabs his hand and as I’m walking away Ihear him say, “Play your own trumpet, kid.”

Chris Richards

85

R. Susan Shoemaker

Apple Harvest

My father trussed, tubed.confined in the sterile blue room.Pray, his eyes say,dulled like black sapphireswithout their stars.

An hour away, it is apple season at Eckert’s farm.“You pick them. You buy them.”A tradition, family trek to the farm.Septembers on a Saturday, any year.Laughing apple-knockers, plucking Delicious.Before the blank landscape, black starless nights.

September’s apple harvest at Dierberg’s -Jonathon, Granny Smiths, all Delicious.I pick them, buy them,stuff them in pockets for all the distanceto my father.

86

R. Susan Shoemaker

The Hay Ride

The lively teenagers scurried gailyin the chilled night airto ride the waiting hay wagon.Musky straw, animal flesh,cologne, after-shave smellsintoxicated the shy blonde as shesat on the hay bed, grasping the cold rails.

“May I sit here?”The dark-haired boy with blackberry eyeshopped up, landing beside her.

The horses began to trot.The revelers began singing,

“We all live in a yellow submarine>”Wild laughter, giggles, teasing, throwing hay.The boy and girl mute distracted,squeezing each other’s oiled hands.They shifted to press their silveredfaces together.He tasted of cider.

87

Nathan Want

American Orchards

As I lay in bed, I could hear the pitter-patter of the rain kissing my windowsill. Before I looked out the window, I knew what would be behind theglass. The same people crossing busy intersections, reluctantly obeying“Do Not Walk” signs, holding newspapers or briefcases over their heads,scurrying along, trying to avoid the downpour. Their only concern wasthe rain.

The same yellow taxis would be pulling up crooked next tosidewalk curbs: loading; unloading. I didn’t know why I even botheredpeeking through the metal blinds, bent out of shape from prying themopen every day. I could picture everything before I approached thediamond-shaped orifice, my peephole to the world of predictability. ButI always looked. I had become just as predictable.

Every morning I knew I’d be awakened by the alarm clock, itsdigital face burning a red 7:30 into my eyes. Every morning I knew I’dturn it off. Every morning I knew I’d toss my comforter off my legs andslip my feet into the lambskin slippers placed neatly next to my bed.Every morning I knew I’d stretch out my arms and yawn as I walked tomy bedroom window to find gray skies and the city running likeclockwork. Every morning I knew I’d be alive and continue to live theday to its end.

I can still remember my first memory with absolute clarity; Iwas only two years old at the time. I have no visual memory of theincident, only a sound. There’s no other way to describe it other thanusing abstractions or mentioning the supernatural. It was the sound ofthe creation of the universe. The end of the world. It was the sound ofGod’s voice, waking me up, letting me know my heart was pumpingand my lungs were expanding and contracting. God’s voice speaking tome, telling me I was alive.

I was born in Jerusalem, but my mother called it Hell. I guessshe called it that because of the daily killings, the weekly bombings.Maybe it was because of the constant gunfire at night, replacing thecrickets and locusts she told me about.

My mother was an American and met my father at an Americancollege. I think it was in Delaware somewhere on the east coast. Mymother didn’t really talk about it very much.

88

Nathan Want

After they both graduated, my father asked my mother tomarry him. She said she would, only if he promised to take her fromAmerica, so my father took her to his birth home in Jerusalem. I don’tknow why she wanted to leave. Almost everything she said to mewas somehow glorifying America.

When I was a child, after she tucked me in at night, I used tosay, “Tell me about the orchards in America again, mother.”

She would sit at the foot of my bed and be silent for a moment.Finally, she’d say, “I remember the green grass. It was so green. Greenerthan green. A perfect green.”

I would close my eyes and try to picture the orchard. I wouldpretend I was there, feeling the wind and the soft grass brush againstmy bare feet.

“My sisters and I,” she’d say, “would pick the ripest applesoff the trees. Plumper apples than you could imagine. And they wereso juicy. God, I can still taste them.”

When my mother talked about the American orchards, her eyesseemed to be looking right through me and right through the bed. Shewas look through the wooden floorboards of our home and into theearth, and through the earth’s core and crust, over to its other side. Tothe fertile soil of America.

I don’t remember my father. My mother didn’t really talk abouthim much, except when we watched the news and there’d be anotherreport of a bomb going off in a shopping mall or university.

Her eyes would start to water. Her voice would quiver,remembering her husband’s death. “Why did they do it? He didn’t doanything to them,” she’d say.

I’d hold her by the shoulders. “I know, Mother. I know,” I’d saywhile watching the aftermath on the television set. Images of men tryingto put out smoldering flames and digging through debris. Shots of bloodsplattered on the asphalt. People being rolled around in stretchers.

“You must study hard, Isaiah,” she would tell me as she wipedher nose with the back of her hand. “You must do well in school so youcan live a better life than this,” she’d say, pointing to the men andwomen being interviewed by the reporter, asking questions without anyanswers to be given.

89

I read in an American magazine once that men think aboutsex about nine hours a day. In Jerusalem, everyone thinks aboutdeath at least once every ten minutes. Every time you go on a bus,you wonder if it will explode before it reaches its destination. Everytime you try on a new pair of American designer jeans, you wonder ifa hand grenade may roll under the door of the dressing room. Whenyou see someone you don’t recognize approach you when you’relooking for some fresh dates from a produce stand on the Gaza Strip,you wonder if they have a bomb strapped to their chest. But whenyou get off the bus, you buy those new Levis that fit so well, or thatstranger walks away until they‘re out of sight, you breathe a sigh ofrelief. Your day continues and you feel more alive.

I left Jerusalem when I was twenty-two to find a job, like I hadpromised my mother. Before I left she gave me a hand-drawn map withdirections of how to get to the orchard. The map was a straight lineintersecting a crooked one, which looked like a serpent. Where Iimagined its head would be were a cluster of vertical lines with circlessketched around the tops. “Orchard” was written at their base andseveral small red dots were carefully colored inside the circles torepresent the apples.

“Pick the ripest apple for me, Isaiah,” she said when she handedit to me and kissed my forehead.

“I will, Mother,” I said.I tried looking for the orchard, but I couldn’t find it. When I took

taxis throughout the countryside, I would hand the map to the driver.He’d tell me he knew exactly where it was, but once I realized we hadbeen driving in circles, I’d tell him I knew where we were and pay myfare. I showed the map to gas station attendants and women hangingtheir laundry on a clothesline in front of their houses. No one couldhelp me.

By now the map was hardly legible, the rain, which had beenfalling ever since I had arrived, had warped the straight line and nowmirrored the other line. “Orchard” looked more like “O l d”, and the redapples had bled across the entire page. When I spent half of my money,I decided to give up and fly to New York City.

Nathan Want

90

When I found an apartment off Ocean Parkway and a job, Icalled my mother.

“Did you pick me an apple?” she asked.“Yes,” I lied, “and it tasted even juicier than it looked, Mother.”“Isn’t New York just grand? I remember going to New York with

my family when I was a little girl.” I thought I could hear a firefight in thebackground. “So, how’s your new job? Are you making a lot of money?”

“Yes, mother,” I said while bending the blinds to see the crowdedstreets. The sidewalks covered with umbrellas and drenchednewspapers with legs.

“Oh, I’m so proud of you, Isaiah. You’re all grown up and startinga new life without fear.”

I felt homesick when I thought I could hear a bomb detonatefar away on the other line.

I had been hired as an accountant at a law firm located off 7th

Avenue. It only took two weeks to feel like a complete zombie. Everyday was just like the last. I’d sit in the same cubicle filling out the samefiscal reports, looking at the clock every five minutes. Sometimes I’dforget what day it was, but then decide it didn’t really matter anyway.There weren’t even any windows, which would have given some variety,if it wasn’t still raining.

The only thing that seemed to change was the fern by the waterdispenser, which seemed more pathetic each time I filled up my glass.Its leaves were browning, exposing its mortality, and collecting in itsown soil.

Soon, I began taking tiny sips of my fresh cup of coffee, testingit to see if I could taste anything metallic, pretending someone couldhave possibly poisoned it when I wasn’t looking. I’d purposely go to thebathroom frequently when a urinal was overflowing and repeatedly walkover the slickest spots, right next to the sign that said “Caution WetFloor” with a stick figure man flying into the air. Sometimes I would staylate after everyone had already gotten off work, imagining myself gettingmugged in the parking lot when I left, and preparing to act surprised ifI did. But I didn’t, and nothing ever changed.

Nathan Want

91

I tried going to the most dangerous parts of the city duringthe middle of the night. I walked throughout the alleyways, past thepeople sleeping underneath cardboard. I ran across busy intersectionswhen the red hand warned me not to walk. I closed my eyes on myway to work, thinking I could fall into a manhole.

But I knew the odds were against me. More than likely I’dcontinue to live another day untouched. Another day mimicking theone before.

It’s still raining in America. I’m still here, lying in bed at seven-thirty in the morning. I’m still alive and able to finish the day to its end,to complete another, then another. I haven’t told my mother yet, but Iplan to move back home soon. I’m looking forward to the day when I’llascend the clouds and fly over America’s rained out orchards.

But for now, I close my eyes and try to ignore the raindropssmashing against my window and think about my first memory. Thesound of the creation of the universe. The end of the world. The soundthat killed my father. The sound that gave me life.

Nathan Want

92

Leah Weber

Last Puff

Rebecca opens her purse and snatches the green and white hard boxnext to her body lotion. Her focus gathers to the orange glowing skywith the hint of a gray smoke trail coming from behind the locomotive.The coal-fueled cloud filters through the air drifting westward from thedinky river town Rebecca grew up in, away from smelly Illinois farmsand creaky docs. Away from streets abandoned after last call and liquorstore signs that fade out every Sunday at five ‘til six. Away from breakfastdiners, tractor pulls, and antique flea markets. The half empty pack ofNewports lay next to the tracks below an ajar window where a nicotinehungry, nineteen-year-old sits. The train chugs outside the Wilmingtoncity limits leaving behind its locals. She watches the smoke disintegratetowards heaven. Funerals in the Mallenmach family always came withthe constant inhaling of tobacco. Lilies never lasted a whole day atwakes, the nicotine fumes would suffocate the tall lanky blossoms untilthe petals would wilt and eventually drop to their death, joining theloved one. But, Rebecca is ready to start a belated trend. On her journeytowards Wellsbock, the small nudist colony where Rebecca’s motherhad retired, her mom is resting in a satin cloud, telling Rebecca thankyou for finally listening.

93

Leah Weber

Whole Milk

“So, your birthday is on the 24th?”“No, Daddy. Mommy’s is on the 24th; mine’s the 27th,” I

answered my father.Not only had he forgotten when my birthday was but also

that I was turning 16. Within three weeks of my birthday, I had movedhalf way across the world, started a high school in a foreign society,and moved in with a man I barely knew whom I called Daddy. If I hadstayed with my mother in Denmark, she would not have had to askwhen my bir thday was or even what age her only child wasapproaching, but keeping my duel citizenship meant leavingDenmark and returning to the United States.

Saying goodbye to my boyfriend, friends, grandparents, andmother was not simple, but living with my single father would be achallenge. My father had been a workaholic his whole life. At 14 hestarted his first job bussing tables for a fine restaurant located indowntown St. Louis. Thirty-seven years later, he landed a position inthe same business, but instead of bussing tables he was running acountry club 70 to 80 hours a week.

Instead of following the shadows of my friend’s parents atthe teachers’ conferences twice a year, he was planning a golf outing.There was no daddy to film me at my kindergarten dance recitals.As my lanky legs carried me to a future blue ribbon in the 100-meterdash at my first track meet, my father was not in the bleachers tocheer me on; it was only my mother’s voice I heard in the crowd.Childhood evenings were usually a dinner of two, never three. Hismoney-driven addiction cost him a relationship with his daughterand, eventually, his marriage.

When my 16th birthday rolled around, it was members ofthe Elks Club who threw me a birthday bash and lavished me withpresents, not my old man. My mother and other relatives sent megifts and sang Happy Birthday over the phone despite the seven-hour time difference. After the last sand grain had descendedthrough the hour glass, I had still heard nothing from my father. For16 years I had been used to my father’s failure in recognizing anymomentous event in my life, but the more he forgot, the more Iwanted him to remember.

94

It was no surprise when I woke up the morning of my 18thbirthday only to hear my father ask, “Hey, can you pick up some milkafter you get off school?”

“Sure,” was my half-asleep response.I spent my eighteenth birthday at school; there was no

party, no gifts, no card, and like usual, no “Happy Birthday” frommy father. After pulling into the driveway after fetching a gallon ofwhole milk from Schnucks, I walked to the front door fidgetingwith my keys. With my head facing the ground trying to grab thehouse key, I opened the screen door, looked up, and saw a largepiece of paper taped to the front door. Written in bold print was,“Today is Leah’s 18th Birthday.”

My eyes scanned over the letters, reading them diligentlyseveral times. Once I completed my gaze of astonishment, I walkedinside and stepped on another piece of paper with the number 18written in large font. Through the living room was a trail of 18’sleading towards the kitchen. I paced my feet at turtle speed until Ihad reached the kitchen. There I found 18’s posted on the walls,the floor, the refrigerator, and the kitchen table. Placed under thekitchen lamp was an envelope with my name. Anxiously, I removedthe contents from its package and revealed a giant orange Garfieldcard. I read the note my father, in his scribbled lefty handwriting,had written:

Happy 18th Birthday. I love you so much and I am so proudof you. You are the best daughter.

My eyes welled up like a Midwestern flash flood. I attemptedto wipe away the tears from my face as fast as they streamed downmy cheeks, but it was impossible for me to keep up. I licked thesalty water away from my lips and walked towards the bathroom fora Kleenex.

The bathroom was arranged in its usual fashion except fora very large number 18 taped to the mirror. I pulled down thepiece of paper and studied the figure gazing back at me. I saw thegirl who had searched for her father in the field before she ranher 400-meter relay. I saw the disappointed third grader who waswaiting anxiously to hear her father’s voice, after spotlighting the

Leah Weber

95

stage to Tina Tuner. I saw a lonely adolescent eating spaghetti byherself. I saw the rebellious and confused 16-year-old wishing notfor a car, but attention. Wiping my face with a soft tissue, I lookedinto the mirror again and saw a sniffling 18-year-old high schoolsenior with red eyes, sticky lashes, and a quivered grin of satisfyingrecognition.

Leah Weber

96

97

Currents, 39 (2004)

Contributors

Zachary Florence has declared a major in psychology but loves toread and write.

Colin Frost works a meaningless job for a meaningless paycheck. Hewould like to be a firetruck; the bigger, the better.

Terry Hartman, a communications major, writes songs and stories andplays the guitar.

Kevin Hogan attends Meramec.

Rebecca Hoy is a first-year student with too many interests and apenchant for procrastination.

George Huestis is studying writing and history, with the goal of makinga living as a novelist. In his off time, he likes to play the cello and findnew things to do with oatmeal.

Christine Ingoldsby plans on attending Truman State where she willstudy psychology and deaf communications.

Joshua Ingram would like to be a religion major, but in the absence ofone at Meramec, he has settled for English.

Alix Johnston is a paralegal student.

Kevin Kelly attends Meramec for the fun of it. His interests includedesign and music.

Lauren Laventure is interested in counseling as a career. She is alreadybusy giving advice to her friends.

Doug Lumpkin plans to attend the Logan College of ChiropracticMedicine.

Sean Manion will be president.

98

Macy Meyer has changed her major five times. In her free time, sheplays the harmonica, paints, and plays with her video camera.

Sarah Midkiff attends Meramec.

Constance Reichold is an English major.

Chris Richards is a fine arts major and is considering a career injournalism or photography. She enjoys going to art shows and indiemovies.

Susan Shoemaker ended her government accounting career severalyears ago and is now pursuing her dream of becoming a novelist.

Nathan Want also goes by the names of Nathan West and NathanWandt.

Leah Weber is editor of this issue of Currents. She works at a smallbar in Washington, Missouri, where she serves mind erasers, redheaded sluts, and tequilla shots.

Currents, 39 (2004)

99

Currents, 39 (2005)

Creative Writing at Meramec

The Creative Writing program at Meramec offers workshops inpoetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction. Through class interactionand constructive criticism, students develop expertise in genres andwriting techniques.

Faculty

Pamela Garvey, M. A., M.F..A.Communications North 121314.984.7737pgarvey@stlcc.edu

Angela HamiltonCommunications North 209314.984.7231ahamilton@stlcc.edu

Richard Long, M.A., Ed. D.Communications North 213314.984.7677rlong@stlcc.edu

David Taylor, M.A.Communications North 209314.984.7547dmtaylor@stlcc.edu

100

Currents

39 (2005)

St. Louis Community College--Meramec11333 Big Bend BoulevardSt. Louis, MO 63122-5788