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LiteraryMontage Magazine

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Montage Literary Magazine

Emmanuel College is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award associate and baccalaureate degrees.

Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of Emmanuel College.

Emmanuel College Post Office Box 129, Franklin Springs, GA 30639

Phone Number: 800-860-8800 www.ec.edu

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I dwell in Possibility - –A fairer House than Prose - –More numerous of Windows -–Superior - for Doors - –

Of Chambers as the Cedars -–Impregnable of eye -–And for an everlasting RoofThe Gambrels of the Sky -–

Of Visitors - the fairest - –For Occupation - This -The spreading wide my narrow HandsTo gather Paradise -–

Emily Dickinson

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Letter from the EditorDear Readers,

As many of you know, Montage Literary Magazine is Emmanuel College’s annual literary publication released each spring. Montage features a selection of written and visual art works submitted by students, faculty, and alumni, and then selected by the Montage screeners and staff. This year the Montage staff has worked to compile a magazine that exhibits the talent at Emmanuel Col-lege in writing and visual art from a variety of students and faculty from vari-ous majors and departments.

Each year the Montage staff selects a theme for the publication. This year’s theme is based on the poem “I dwell in Possibility—” by Emily Dickinson. The layout of the magazine features different areas of a house, and excerpts from the poem ending with the line “To gather Paradise—.” We believe the goal of this year’s publication is to gather paradise in its written and visual form.

I want to extend a special thank you to Dr. Gilmour and Dr. Hair for their hard work as the Montage advisors this year. I would also like to thank Katie Melton for her endless hours and dedication working on the layout of the pub-lication. And lastly, a thank you to the staff and screeners for their help in se-lecting works and forming this wonderful edition of Montage. I hope you enjoy the selections of this publication, and do not forget to share the magazine through the online publication at www.ecmontage.org.

Sincerely,

April ToneyEditor of Montage 2013

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Editorial StaffApril ToneyKatie MeltonAlex GenettiChanlin McGuireChris HairNathan GilmourDavid WoodCarley GuillornJesse McDowellSierra StarkBeryl WilsonKelssie DickersonJenna AycockSaron WilliamsonChris GrayIda StewartBrent Chitwood

EditorDesignerAssistant EditorAssistant EditorFaculty SponsorFaculty SponsorStaffStaffScreenerScreener ScreenerScreener Screener ScreenerScreenerPoetry/Prose JudgeArt Judge

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Table of ContentsKeys in Hand by Kyle Garrett................................................................................................Tree by Cana Jacques........................................................................................................................Starless by Alex Genetti................................................................................................................Royston by Amber Shirley............................................................................................................The Revolving Door by Jesse Kemmerer.......................................................................Super Cooties by Robby Johnson...........................................................................................A Real Character by Kyle Garrett.....................................................................................They who- by April Toney.............................................................................................................Bird Lady by Carley Guillorn................................................................................................The Yellow Table by Chanlin McGuire.........................................................................Atlanta by Amber Shirley.............................................................................................................Music by Carley Hauntsman........................................................................................................Oceans of Peace by Jenna Aycock.......................................................................................Grisaille by Dr. Deborah Stark............................................................................................When I’ve Turned to Gray by Robby Johnson.........................................................Pristine Hands by Shalimar Crowe...................................................................................Child by Chanlin McGuire.............................................................................................................Single TV Dinner Discussion by Josh Bryan......................................................Our Daily Bread by Josh Bryan............................................................................................Ladybug by Cana Jacques...............................................................................................................You Better Watch Out by Alex Genetti...........................................................................Rains Lullaby by Carly Hauntsman...............................................................................Color Vision Bubble by Cana Jacques...........................................................................And then- by April Toney.............................................................................................................. Words by Carley Guillorn..............................................................................................................Seeker by Chanlin McGuire..........................................................................................................Baseball by Cana Jacques...........................................................................................................Sunday Rafters by Sierra Stark.........................................................................................Fear by Robby Johnson.....................................................................................................................String Beans and Funerals by Saron Williamson........................................

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Sitting on his haunches, he engorges till full to burst.Something faint, cruelly faint, whispers it’s time to stop,but he just wants one more baby suckling pig— its sweetskin caramel glazed and glistening in the lightthrown up from a fire—a smooth skinned candied apple,core and all.

And before he even gets the first thin shred of scarlet skinunstuck from his bony mouth, he already formulates, plans, theorizes, thinks plain how to satiate another sense. Convenient.

When all of a sudden every platelet, every photon,every wavelength, every echo of sound, every invisible molecule bound in the room draws out, sucks away, draws inand coalesces into an other thing, brighter,brighter, than all days combined, and as he falls he sees men for the first time scattered ‘round where the darkness was, cowering, hiding their faces, thrown to the ground.

Keys in Handby Kyle Garrett

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Quick as an uncapped, lighted flare, he remembersa world outside of himself and his excuse for a fire,his excuse for a passion, his excuse for desire,and he re-remembers a feeling he thought forever lost –relief. Even still, he gnashes his teeth as he considers life without this relief,now that he’s had a taste,

when the Light interrupts and speaks clean through the light of a thousand days.

The Light has bursted chains, has crushed a bony head – You can choose something else, It says.

Up, out, It lit the way.

And yet still, way down below, faintly, a fatted pigscreams. Without looking back he sensessharp flint scrapes, kindled twigs crackle,dry-veined leaves, ever so slowly, redden and curlin on themselves.

But He lit the way, with keys in hand. Grace. Peace. Joy. I ran.

I dwell in Possibility -

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by Cana Jacques

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It was a simple grassy hilltop. It jutted out of the surrounding fields like a lonely monolith standing upon an open plain. On it was a single peach tree. It was clearly dying, but here and there a few white peach blossoms still sprouted from its withered branches. Oc-casionally a gentle breeze would come along, and the blossoms would dance about, a few of them even dislodging themselves from the aged tree and drifting aimlessly into the cool night air. But mostly they were still. A car was parked at the foot of the hill. It was an old car, but well taken-care-of. The moonlight above cast a pallid glow on its reflective red surface. On the hood of the car sat a young man of about nineteen years, with a pale complexion and sandy-brown hair. He was gazing up at the darkened sky with rapt interest. He stared as if he was hoping to see some-thing truly spectacular. But there was very little to see. The stars were going out. A second car pulled up to the hillside and parked next to the red one. This one was newer, and silver. The door opened, and out stepped a second person, dark-haired and about the same age as the first. He leaned against the hood of his own car and crossed his arms. “Hey Jake,” he said. His voice was dull and lifeless. “Hey John.” “So…this is it?” Jake nodded slowly. There was a brief pause. “Then…there’s nothing else we can do?” “Nope,” Jake said coldly. “Nothing else except just sit and wait…and watch.” They both looked up at the sky with uncertainty. It was very dark. There were a few diamond pinpoints of light dotting the heavens, but most of the sky was an inky black. The only real light came from the full moon, which glowed with unrivaled radiance. There was little else in the sky to compare it against. John stared hard into the blackness. He could just barely make out a few faint red orbs standing out against the sullen black backdrop of the night sky. One or two of them – he couldn’t quite tell for sure – simply winked out of existence as he sat there. “Can you see them?” he asked Jake. “The red ones, you mean?” John nodded, and Jake continued. “Yeah. What do you think it means?” “They’re dying.” “Huh?” “Red stars are old. They swell up like tumors and burn out all their fuel. They turn red because they’re cooler than the yellow stars.” “But aren’t those stars millions of light-years away? How can we suddenly see them turning red now if the light from millions of years ago is just reaching us?” John pondered this for a moment before he replied. “Who’s to say they didn’t turn red millions of years ago, and we’re just now seeing it?” “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” Jake was silent for a few seconds. “So…I guess this

Starless by Alex Genetti

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has been coming for a bit longer than we thought, huh?” “Heh. Yeah.” A bit of nervous laughter, followed by more silence. John looked thoughtful. “Been listening to the news lately?” Jake shook his head. “Haven’t seen any reason to. It’s not like they know any more about the situation than we do.” “I had the radio on on the way over. Lots of prayers, lots of conspiracy theorists.”“Hmm.”“And then the DJ played ‘It’s The End Of The World As We Know It’ by R.E.M.”Jake snorted, suppressing a laugh. “That’s not funny,” he said. He smiled anyway.John grinned with him. Then his face fell. “No, it really isn’t.”Jake’s smile disappeared as well. “Yeah.”Silence.“How much of the Bible have you read?” John asked his friend, more or less out of the blue.Jake thought for a moment. “Just bits and pieces. Why?”“What about the Book of Matthew?” Jake chuckled quietly. “Matthew? The Gospel?”“How’s that funny?” “It’s not,” Jake shrugged. “I guess I just thought you were going to say something about Revelations. It seems more like the kind of book that would apply here.” “Revelation,” John said. “What?” “It’s called Revelation. Singular. There’s no ‘s’ at the end.” “Are you sure? I always heard it called – ” “No, it’s Revelation. No ‘s.’” “Oh.” Silence. Jake coughed. “So… you were saying? About Matthew?” “Oh yeah. There was a verse in the…twenty-fourth chapter, I think: ‘The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; and the stars will fall from the sky….’” Jake looked up. “Of course, the stars aren’t actually falling, per se….” “Yeah, I know,” John said. “It just…made me think of….” “Yeah.” More silence. “I don’t know,” said John. “I used to read about the end times in Revelation. The sky raining blood and fire, dragons coming out of the sea…y’know, the Apocalypse.” “Judgment Day, the Four Horsemen, all that jazz,” Jake said. “Yeah, me too.” He looked at the sky again. “Never thought it would end like this.” “Not with a bang, but with a whimper.” “Yeah.” There was another very long silence. A few minutes later, the precious few stars that still lit the sky vanished unceremo-niously into the blackness, like candles blown out by a sudden gust of wind.

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by Amber Shirley

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In just a second, there goes lifeBut what I lose, I gain the moreBecause in that moment, I did not dieI simply passed through a revolving door

No door have I seen is more narrowNor as easy to push throughFor one to pass is for one to knowAnd for one to believe in the ultimate truth

Life exist forever, but time shall dieAlong with worry, strife, and painSo who could say never, to a prize?Unraveling a more joyous gift within

It’s in the heart; no where elseCan it occur, happen, and take placeIt’s by faith, with words, through actionsOne can experience this gift called grace

Yesterday’s tomorrow; that is itNo promise of a second chance or laterLiving in the now, until this endStarting the beginning of the life hereafter

The moment stands still; here it comesIt’s surprising, yet oddly familiarIt can be escaped, but not by everyoneBecause it’s a choice to live in surrender

But oh the happiness, that comesWhen that door opens it’s waysTo have the assurance, of a job well doneAnd to know that my visit was not in vain

So here I am, there goes lifeBut what is lost, is gained all the moreBecause I know, that I have not diedI have simply passed through the revolving door

The Revolving

Doorby

Jesse Kemmerer

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by Robbert “Robby Monroe” Johnson

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His face was brown as old grease and creased with a hundred dark unmoving rivers. The thick skin drooped below his eyes, lengthened his ear-lobes, sunk and collected beneath his chin. His eyes themselves were unclear – murky delta water where fresh and salt churn together – that looked tired and wise and near to blind. But he saw more than his eyes belied. He saw wry smiles and snakes in woodpiles and work to be done and work to be done by another man and he saw tension in a room and he saw his black Chevy S-10 and he saw his only teeth in the cup-holder and yes, at age eighty something, he still seemed to see women – though the unblinking stares suggested he didn’t see them as well as he’d of liked. He didn’t see the paint that covered not just the baseboard but half an inch above it; he didn’t see the watery paint that dripped from his brush onto his truck door as he paused before getting in; he didn’t see how his grandson could strikeout unless he was facing a fu-ture hall-of-famer. He didn’t see anything wrong with cutting grass commer-cially with men a quarter his age when the midsummer air stood unmoving and dry as a rusted rifle. And he didn’t see anything wrong with staying on the shady side of a building, one hand holding a Pall Mall to his mouth, the other triggering a whirring weed-eater as it sat, loud but innocuous, atop a stone bench. What the other workers didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He’d seen fifty consecutive days of carrying a Browning BAR deep in the Korean jungles – a feat that merited its own specific army patch. He’d also seen himself given to such deep and self-justified rage that he’d planned to kill a man – a security guard at a hospital. His wife lay near to death in the interior of a hospital and the security guard wouldn’t let his eleven year old daughter past him to see her. He’d been with his wife now for the better part of three days, hadn’t slept, hadn’t showered, hadn’t been home. And now his daughter couldn’t see her dying mother. After his wife was released from the hospital and on the road to recovery, he tucked a handgun into his pants, walked into the hospital, and sat erect in a waiting room chair until the se-curity guard manned his post. That night, for whatever reason, that security guard never did. That was the last time he or a member of his family ever stepped foot in that particular hospital. He saw his family through disease, addiction, recovery, and divorce. He saw his grandson through the tragic comedy of a bow and arrow accident that resulted in an ER trip, and even afterwards he still sincerely referred to his grandson as a natural-born marksman. He saw that same grandson through his own period of rage. Everyday around the same time, after fifth period, his grandson would call his father or his grandfather to pick him up early from school. After asking off of work early one too many times, his father got fed up with it and wanted to know once and for all why he couldn’t stay the whole day like everybody else. The freshman-aged boy was quiet.

A Real Characterby Kyle Garrett

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After his grandfather picked him up one day, he told the boy, “If you tell me what’s wrong, I’ll do everything in my power to help you or get you to somebody who can help.” The boy stayed quiet. Just before sundown, the boy went out the front door, crossed the road, walked out into the crop-field, and sat down. His grandfather watched him go. A little while later, the boy came back inside and told his grandfather that every sixth period math class, he would sit in his desk and slowly become enraged. Like an out-of-body experience, he’d see himself sitting in his desk, and he’d feel himself struggling to keep from lurching at the teacher. Struggling not to kill him. And during these spells he could look over at the doorframe and see a demon, its head towering up above the frame, lurking just outside – ready to come in. The whole thing frightened him. He couldn’t tell his father – he’d think he was crazy – or crazier. After he finished telling this through stammers and tears, his grandfather told him to draw a picture of this spirit. Then he told him that the next time he saw that spirit, he should say this: “Satan, you’ve got no power here and in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior who shed his blood on Calvary, be gone.” When his grandson came home from school the next day, he had a quiet smile on his face. His grandfather, his face creased with lines of pain and victory and trial, told him to go get that picture he drew, head out the front door, cross the road, walk into the crop-field, and burn it to ash.

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Battle the briefcase, workplace, morning news,mass produced, boldfaced lies, corporate ties, hypnotized,Still find time.

Drown in school loans,pay phones, housing bills,bargain bought hasty meals,fairytale lies idolized,Still find time.

Play as racecars,Movie stars, cowboy scenes,Fish downstream, make believed,Childhood eyes, moralized,Still find time.

Stay in guestrooms,Costumes, painted faced,Out of place, constant sighs,Sunken eyes, vandalized,Still find time.

But you.

They who-by April Toney

A fairer House than Prose-

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by Carley Guillorn

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Its cold, white legs were sturdier than all my bones combined and re-fused ever would be; its plastic face was cracked, faded, stained around the edges, but as reliable as the face of the earth itself. Here I ate my after-school snack while I watched television, gnawed shirtless at supper, and sat—so as simply to be watched. My little yellow table hid during the day when not in use, who knows whether folded or just misplaced, and awaited me in the middle of the living room any time I should imagine to eat. I liked it just there. The breezy air-conditioner could reach me just right, Bonnie and Wyeth (Mom-ma and Daddy) would be able to watch my every move, I was just within range of my toys’ and imaginary friends’ goings-on, and I had a perfect view of the tube. The tabletop was a pure square—I measured it with my forearms. It was scaly-feeling, imitating tiles, and felt to the touch like I was sure dinosaurs once felt, only colder. At age four I accidentally colored on it with something red, probably a marker. I carefully coated the tip of my tiny finger with a healthy glob of saliva, and with it tried to buff the blemish away, but to no avail. At six, I made sure that the table came with us to Hartford once I found out we would be there for a long, long time. I believe that is where the table got that large chip in its formerly flawless edge. When I was seven, it followed us again as we left Uncle Rocky’s trailer and found one of our own. One day in that new-to-me trailer, while I should have been watching Samurai Jack, I found myself staring down past my bare, second-grade chest at my cheese-slice of a tabletop. It was garnished with many colors now, and I wondered how this came to be, considering my four-year-old dismay at the first miscolorment. Its edges looked burnt, as though I had kept it in the toaster-oven too long, and I still have no clue how this change occurred. I guessed it had to be age. My seven-year-old understanding already associated age with death—the television must have taught me that this is the way. I knew the table would not be around for much longer, so I started eating on the couch like my parents did. One day when I particularly missed the table, I discovered I could move whatever I was drawing or writing onto something hard and flat and transfer that to the dinosaury tabletop. This lifestyle change had me feeling like I had come into the fullness of my second-grade maturity. Sometimes I still ate at the table, but only when it felt just right. Almost like when my preadolescent, spandexy wears began to fit less like clothes and more like swimwear—I only wore them when it felt just right. It was a normal Friday night. Wyeth had caused an uproar in his drunken stupor, but was squelched by Bonnie’s Momma-bear reflex. This reflex was shy, which may be why it was so ef-fective when we saw it; she never gave it a chance to wear out or become customary. He took his silly sotness elsewhere for a couple of hours, so Momma-Bonnie-bear and I sat down to eat some delicious Ramen. I positioned my table directly in the center of the living room, as I had so long liked it, and she took her place in the middle of the couch along the western-most wall. Normally I would have been perturbed by my Daddy-figure’s absence, but I took personal offense to some of the words he spoke before being overrun by Her Grizzliness, and thought I’d be okay not seeing him until he were in his right mind again (and even then, I would have to talk to my Daddy about his conduct). Bonnie finished her noodles and began to play with the ends of my hair. This annoyed me at first, being that she couldn’t hold off on touching me until I was done eating. She did not often extend such affectionate gestures, so I learned within a few seconds to appreciate it and ignore my instinctive irritation. Her warm fingertips tended to be quite soothing. The touch reminded me of getting spankings for whatever mischief I would do as a littler person and then lying down to her

The Yellow Tableby Chanlin McGuire

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comforting strokes up and down my back. I couldn’t remember when the last time was I was tan-gibly disciplined and thought, I must be good now that I’m older. I was emotionally sedate—belly full of Ramen, heart comforted by Bonnie’s touch, and mind at peace with being a good girl. My eyelids were pleasantly heavy, my shoulders were increasing in their slump, and I was thinking very seriously about curling up to sleep somewhere. It took a few minutes of slumping and sighing and eyelid-drooping to turn my head as my first move of action. Before the point of my nose was halfway facing Bonnie behind me—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! “Open this door, you [expletive]” Wyeth bellowed from the front porch. “Let me in my house so I can eat!” I was sitting straight up from the start I got at his knocking. My feet were cold with fear. I felt as though I were an actress who had gotten so caught up in her scaredy-cat character she became that cat herself. The fear was a part of her, and no longer a projection of an idea. Why am I so scared of Daddy? It was more of a rhetorical question rooted in my embarrass-ment than a reflective lead to search. While every weekend was the same, it always seemed so different—so new. Five out of seven days my Daddy was my best friend, and often protected me from Bonnie’s verbal blows. Fridays and Saturdays, though, the roles were reversed, and Bonnie protected me from him. He would become a beast. He continued to pound on the door and yell. Insults, pleas, and mumblings that neither of us could understand. Bonnie called him stupid—and all of a sudden I snapped out of my terror. I turned to look at her and was trying to think of something to say in his defense. I had plenty to say, but couldn’t seem to open my mouth. I diverted my focus and began to think. As I thought, the pounding grew to pummeling. He was no longer knocking with his great, browned fist. He threw himself into the door once . . . twice . . . three times. The lock rattled a bit, so I jumped back from the yellow table onto the loveseat that faced north. The fourth or fifth hit brought all two-hundred and thirty-six pounds of drooling, fierce-eyed drunk through the front doorway and into the middle of the living room, where he broke his fall on the little yellow table. At least two-thirds of my life up to that night, I had this table with me. It followed me from our nice, country home to the two aluminum prisons, it held me steady as the weight behind my el-bows rose from twenty-five pounds to ninety—it survived all my hasty coloring, for Simon’s sake! And now the yellow table was only a collection of polygonal plastic and four steel bars. But that night all I said to Wyeth was “Daddy, are you okay?” I don’t think he could hear me over the roar-ing curses, accusations, and commands pouring from Bonnie’s mouth and hands. “You crushed Chanlin’s little table, you idiot!” I seem to remember hearing at one point as well. He didn’t get up, but his jaw moved back and forth like he was rolling a marble between the rows of his few re-maining teeth, in that way he did. This became to me, years later, a sign that I should overlook him for the time being. I left the room to wash my face, hands, and feet. When she was done fuming I would try to go to sleep. I hoped Wyeth would be okay the next day after sleeping on a small heap of broken plastic. He was the same as he usually was on Saturday mornings—in pain, but coherent enough to speak gently to me. “Daddy?” “Yes, baby?” he answered diffidently. I thought to ask why he was a drunk. I decided against it. “Didn’t you make me that table when I was very little?” “No, sweetheart, but I did find it for you and bring it home.” “Oh. I thought you made it.” “No—but Daddy’s sorry he broke it. We’ll find you another one.” I didn’t want another one. “I love you Daddy.” “I love you too, babe.” He drew me into his side with his large, browned hand.

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by Amber Shirley

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It’s always there in front of us,Yet it’s beyond our reach.Once it lets us play with it,Then twice as fast retreats.

It is an elusive being,Yet it comes to rich and poor.To play, it takes time to learn,But a trice to hear the score.

Music swirls and moves about,Entangled in everything.It makes a king a commonerAnd a commoner a king.

Whether we listen by choice or not,Still the music will remain.It’s in the whisper of the treesAnd in a cry of pain.

And although it’s always changing,Some things remain the same;Music is in everything,From a song to a hissing flame.

We should all enjoy and listen To the never ending range.It can move our inner beings,And that will never change.

Musicby Carly Hauntsman

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by Jenna Aycock

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My mom’s life had become a painting in monochrome grey. Grisaille is the term. What was once the foundational white to black grey-scale color chart she painstakingly taught her Painting 101 students, was now the reality of her existence. Before I arrived at Mom’s Missouri home in 2009, I had silently hoped that her life would at least resemble a verdaille painting with a more promising spectrum of greens. After seeing her, I had to ex-cuse myself to weep in her cluttered bathroom. I prayed that God would sustain her through the long trip back to our Georgia home so we could care for her more closely. Images of her life flashed through my mind in a cascade of fast-forwarded scenes as I grasped for perhaps a slight hue of the warm sienna coloring that once glimmered from her now milky veiled eyes. In these images I saw her emerging from the Hematite Violet of her mother’s womb; quiet, doe-eyed, and in my grandmother’s description, “catching every small detail around her.” As a young girl, a can of scarlet red paint in the garage urged her to swipe a single brushstroke onto the side of her father’s Titanium White Cadillac and she could not resist. The Cerulean Blue of her childhood pond beckoned her to add a pulsing syncopated rhythm to the dragonfly ostinato. Her skillful zig-zagging pencil strokes on parchment formed Vir-idian and Cinnabar Deep Green trees with their rough-lined Burnt Carmine trunks. She was destined to become an artist. Mom had been a child of privilege, and her parent’s Victorian standards dictated that she would use her keen mind for practical ventures. It was understood that she would eventually marry a man who could maintain her present standard of living, but her creative nature sparked a more colorful destiny. Her life became much harder than imagined when she married a sailor, dropped out of college, and took on the struggles of military life. Pa-triotic colors were added to her palette; Wedding White with Navy Blue and eventually softened by two little Primrose Pink daughters. She found domestic life difficult: she was ever battling the lure to dive deep into the blue creative right-brain depths that pulled her from Ultramarine, to Indigo and finally into the silent world of Cobalt Blue. The identity struggle between her two contrasting worlds of idyllic artist and military wife often threat-ened her existence, but she persevered. She eventually went on to enroll in college as an art major, completed graduate school on scholarship in her 40s, produced fine sculptures, paintings and drawings, and eventually retired from a career as an art professor. Now, in the midst of the bathroom clutter of her Missouri home, I asked myself, where was this survivor, this persevering artist? Had she finally given in and let herself go beyond the Cobalt regions, past Payne’s Gray and into Dark Goethite? After packing and loading up her belongings, I drove her to her doctor. She was reluctantly given a medical release to travel. Grisaille was three years ago. After learning she had most likely suffered silent strokes, I watched love act as Cadmium Barium Yellow on Dark Goethite, producing those familiar Sienna brown doe-eyes. When her neurons could not signal through the scar tissue that encased a large percentage of her vocabulary and memory, her artist’s mind sculpted new neural networks in the frontal region of her brain.

Grisailleby Dr. Deborah Stark

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In Georgia, a new chromatic spectrum is emerging, producing such beautiful pure colors as Alizarin Crimson, Prussian Blue and Thalo Green. These colors radiate from the garden we create together, ornamented with a few scattered colored balls from a now grown stray puppy who shares blazing evening sunsets with Mom on her reading porch. It is there that she is able to find peace in the protection of God’s extended provision for her. Mom says the essential middle color value in mixing oil paints is Yellow Ochre. Perhaps that is what I am: her Yellow Ochre, mixed into the color scheme to provide bal-ance. We are looking for the effects of light on color as in the tradition of the Impressionist plein air (open air) painters. As God shed’s His light on our ever changing landscape, faith provides a beautiful new canvas. I’ve never cared for Grisaille. Mom’s colors are pure now. Perhaps mixed with a little Yellow Ochre, we can create a new style with our coloring, one more striking together that what we had singularly.

Grisaille

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When I’ve Turned to Grayby Robbert “Robby Monroe” Johnson

When I’ve turned to grayAnd all my days are goneDon’t let my mem’ry fade

Help me to carry on

When I’m too weak to fightAnd all my strength is lost

I’ll give in to the nightI’ll pay that wretched cost at last

May the heavens bend down to reach meAs I draw my last breath and fade away

May my mem’ry not fade too quicklyMay my love be remembered past my days

May the struggles I faced as a young man

Serve the next generation of my kinAnd the heartbreak I’ll always rememberMake sweeter the love I’ve come to know

When I’ve turned to grayAnd all my days are goneDon’t let my mem’ry fade

Help me to carry on

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When I’m too weak to fightAnd all my strength is lost

I’ll give in to the nightI’ll pay that wretched cost at last

May the hope that had for the futureBe echoed in your hearts and livesMay the dreams I forgot to realize

Be the stories of your great love’s best times

May the prayers that I whispered softlyCome ‘round once again to you in time

And the wisdom of all my failuresKeep you from falling down unkind

When I’ve turned to grayAnd all my days are goneDon’t let my mem’ry fade

Help me to carry on

When I’m too weak to fightAnd all my strength is lost

I’ll give in to the nightI’ll pay that wretched cost at last

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by Shalimar Crowe

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Take off your ties,Rub off your paint,You are a child hereAnd you’re all the same

Listen to singingTap toes and take partYour brand new DaddyLoves to hear joyful hearts

Rub your bare headTo clothe it with youthNew sprouts can spring forthIt’s stranger than truth

Wipe your tired eyesLet them shut as you cryAs your cheeks raise with laughterAnd all your shame dies

Dance in the bright worldThe new world underfoot,All around, up aboveAll you see here is good

All you hear now is goodAll you feel now is fullAll your nose has leftTo breathe in here is sweet

Leave your shoes on the rugLeave your phone in the carLeave the car in the streetLeave the keys in the yard

All you taste now is wineFlowing freely and sweetOver your loosened lipsAnd your youthful white teeth

Childby Chanlin McGuire

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Of Visitors - the fairest -

“She was awful.”She was perfect. “She was needy.”She was worth it.“I could break her.”But she broke you. “I really liked her.”Yeah, me too.

Single TV Dinner Discussionby Josh Bryan

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Sweaty palms match my dewed brow, but are quite welcome. I’m not particular to a certain palm, because--

We all belong together here. We suffer together here. We love together here.

I close my eye-lids. The aroma licks my lips but I live to linger longer in this love.

Is it family? In some eyes. Are they friends? Of course. But what we truly are is unified.

Whether it’s the warmth of the wax of the candle, or the heat of the hold in our hands, it cannot match the light of our love.

We ask the house to be blessed, but what we receive is a home.

We ask for the house and the meal to be blessedas we stand in a home with a feast.

Amen.

Our Daily Breadby Josh Bryan

Of Visitors - the fairest -

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by Cana Jacques

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An ice-cold wind bit at Roger Everyman’s face as he stepped from the dingy bus onto the unforgiving gray sidewalk. He heard the bus doors squeak shut behind him, fol-lowed by the growling of the vehicle’s engine as it forced its wheels into motion. Roger turned his head and watched the bus rattle and shake its way down the empty street until it vanished amongst the shadowy urban monoliths. His eyes, having lost sight of the bus, began to wander up the soaring city spires and into the sky. It was hopelessly gray and overcast; it always was, or at least had been, ever since ELF had come to power. Roger felt awful. He trudged past the boarded-up shop windows and forsaken flats with his head hung low, burying his face in the wide collar of his trench coat. He was dressed in a faded pair of old blue jeans, worn out at the knees from years of service, and a dilapidated-looking brown sweater. On top of all this sat his coat. It hung upon his shoul-ders so heavily that it made every step an act of monumental effort. How he hated that coat. How he hated having to wear such heavy clothing at all. But, much as he wanted to tear the thing off and set it alight, he knew he would freeze to death on these cold streets without it. It happened to people all the time in this eternal winter. Roger plodded along at a dismal pace, rarely looking up from his own feet. From time to time he would pass another broken soul who was wandering about the streets as aimlessly as he was. He would look into the eyes of the passerby and mumble some half-sincere seasonal greeting, but only because it was expected of him. He and the strang-er would exchange mutual well-wishes and then continue on their way. This was how de-cent people interacted. They had done things that way forever, as far as most people knew. Roger knew better; such social conventions had only been the norm since ELF had come to power. A light snow began to drift down from the overcast skies. Roger grimaced at this. He hated snow, almost as much as he hated heavy coats; and, now that he thought about it, for many of the same reasons. Everything ended up buried and muffled underneath layers of dense white, making it difficult to move through the day. Then he wondered why he cared how quickly he got through his day, seeing as how he never accomplished anything anyway, and swiftly terminated that line of thinking. It snowed almost every day now. Occasionally there would be spells of a few snow-less days, but they were few and far between. When these happened, his younger neigh-bors and colleagues would rush outside each morning to see if a new coat of white had fallen. If it hadn’t then they would be confused and disappointed. When next it snowed, they would celebrate everything being the way it should be once again. After years of observation, Roger started to notice that these days followed a certain pattern: whenever people in the neighborhood stopped actively enjoying the snowfall, it suddenly ceased, only to reappear a few days later. ELF didn’t want anyone taking the snow for granted. He passed a mural-painted brick wall. Covering the faded artwork was a huge poster depicting the face that so many people the world over had come to associate with ELF. Roger sighed when he saw it. He suspected that he alone understood the true nature of ELF’s so-called “leader.” He was a symbol, a fiction, a child’s fairy-tale, created to

You Better Watch Outby Alex Genetti

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keep potentially unruly citizens on the paths of righteousness. But practically everyone believed him to be a real human being – or at least, something akin to a human being – and revered him as their god. For a moment, Roger stopped walking and simply stared at the face on the poster. It was an old man’s face, wrinkled and knotted, but noticeably rosy about the cheeks. His eyes had a kindly look about them, like a beloved uncle or grandfather. His hair was white and silky, and a full flowing beard obscured the lower half of his countenance. A pair of old-timey spectacles was perched on his nose, and on his head was a red hat, pointed and floppy, tipped with a ball of puffy white cotton. Printed in blocky red text beneath the face were these words: “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.” Bah humbug, Roger thought, and continued on his way home.

There’s a gentle pitter-patterDancing in the night.I can hear them drop and splatterAs they fall from their great height.

It’s thumping keeps within in the hollowOf the winds low tune,And the drumming is sure to followIn the rhythm of a croon.

Because of the rains soft lullaby I am dreamland boundSo I lay down with a sighAs it settles to the ground.

Rains Lullabyby Carly Hauntsman

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by Cana Jacques

Rains Lullaby

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And thenby April Toney

The hasty dawn settles,And the curtains are drawn,The luggage packed—A large grey bag,Followed by a smaller one,Black.

And one dying houseplant,With instructions:Only water once a week. But it needs much more.

He said to me,You’ll always be like this,Perpetually stubborn.But I said, no I’ll be different—I’m different,Now.

And we lied,To appeal and appease.

I’ve carried them for months,The bags and the plant,To one house and then another,Even back to yours,But was distracted By all the others.

And with the lazy dusk,I noticed my houseplant fits,in your corner. I checked when you were gone,And then,No water, no sunlight,I left.

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Wordsby Carley Guillorn

Words are what remind me of you the most.Words are still the only piece of you that remains in me.Even when I want to be rid of every remnant of you,The words remain.

When we parted, Said goodbye until the next time, Words sustained us.

The “we” of you and me was made up of too many words to count.Words heard on the other end of phone calls,Words that appeared on phone screens,Words on paper, words that were for your eyes only.

Words were a part of us from the very beginning.When we weren’t separated by miles in-between,We filled our time with so many words.

Time spent on back porch swings, coffee shops, and car rides.Words spilled into the air between us.

Words that detailed dusty childhood memories and shipwrecked relationships.Words that exposed past hurts and future hopes.

Words were my favorite thing about us.They were how we learned to love, no matter what.How we learned what the other needed, what the other feared.

Even though words are rarely shared between us now,Words are how we will lay the foundation for our future hopes, And how we will heal our past hurts.

And then

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About four months into my knowing God, a friend of our family told me that I had a “searching spirit.” Mrs. Lara is a quirky lady—Southern for sure, fun-loving, down-to-earth with a Santa-Claus-like twinkle in her spectacled eyes. She was the type who will jump at a moment’s notice upon hearing the voice of the Holy Spirit. I viewed her as somewhat of an oracle. I thought about what she said all day long and wondered what was written on my face. I was sure I was quiet enough. How did Lara know something as abstract about me as my “spirit”? Later when I asked Momma how Mrs. Lara knew that about me, she gave me two answers: Lara listens to God, and that is just the way I am. It’s not hard to tell, I was told. I didn’t even know that I had a “searching spirit”, until I thought about that day and the days following. I did. I do. In the three years preceding God’s life-change for me, I spent most nights out walking. I had stopped trying to find a place among the neighbor kids who rode bikes all day and started tak-ing solace in the cover of night. I would wait until Bonnie would fall asleep, and I knew if I could make it past the living room, she’d be clueless no matter how far I went, as long as I was home before sunrise when she was more likely to stir. At the time, I was a thrill-seeker—I loved the feeling I got from sneaking out at night wearing my favorite outfits. I saved all the clothes that made me feel powerful for my night walks. It was almost ceremonial for me to get out and breath fresh air. To step onto any plot of land that would not get me arrested to step on. To think. Even my high-school boyfriend was asleep at this time of night. I was finally alone. Alone with the nightlife animals. Alone with my ruminations—my gods. In the trailer in where we lived I felt a prisoner. I could be there with Wyeth and Bonnie, watching television, or talking to my boyfriend, the only “friend” I had allowed myself, but I felt more insignificant there than here, where my own imagination was sovereign. Noone to try to impress while walking alone. Noone to care for when walking alone. No use for crying while out walking alone. No use for cutting while out walking alone. I could write songs, I could tell stories, I could enjoy my own company without other people’s looking at me or acknowledging me ruining it. On my feet, in the dark, no one else mattered. I reveled in the sound of my rubber soles scrub-bing against the pavement, of my legs swishing against each other, of the street lights buzzing, of tiny critters scuffling in the grass. I worshipped the glow of porch lights reaching the street, my long, thin shadow before me, the washed out grass sleeping in the dim lighting, the varied shades of the enchanting night sky. I knew I always had to come back home and would feel just as insignificant once back as I did before. But still I laced up my shoes, creeped out the door, and plodded on. One night, my soul must have hoped, I would reach the end of my thoughts and dimly-lit solitude would finally satisfy me. I would hear from the one true God and never need to search again. That never happened. Not on my own terms. During those lost years, I was aimless. No ambition. No identity. Just as pointless as the walks I took. My boyfriend called me. We talked our usual couple of hours. Bonnie played her television as loudly as humanly possible. That woman could play a TV like Ray could play the keys. Sure she couldn’t hear me, I consented to his plan to come to his place. His family would be gone all night. He refused to pick me up. I would have to walk. I loved to walk; that was no problem. But his persistence in not helping me translated to indifference. I was thirteen years old—anything could have happened, but this this didn’t seem to click with him. As long as I had walked other nights, I

Seekerby Chanlin McGuire

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had never walked as far as his home across the bridge that connected Hawkinsville and Hartford. I would have to get over the bridge, safely pass two of the central neighborhood for drug-deals, nav-igate through downtown, find all the nice, rich-people houses, and enter the Silcox home undetect-ed by the ex-stepfather next door. For the first time, I was scared to walk. I wouldn’t let on. In him I sought affection. He couldn’t know I would rather feel safe than see him. In my independence I sought importance. I couldn’t recognize my pride, nd certainly couldn’t turn down a challenge. Without my knowledge, my soul sought freedom from sin. I couldn’t escape God’s plan. Once out of the trailer, the fear gripped me instantly. The night air in which I normally took refuge felt like a cold smoke filling my lungs. I imagined everything that might go wrong and almost turned around to go back inside. The seeker in me knocked me on the head and called me a coward. I walked on. Once my foot left my own front yard I saw that the dogs who were normally penned up down the street had gotten out, and they terrified me. They were not large, but their ears reminded me of horns and their barks seemed to sound so much bigger than they were. Growing up there was a rumor that those dogs once ate a person. I stared down the road thinking of how I might avoid them. Just as I decided on a path through the woods, I saw a thin male figure wearing a cap stand-ing at the end of the road. I thought it was my neighbor, Blue, and I was sure he’d see me. I’d have to ask him not to tell Wyeth about my sneaking out. Blue was in the same class as my boyfriend, so I knew he’d understand. I took a path behind a few houses just out of my way that went through the woods and behind each and every one of my aunt’s and uncle’s homes to get me to the where the boy in the hat was. I came up behind him and noticed his spotless red letterman jacket—this was my boyfriend. His blemishes seemed few in the dim light, and one might hardly had been able to tell that he was disfigured. At the age of eleven, he was sitting in the front passenger’s seat of his dad’s car when a semi-truck coming from their right did not stop at the red light. His skull had been completely smashed on one side and on top, but surgery saved him, and a baseball cap kept people from staring at his crooked features and bald spots. He turned, scared, when he heard me and asked why I came from behind him. I explained I didn’t want to get eaten. He laughed at me, along with all sixteen of his teeth.I was happy that he came almost the entire way to meet me and walk. We walked together too quickly for my comfort—and I was so cold. Crossing the bridge, I told him how happy I was that he came to walk with me. “You really surprised me,” I shivered. I felt a draft along my nearly bare thighs. “Well, the more I thought about it,” he laughed, “the more I realized I’d be a bad boyfriend if I made you walk all the way by yourself.” This was the first time he had ever said anything like this, and it got me to thinking about some of the other things he had said and done. Laughing at my weight. Forgetting my birthday. Making fun of my family. Lying to his friends about me. He was a pretty bad boyfriend, now that I thought about it. I didn’t feel I deserved any better, though. I asked for his jacket. He joked that I’d make it—I’m insulated. We reached McDonald’s. His house was only three more blocks away. I pulled my black, baggy t-shirt over my nose to warm it and sniffed twice at my smoky savor. Hopefully he wouldn’t smell that later. He hated it when I smoked. He was far ahead of me as we turned the corner to his street, so I scuffled a little faster to catch up. The next few steps to his back door were quick—almost hurried. His house always made me cringe. It felt as though everything in me became more small, poor, and ugly upon approach

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ing his mother’s extravagant home. Inside and out it was painted black and white. Furniture was understated, but very high-class or something. Lots of glass and antique silver. Small light fixtures and quiet appliances. It was very swanky stuff and I never felt I belonged there; the house was as full of heartbreak and arrogance as it was finery and hollow representation of happiness. We spent nearly five hours together that night. Hour by hour I felt more unclear about why I was there. One moment we would seem about to connect, and the next he would act as though he didn’t want me there at all. It was a yo-yo. Up: I want you! Down: You’re worthless. But as usual, I spent my heart to the limit. Every moment was another chance of me to find what I was looking for, and I just kept missing the chance. I started thinking around 4 that morning that I would go to church the next day. He declared it didn’t matter; I just had to be gone by 8. Rather than spending another hour lying around offend-ed, I decided I would head home. “Will you please drive me? I’m pretty sleepy.” “I can’t do that. If I got pulled over I’d probably get my permit taken away!” his crooked blue eyes were wide as he explained to me the dire issue of his possible emasculation and immo-bility. “Do you think you could at least walk me halfway?” “Nah, I’m pretty tired too. I’m going to bed as soon as you leave.” I said nothing more about it. I donned the meager clothes I had, kissed his truck-smashed face and squeezed his skinny wrists once more, and set out for Hartford. Once he shut the door behind me, I did not look back. This was the first time I was ever angry with Clayton. I hated him. I hated our relationship. I hated the choices I made. I had to talk to myself about it. I nuddled along angrily through the downtown Hawkinsville roads, grumbling to myself about his nerve, repeating things he said and making myself even angrier. I was nearly stomping when I reached the bridge, and really did not care that one of my high-tops was untied, my miniskirt was riding too high, and my hair was so matted to my face that I would have been eating it if I’d inhale through my mouth. I heard a car approaching, and saw headlights brightening around me. I slowed down so as not to look like I was running from the car, but kept my eyes toward the muddy river so as not to seem any more like a prostitute than I looked. The car slowed nearly to a halt and drove alongside me. A cop car. My heart froze. “Hey girl. Whatchoo doin’ out huh so late?” I looked when he spoke; I knew that cop’s face. He lived three streets down form me and was always bringing Wyeth home from fights. What was his name? Didn’t matter. Better answer the man, “Just out walking.” “It pretty LATE to be walkin! Whuh you headed?” Nosey cop. “Home.” “Comin’ from ya boyfrien’s house?” “I don’t have a boyfriend.” I wished I was lying. I remembered his name was Freddie. Freddie laughed. “Get in! I’ll take ya home!” I told him where I lived and he got excited about who my parents were. “I know Wee!” he pronounced my Daddy’s name as best he could. “He a good dude when he ain’t got no bottle!” Officer Freddie was right. I asked him not to tell Bonnie nor Wyeth that I had been out, and he agreed. We got to talking on the way and he asked why I was out walk-ing. “Just needed to clear my head.” Whether that was my reason or not, I did. “Yeah. Dat make sense. You looked-ded real pissed off!” His mouth looked like a wave and his eyebrows raised. He was right about that, too. I was angry. Angry at Clayton, angry at myself, and angry with my sin. This was a part of the beginning.

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by Cana Jacques

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The spreading wide my narrow Hands6

3

1

2

4

5

12

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When Katharine was little, it was a big white church on top of a bare hill, surrounded by many bare hills that were decorated only by dandelions in the summer. It had wood siding, and a belfry with an enormous cracked bell that often changed key as the crack on its left side widened. The inside of the church had stained wooden floors with thin panels that glistened in the light from the copper lanterns that hung from pigeon-filled rafters. The pigeons sometimes cooed along to the songs that started slowly. On the wall, ten feet above the stage on which the blue-robed choir swayed, was a pulpit that jutted from a wall, like the church’s preacher pocket. Ladies in gloves and hats sat primly in ankle-crossed rows and would look up through delicately mascara-painted eyelashes at the young, blushing preacher. The preacher would, in turn, begin to sweat and try his best not to focus on their bosoms although from his vantage point they had their utmost appeal. He tried to remember long verses from Revelations but instead he would just begin to preach things he knew to be right like treating your neighbor with kindness, and so no matter how many verses he forgot the soft-hearted ladies of the church agreed with him whole-heartedly. Their husbands, in suits, did not catch on to the preacher’s distractedness. They did, however, encounter similar distractions when they tried to remember long verses of hymns as the choir would sing and the full-bodied ladies would clap. The husbands in their enraptured state ended up inventing their own verses instead, which led to many new songs being sung all throughout the country. The choir ladies would attribute this to the goodness in their hearts and give them big, Je-susly hugs and everyone was pleased. Katharine’s mother was a prim ankle-crosser and Katharine’s daddy was a lyric-inventor but Katharine was an adventurer. The happiest times of her life were when she’d sneak into the rafters and hide above the lanterns near the belfry, far from the arched, stain-glass window so that she couldn’t be seen in the dusty upper reaches of the peaked ceiling. She’d hang upside down and look at the preacher through her short, black curls and the preacher looked like he was falling out of a cup into the ocean, hollering “to love thy neighbor is the utmost expression of your love for the Lord” as the choir would raise their hands and shout “amen” and sway in their shining blue robes like harmonious waves reaching up to catch him. She could lie on her stomach on a single, dark rafter and from twenty feet up she and the pigeons would see the nodding white hats of the ladies the way she’d see dandelion puffs nodding in the fields outside in August. And it was just as warm with all the hot breath rising from the congregation’s singing mouths. Her mother never knew she wasn’t in Bible class because Katharine would climb back down to the window on the front of the church that was decorated with Jesus and his open arms and she’d wriggle between the window frame and the picture and it was like a hug from heaven. She’d sidle along the gutter and back down the trellis before church was out. And she’d sit on the steps watching the big clouds somersault over the endless green hills and trace the thin dirt road, which was the only landmark, back into nothingness until her mother’s gloved hand would take hold of hers and she’d sit in the back of the car with her head spun around to see the white church get smaller and smaller and smaller until she’d squint one eye and pinch it off the hilltop and place it in her pocket until the following Sunday.

Sunday Raftersby Sierra Stark

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by Robbert “Robby Monroe” Johnson

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String Beans The air was hot and humid, as it is most of the time during a Georgia summer. I was strapped into the booster seat of the dark green van, and my mom was up front behind the steering wheel. She had the air conditioner on full blast, but it spat out hot air, adding to the choking heat in the van. My brunette bangs stuck in sweaty clumps to my forehead, and my jeans were uncomfortably hot. “We’re almost there, I promise sweetie,” my mom said from the front seat. My five year old self seriously doubted her. I glanced out the window and looked at the dry, yel-lowish grass that was cracking in the breeze and at the dehydrated trees. My mind flooded with thoughts of thirst and heat. The van turned onto the bumpy dirt road that belonged to my grandparents, and after dodging the hoard of dogs that chased after us, we came to a stop in front of the deep red front door of my grandparent’s house. I fidgeted while I waited for my mom to let me out of the booster seat. I chewed the ends of my hair and pushed my feet against the seat in front of me until I was let loose. I ran into the house, straight to the kitchen where I knew my granny would be. She already had a big wicker basket full of green beans from their garden set out on the counter. She pulled me up into a tight squeeze and I buried my face in her silver hair. I breathed in her scents of hairspray and sunshine. They were punctured by a spicy smell that was coming off of her orange shirt from Singapore. She loosened me from her embrace, and I clambered on top of the yellow countertop, planting myself beside the basket of green beans that was bigger than I was. I heard the screech of the screen door, and my papa walked in with his dirty white fisherman’s hat and still dirtier tee shirt. He hauled in another basket of green beans, which he put down to give me one of his itchy whisker-hugs. I sat, huddled between the baskets while my mom and Granny chatted about their weeks. Papa poured us all sweet tea in mason jars. The condensation beaded on the glass as the cold tea hit the sun-warmed jars. Papa and my mom moved the wicker baskets to the formal living room, while Granny and I carried empty baskets along behind them. We all took our usual seats, taking care to use coasters for our tea. I looked at all of the different paintings on the wall as I waited to get started. My eyes lingered on a particularly colorful adaptation of Noah’s Ark that Papa once found at a yard sale. I saw Granny’s hand reach deep into the basket of beans, and I took this as my cue to begin. I grabbed a bean, snapped the end, pulled the string off, and took the other end with it. I made it through my first couple of beans without incident, but I got to a particularly stubborn bean, and nudged Granny for help. She used her long, rounded fingernail to dig the string out of the bean. The bones in her thin hand moved back and forth under her skin as she worked the string out. She even-tually got it unstuck, and handed me what was left so that I could finish it off. She rubbed my shoulder and continued stringing the beans. I listened to the conversation the adults were having above me. They moved be-

String Beans and Funeralsby Saron Williamson

by Robbert “Robby Monroe” Johnson

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tween how the garden was doing, the problems they’d been having with algae in the pool out back, and gossip from the local college where Granny and Papa worked and my dad attended. Granny was my Papa’s secretary, so he loved to make jokes about how he was sleeping with his secretary. “I had one student come in today with some questions, and he mentioned that he’d heard that I’d been sleeping with my secretary. I told him, absolutely I was! I’m not ashamed. He said to me, how’s your wife feel about that? I told him, oh, she doesn’t mind. He sure looked kinda confused. I might tell him one day that my secretary is my wife!” Everyone roared with laughter, and I laughed along with them even though the joke had flown over my head. The chatter continued and the rhythm of the snapping beans clicked underneath the conversation. Papa could shell five beans to my one, but no one seemed to mind. The beans were just an excuse to get everyone together. Eventually the beans were snapped and the tea was gone. The sky had taken on a deep orange color that complimented the yellowish grass, and it was time to go home. Granny hugged me again, this time her scent mixed with the sweetness of string beans. Papa’s whis-kery hug tickled my cheeks, and some of the dirt from his shirt rubbed off onto mine, but I didn’t mind because the shirt was pink, and I didn’t like pink. My mom strapped me into the booster seat, and I looked out the window again. The orange and pink sunset reflected off of the grass and leaves from the trees, and the heat had become bearable. I drifted off to sleep with the snapping of green beans still echoing in my ears.

Funerals The air was cool and crisp, as it is on most November days in Georgia. It is one of the only months where the temperature is anything near tolerable. I sat with my hands folded in my lap. The white of my skin was a stark contrast to the black material of my dress. I looked out the window into the clear and cloudless sky and listened to the breeze blow between the dying leaves of grass. My mom was behind the wheel. She fidgeted with the air conditioner, because in November it’s hard to tell whether the day will demand hot or cool air. “We’re almost there, I promise sweetie,” she said to me from the front seat. I chewed on the ends of my hair and bounced my knee. Eventually we turned into the already packed parking lot and scavenged for a spot. We found one all the way at the back, which was not good news for me, as I was wearing high heels. Nonetheless, we crossed through the throngs on people all headed in the same di-rection we were. The sound of shoes clicking on the pavement and the breeze whistling above us were the only sounds. My mom and I crossed through the open door where the overwhelming smell of flowers and old people hit us like a stinky tidal wave. We were swallowed by the crowd, and little old ladies continually stopped me and patted my cheek or buried me in one of their soft, marshmallowy hugs. I found my way to my uncle in his dark navy suit and sat beside him in the hard plastic chair. He rubbed my shoulder for a second, but dropped his hand and crossed his arms over his chest. We both sat there as people neither of us knew folded in around us. The lights dimmed and the chatter died down. There was a projector, and after a moment a home movie illuminated the screen. The video started out in the kitchen of my grandparent’s house. The scene was familiar, and I

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was immediately whisked back to the memory. The warm summer sun beamed through the windows, and I was six years old. I was sitting on the yellow counter tops, nestled between two huge wicker baskets heaping with green beans from their garden. My granny and papa were chatting and washing their hands. Granny’s silver hair was glinting in the light, and her orange shirt from Singapore was made even brighter by the sunshine. My mom came into the shot, and Papa poured everyone glasses of sweet tea into mason jars. The adults chatted for a bit, and eventually Papa and my mom grabbed up the two baskets of beans and walked into the formal living room. After a second Granny and I came into view in the room, the both of us hauling empty wicker baskets. Everyone took their individual spots in the room as Granny distributed coasters. I watched as my eyes lin-gered on a particularly colorful painting of Noah’s ark that Papa once found at a yard sale. Granny’s hand reached deep into the basket of beans, and all at once the snapping of strings could be heard--a steady rhythm beneath the conversation. I watched as my little six year old hands popped the top of the bean off, dragged it across the edge of the bean to tear the string, and snapped the other end off with a final yank. Granny’s voice rang out, clear and authoritative as she added her own stories and bits of gossip to the chatter. The sound of her voice jolted my heart but I continued watching as she reached over to me, and dug out the string of a bean with her long, rounded fingernails. She uprooted the stubborn string and handed it over to me to finish off. Papa began to tell a story about his secretary that made everyone, in the video and in the room, roll their eyes. “I had one student come in today with some questions,” he began, “and he mentioned that he’d heard that I’d been sleeping with my secretary. I told him, absolutely I was! I’m not ashamed. He said to me, how’s your wife feel about that? I told him, oh, she doesn’t mind. He sure looked kinda confused. I might tell him one day that my secretary is my wife!” Everyone in the video roared with laughter, and there were a few chuckles in the room as well. The video ended with Granny giving me a tight hug, and I could clearly re-member the smells of hairspray and sunshine coming from her, mixed with the sweetness of string beans. I remembered the way her skin felt against mine and the texture of her shirt. I was lost in the memory of her, until someone pulled me up and walked me back outside to the car. The sky had taken on a lovely orangey-pink color and the breeze had become quite crisp. I gazed at the yellowish grass as we drove to the cemetery, and watched as the colors of the setting sun mixed with those of the swaying leaves of the trees. I closed my eyes and thought back to that day when I was shelling green beans with Granny, and suddenly her smell flooded my nose and my ears rang with the snapping of beans. The snapping sound stayed in my ears, a steady rhythm beneath the voice the minister as he spoke. The ringing was interrupted by the gentle plop of the casket making contact with the earth, and I watched as the last rays on the sun reflected on the leaves as it finally set.

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Aycock, Jenna Sophomore, Psychology Work(s) Featured: “Oceans of Peace” pg 25

Bryan, Josh Senior, Music Education (Instrumental) Work(s) Featured: “Single TV Dinner Discussion” pg 30, “Our Daily Bread” pg 33Crowe, Shalimar Falculty Work(s) Featured: “Prestine Hands” pg 30

Garrett, Kyle Instructor Work(s) Featured: “Keys in Hand” pg 8, “A Real Character” pg 16 Genetti, Alex Junior, English Work(s) Featured: “Starless” pg 11, “You Better Watch Out” pg 35Guillorn, Carley Sophomore, History Work(s) Featured: “Bird Lady” pg 20, “Words” pg 39Hauntsman, Carly Senior, Music Education (Choral) Work(s) Featured: “Music” pg 24, “Rain’s Lullaby” pg 36Jacques, Cana Sophomore, Pre-Professional Work(s) Featured: “Tree” pg 10, “Ladybug” pg 34, “Color Vision Bubble” pg 37, “Baseball” pg 43

To Gather Paradise

51

To Gather Paradise Johnson, Robbert “Robby Monroe” Sophomore, Digital Media Production Work(s) Featured: “Super Cooties” pg 15, “When I’ve Turned Gray” pg 28, “Fear” pg 46Kemmerer, Jesse Junior, Health/Physical Education Work(s) Featured: “The Revolving Door” pg 14

McGuire, Chanlin Sophomore, English Work(s) Featured: “The Yellow Table” pg 21, “Child” pg 31, “Seeker” pg 40Shirley, Amber Senior, Christian Ministries Work(s) Featured: “Royston” pg 13, “Atlanta” pg. 23Stark, Deborah Instructor Work(s) Featured: “Grisaille” pg 26

Stark, Sierra Junior, English Work(s) Featured: “Sunday Rafters” pg 45

Toney, April Senior, Enlgish Work(s) Featured: “They Who” pg 19, “And Then” pg 38Williamson, Saron Sophomore, Psychology Work(s) Featured: “String Beans and Funerals” pg 47

Index