Outside the Lines

Southeastern Louisiana University Creative Writers Group 1998

As the editors of the first issue of Outside the Lines, we would liketo take just a few minutes of the reader’s time to introduce this vol-ume. The Creative Writers Group of Southeastern Louisiana Univer-sity is made up of people who see words as the ultimate amusementpark and the perfect world. We use words as our toys, our tools, andour treasures, and in this volume we would like to celebrate the pureemotion that we conjure up with words for you.

These writings are not the things that we do for a grade, and sothey are a little different from those found in more official journals. Inthese pages are offerings by members of the Creative Writers Groupand other talented individuals around our campus that are intended tomake you laugh, make you cry, or even make you clench your fists inrage. We open up to you our very souls: please come inside and seewhat is hidden within.

Michael LibersatLeigh Comacho

Editors

Contents

Just Desserts 4

222 4

Frankenstein’s Monster 5

Forsaken 5

With the Dictionary As My Companion 6

Pleasuring the Dream 6

[Girl prints] 7

Old Songs 7

Agua De Madre 8

[god—how i hate looking at a blank page…] 8

Soap 9

Lingering Prospect 10

Undertoe 19

Paying Customers 20

Stolen Dreams 21

A Common Sea 22

The Dream 24

About the Creative Writers Group 28

Wayne Cain

Michael J. Libersat

Cami Ryan

Tasha Pierson

Corbett Mount

Mindy A. Miceli

Leigh Camacho

Brian Spears

James Bass

Shari Tomlin

James Bass

Victoria H. Pennison

Terry O’Mara

Sharon Mullings

Michael Anthony Smith

Sharon Mullings

Phil Sevin

Outside the Lines

“Sanity is madness put to good uses.”

—George Santayana

Just DessertsWayne Cain

the televangelistsnapped a gaspas the sound crackedthrough his earseach bone splinteringsharply in multiple placesa cry of painracked his lipsas marrow dissolvedto molten jellyskin scaldingsentience fadinginto a poolof steaming muck

Nevermess withGreek Gods

222Michael J. Libersat

We no longer kill our poetsNor do we seek to still their tonguesCan it beThat our souls have grownSo sterile

Barren and emptyThat poetry has become safeI long(as does the beast within us all)For metaphorsThat must be drugged and placed in chainsAnd for screaming psychotic similesBut all I doIs run my tin cupAcross the bars of the cage

“Tell truth, and shame the devil.”

—Jonathan Swift

Outside the Lines

ForsakenTasha Pierson

I look out my window and see the dark cloudsclosing in

I feel the storm brewing and smell the disaster inthe air

I search for comfort;just enough to know I am not alone—just enough to give security.

Yet I searched unfilled for there is no one to myrescue.

I have always been here for you—Why do you forsake me?

Frankenstein’s MonsterCami Ryan

A horrible creature that frightens all,An abomination in the eyes of God,A talent for creation—Or an experiment in torture?

Suffocating isolation,Maddening loneliness,Alienation and education—In the difference between vice and virtue.

A grotesque image in the water,A beautiful heart under the skin,The want for revenge grows strong.“Victor, World, you have wronged me!”

“I long for solitude, and yet I cannot stand it.”

—Eugene Ionesco

“Frequently the truths about human experience

are found at the margins of human experience”

—Anna Quindlen

Outside the Lines

6

Pleasuring the DreamMindy A. Miceli

There is no change of seasonno harm that weather can bring.There is only you and Iin silence we sit.We speak without wordsand walk along lake fronts;indulging in live rivers, our bodies adjustto sands of crystal sweet.

Whales moan gently, sending harmonyexploding through white caps and surffor miles. Seagulls cry as they flaptheir wings, swooping in mid air,waiting to dive after mulletsdancing on the water.You and I are stillas the world awaits our song.

“The creation of works of art

is the creation of the world.”

—Wassily Kandinsky

With the Dictionary As My CompanionCorbett Mount

In gardens full of belladonnaThe melody has failed to forecast salami,And the head of the covert township is pursuedBy a tongue-tied monk and a grinder of emery.Outward obsequious cirri hard-headinglyStoop and shunt near the Ionian Sea.Spinters interfere and I dab and I quoteFainthearted mushroomsWhile sweetening my tea with ipecac.

“A m

an w

ill e

njoy

tod

ay

wha

t ex

aspe

rate

d hi

m y

este

rday

.”

—Je

an M

etzi

nger

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7

[Girl prints]Leigh Camacho

Girl printsblood coloredwalk gentlyacross thewindow paincrow’s feetwordswhispertiny moansinto thesummer night

she dreams

yesterdayconga drumsbeat fiercelyher soulleatherspread tautdaddy’s girltaut

she dreamsescape

“Certain images create private little

excitements in the mind.”

—E.L. Doctorow

Old SongsBrian Spears

I thought about a song todaythat I haven’t heard in years.It was popular once, but has fadedinto a high school photograph.It reappears occasionally,at anniversaries and reunions,dragged from the closetclothed in cobwebs and yellowedcellophane wrapping. It reminds meof friendships reduced to Christmas cards.

“For every poem that I begin to write,

I think of at least ten

which I do not write down at all.”

—Stephen Spender

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8

Agua De MadreJames Bass

Another mother, a lover because she teasesbarefoot walking, lookingshe’s kissing my toes and calling.

Well okay. To my ankles anyway.

Salty soothing touch lapping softlyshe teases and calls and I’m naked to her touchbeneath the surface under my toesshe pulls and I followrolling over on my backfloating as lazy and satisfiedas a samba on a summer’s breeze.

“Silence is the mother of truth.”

—Benjamin Disraeli

[god—how i hate looking at a blank page…]Shari Tomlin

god—how i hate looking at a blank page…it stares up at me—white, glaring, accusing,

daring.reminds me of my life.

empty pages—waiting to be filled…words not yet written—songs not yet sung.

my muse remains hidden in theshadows.

neat orderly lines that i can’t read between.

where do i start? what does it mean?…the page slowly fills—

my life passes all too quickly.but where is the poetry?

“We

are

all a

ppre

ntic

es in

a c

raft

whe

re n

o on

e ev

er b

ecom

es a

mas

ter.”

—Er

nest

Hem

ingw

ay

Outside the Lines

9

SoapJames Bass

I’d like to meet Stella by starlightin her birthday suitso we could romp in the dark of the moonand be generally hospitablein these, the days of our lives.

Yes I’d like to meet sweet Stella by starlight.I saw her one time in the safeway.She seemed a very nice person andmuch better looking than those pictures in the enquirer.

Feeling young and restless I turn on the tubego back to the kitchen to check out the family foodthe price is right and I’ve nothing else to dobut take it one day at a time as the world turnsinto another world the way networks do.

All my bold and beautiful soap queens create a dynastyand all the people court them with one life to live.Then they all turn into Stella when I close my eyesand are generally hospitablein these, the days of our lives.

“I live with the people I create and it has alw

ays made m

y loneliness less keen.” —C

arson McC

ullers

Outside the Lines

10

Lingering ProspectVictoria H. Pennison

At Goldman’s Superior Butcher Shop, Caton Street, Brooklyn, goodservice was expected along with fine meats and free delivery. But anIrish delivery boy who gets sunburned? Nathan Goldman shook hishead. So, where am I going to find another delivery boy the first weekin August?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Goldman,” said Patrick, “I just can’t take the heatand the sun. I’ve tried all kinds of lotions and creams, but every nightI’m so red and sore I can’t sleep. My Mom says I’ve got to quit.”

“Alright, my boy. Just finish up today, okay?”“Sure, Mr. Goldman.” Patrick smiled and grabbed a bunch of white

wrapped parcels, relieved that Goldman didn’t give him a hard timeand secretly glad at the thought of sleeping all morning the next day.

Oh well, thought Goldman as he watched Patrick, smeared withNoxema, peddle off, I can’t blame the boy. Probably get a better jobat one of the supermarkets. Goldman’s Superior Butcher Shop can’tmeet those wages. Years ago, I could’ve had a nice Jewish boy fordeliveries, but now—they all want jobs with relevancy!

Goldman sighed as he wielded his knife over the block and care-fully made a pocket in the breast of veal for Mrs. Blum. He hoped hiscustomers wouldn’t mind walking.

Sarah Stein sighed, too, in her three bedroom apartment on OceanParkway with a doorman, elevators, and weekly maid service. “Fifi,you must eat something! That’s the best dog food on the market!”

At the words “dog food” Fifi picked up her well-groomed head andpadded into the living room without a backward glance. Sarah Stein,a widow for six years and a grandmother for three, shook her head.

“I know…some chicken livers from Goldman’s then!”

It was hot, even in Prospect Park. Sarah walked Fifi and watched asyoung mothers urged dripping children out of wading pools and wipedsticky faces. She imagined that they would serve their husbands cot-

“If

the

oyst

er h

ad h

ands

, the

re w

ould

be

no p

earl.”

—St

ephe

n N

achm

anov

itch

Outside the Lines

11

tage cheese and peaches for dinner. A group of young people werestretched out in the sun. She shook her head at their costumes andwas suddenly glad that her two daughters and her son, Sydney, weremarried and settled. I don’t see them very often, anymore, with Sydneyand his busy practice and the girls with their babies and husbands tolook after.… Still, New Jersey was only across the river. Surely Sydneywasn’t busy every night.… She quickened her pace through the park.Enough already! They have their own lives to lead, and now it’s timeI enjoy myself.

Brooklyn enjoyed itself by creating a terrible traffic jam as Sarahneared Goldman’s Superior Butcher Shop.

Goldman always caught cold at the beginning of October. There wasalways plenty of heat up front, where the veal and mutton didn’t needit, but the rooms in the back always had a draft.

Sarah Stein shopped earlier now, since the days were shorter. Shenoticed Goldman, sniffing.

“You should take care, Mr. Goldman, plenty of hot soup.”“Soup!” he said, “The last time I had—” He remembered when

Esther was alive; her steaming pots of stock. “The last time I had soupwas in my grandmother’s kitchen in Silesia when I was as big asyour Fifi!”

“I hate chopping vegetables,” muttered Sarah happily as she droppedcelery and carrots into the soup pot later that afternoon. Fifi eyed hersuspiciously. Billows of steam clouded the window on the fourteenthfloor. She thought about the neighborhood butcher as she diced thefresh parsley and hummed beneath her breath.

The next afternoon was chilly, but Sarah was restless and wanted agood excuse to get out of the apartment.

“Oh Mr. Goldman,” she said, “I had a big family supper yesterdayand I can’t possibly eat the rest of this soup. Take it for your sniffles.”

Late that night, Goldman belched at his kitchen table. So who’s tohear? He mopped up the last of the golden broth with a piece of breadand stacked the bowl on the drainboard. Tonight, he would go to bedearly, warmed by a little kindness hidden under floating celery leaves.

Outside the Lines

12

“So, how about Bingo Thursday night?” Sadie swiveled her left hiptoward Pearl and Sarah on the fold-up checker cab seat. Sadie andPearl were Sarah’s good friends.

“Okay.” Sarah nodded absently and watched flattened snowflakesfall as the taxi crawled through uptown traffic.

“I’m sure she’s had her face lifted at least twice,” Pearl leaned overconfidentially. “Nobody stays that young, eh Sarah? Sarah?”

“What? Who?”“So maybe you’re getting a little hard of hearing? Doris Day, I mean.”“Oh yes, I guess so. I was just thinking about how Max liked to

walk in Prospect Park during the first snowfall.” The women fell silent.“Let me off here, driver. I have to get some livers for Fifi.”

“In this blizzard!” exclaimed Sadie, “You’ll catch your death.”“It’s only a few blocks to walk,” Sarah replied. “I like the first snow, too.”“You’ll like it less when you crack a hip,” said Pearl.

“Mrs. Stein! Out late, aren’t you?” Mr. Goldman wiped his damphands self-consciously on his apron.

“Yes Mr. Goldman, we went to a matinee, my friends and I.”“I was just closing. What’ll it be? I’ve some nice rump roast.”“No, thank you, just the livers for Fifi, and maybe two small lamb

chops.” Sarah glanced around the shop. Must be nice to have a littleshop you can take pride in; meet people all day; keep busy.

Goldman handed over her parcel. She realized how dark it wasoutside and pulled her fur collar around her neck. Goldman noticed.

“Ah, listen Mrs. Stein, I’m closing shop now, and I thought I’d geta couple of danish for tomorrow at the bakery. I’ll walk with you ifyou’ll wait a minute.”

“Well, okay. Thank you.”“It’s really coming down,” remarked Goldman. “Probably be six

inches by morning. I remember when I was a boy of twelve, no,fifteen, I think. Anyway it snowed and snowed, and our village wasisolated for two weeks. Ah, that was snow. We kids would build hugetowers; climb to the top where you could see the forest for milesaround. And in the afternoon, when the snow was just turning blue,we’d eat oranges around the coal stove.”

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Goldman sniffed and remembered the smell of wet snowsuits steam-ing in piles on top of the stove; rosy cheeks that sucked dried andshriveled oranges kept in the cellar since summer.

Sarah had her memories, too. Wrapped in a fur rug between Mamaand Papa in the sleigh; Central Park jingling with the sound of pranc-ing horses.

They walked slowly, absorbed in the past.“Oh no, the bakery’s closed! I thought they were open till six.

Well, I’ve come this far, I might as well walk you all the way.”“Thank you, Mr. Goldman. I should hurry though; my son Sydney

is coming at eight o’clock and I promised him some latkes.”“Sure Mrs. Stein.”

At 8:15, Sarah made herself some tea. I hope I didn’t catch cold. Imust be cracking up, walking with Goldman the Butcher in the snow.She took her tea to bed and sipped slowly, savoring the warmth thatcame from the cup.

I’ve got to get another delivery boy, thought Goldman to himself.But who wants to ride a bike in a blizzard? I must be cracking up,walking the streets with Mrs. Stein. And besides, I hate danish!

A trail of soft white footprints marked the place where Goldmanhad walked with Sarah Stein.

It was colder than usual in Brooklyn. But not so cold that Sarahcouldn’t have shopped in the early morning hours. But she didn’t. Shealways forgot about needing meat until late afternoon. On matineedays with Sadie and Pearl, she always stopped the taxi at Goldman’sSuperior Butcher Shop.

It snowed more than usual in Brooklyn that year. But not enoughto prevent a delivery boy from riding in the streets. But Goldmandidn’t hire one. They’ll be looking for jobs next spring, Goldman rea-soned, I’ll have a good choice then.

So it came to pass, quite by accident, that two or three times aweek Goldman walked with Sarah Stein toward the French-Jewish Bak-ery on Prospect.

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14

Sarah Stein listened and imagined the villages in Selesia; picturedthe young Goldman with his wife Esther, learning ways of their newcountry, America, and harboring the dream of Goldman’s SuperiorButcher Shop.

And Goldman listened, too, and pictured Sarah’s life as a shelteredgirl in Brooklyn, walking with her late husband, Max, in the garmentsection of Manhattan, on Tuesday afternoons when they met for lunch.

Sometimes the French-Jewish Bakery on Prospect was still open.Goldman, not wanting to look foolish, bought danishes he didn’t like.And Sarah, not wanting to appear awkward, would pick up a fewsweet rolls she couldn’t use “…in case Sydney or one of the girlsdropped by.”

The cats who frequented the alley behind Goldman’s Superior ButcherShop had a lot in common with the office workers downtown: theyboth had danish for breakfast. At Sarah Stein’s house, the freezerbulged with neatly wrapped sweet rolls.

Sarah was always busy in the spring: the Sisterhood Rummage Sale,Hadassah Fund drive, lectures, concerts, luncheons. Nathan Goldmanwas busy, too. Customers tried new recipes which meant the lambhad to be cut one way for Mrs. Katz, another way for Mrs. Simmons.He also decided to purchase a new storeroom freezer and spent hisfree time going through catalogues, calculating price, size,cooling capacity.

The shop stayed open an hour later in the spring, and since Sarahwas so busy, she’d often rush in at the last minute for Fifi’s livers, ormaybe a piece of veal. Flushed from her busy day downtown, sheenjoyed her walks with Goldman toward home. After chattering withwomen all day, it was nice to have a man like Mr. Goldman to talk to,even though he was just the neighborhood butcher.

Sarah bought a new hat. She always bought new hats in May. WithProspect Park ablaze with flowers, she blossomed as well.

“Mrs. Stein, you’re looking well today.” Goldman wasn’t sure if heshould mention the hat.

“Thank you. It’s just the new hat, I always buy hats in May.”

Outside the Lines

15

“And a very nice one, too,” Goldman remarked somewhat awk-wardly. “The usual?”

“Yes.”“Ah…Mrs. Stein, my cousin Herman, he’s in the wholesale shoe

business. Well, he gave me these two tickets for a concert next Tues-day night at Carnegie Hall. Heh heh. Forgot he’s going to a shoeconvention. Well, I can’t really think of anybody who might wantthem, and, ah, well you can’t get seats anymore, and…I thought maybeyou…that is if you…”

Damn! thought Goldman.Sarah couldn’t bear to see anyone so embarrassed and flustered.

“Next Tuesday night? That’s very kind of you, but I think that’s thenight the girls are coming for an early supper.”

“Well, here, take one ticket.” Goldman shoved a blue stub acrossthe counter. “Maybe you can make the second half.”

The women met Tuesday mornings at the French-Jewish Bakery half ablock down on Prospect Street.

“Two danish and a kosher rye, please.” Mrs. Stein checked her coinpurse for exact change. Sadie and Pearl chose struedel and Challah.

“There’s a sale at Bloomingdale’s, tomorrow at nine. Let’s meet atthe coffee shop,” Pearl said. She liked to be the one to plan theiroutings together, even though the three women rarely varied theirsocial routines.

“See you tomorrow, girls.”

“What a fool I am!” Goldman muttered, admiring himself in his bed-room mirror early Tuesday evening. His best black suit smelled onlyfaintly of mothballs. His thick gray hair was brushed back and fittedhis head like a shining cap. To anyone on the subway that night, helooked like a distinguished businessman on his way home from animportant meeting.

“This is ridiculous!” Sarah grumbled as she rummaged through herbureau and looked for her watered-silk evening bag. “I should befinishing up that sweater for Beverly’s boy.” She gave her hair a final

Outside the Lines

16

pat and sniffed, hoping the smell of mothballs didn’t cling to thechiffon sleeves of her dress.

No one at Carnegie Hall that night noticed whether two seats insection B were vacant or not. But they were filled.

“It was so wonderful, wasn’t it, Mr. Goldman?”“Yes, yes it was beautiful. Oh, and look at the sky! ‘Seems all the

stars are out.”Goldman and Sarah walked slowly.“Maybe we could get a cup of coffee,” Goldman suggested, “At the

Russian Tea Room.”“Yes,” replied Sarah, “and a danish for you.”Goldman winced. “Let’s go to Rumplemayer’s for ice cream, instead.”They found a table and ordered. Goldman squeezed his bulky legs

under the wobbly table. Sarah contemplated her first hot fudge sun-dae in years.

Sarah was late arriving at Bloomingdale’s coffee shop the next morning.“Yoo-hoo! Sarah…here we are!” Pearl waved her handkerchief at

the approaching figure of Sarah Stein.“Now Pearl,” Sadie warned, “not a word—you promised!”“Like a Sphinx,” Pearl whispered.“You’re late, dear.”“Yes I know. For some reason, I overslept today. Fifi was furious at

getting her breakfast so late.”“Maybe you were up late last night?” Pearl said, dodging an elbow

from Sadie.“As a matter of fact I was, a little, I couldn’t sleep.”“Anybody who’s crazy enough to eat ice cream after 10 o’clock

should expect to be walking the floors all night!” Sadie blurted.“So who’s the big mouth now?” Pearl said under her breath.“What do you mean?” Sarah stammered.“Sarah, in case you forgot, last night was the Baumgartner Memo-

rial Lecture at the Center; Sadie and I stopped at Rumplemayer’s after,for a little nosh.”

“So,” continued Pearl, “who do you think we see, sitting at a tablein the corner, laughing it up? Sarah Stein and the butcher, Goldman!”

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17

“Oh, well…you see Goldman had these tickets, from his cousinHerman? in wholesale shoes…”

“Listen, Sarah, who you keep company with is your business. Butat your age! And with Goldman the Butcher? Sarah, are you thatdesperate? Think of what Max would say!”

Sarah Stein wasn’t seen at Goldman’s Superior Butcher Shop afterthat. Fifi got used to plastic-wrapped necks and gizzards from thesupermarket eight blocks away.

After a week or so, Goldman was tempted to call to see if perhapsshe was sick. But he spotted her one warm June evening walking Fifiand looking thinner, but healthy. Always a man to keep busy, he oftenfound himself with nothing to do. The cats, who frequented the alleybehind Goldman’s, no longer had anything in common with the officeworkers downtown.

Sarah had a new air conditioner installed in the apartment and satknitting for hours. A coat and dress ensemble for Sydney’s wife.

“So what’s new, Mama?” Beverly said over the telephone.“New? So what’s to be new?”“We called a few weeks ago, on a Tuesday night I think, and there

was no answer. You shouldn’t go out after dark nowadays.”“You must have called the wrong number,” Sarah snapped, not like

herself at all, “I never go out in the evening.”“Well listen, Mama, maybe we’ll drive over this weekend, huh? Of

course its so hot, and Sheldon hates those jam-ups on the VarrazanoNarrows, but we’ll try to make it. Okay? I’ll call you Friday night, ifwe’re coming.”

“Okay. My love to Becky and little Shelly. Bye.”

Sadie, Pearl, and Sarah lingered over coffee. The summer clearancesale sapped their energy. They sat surrounded by their packaged bar-gains and debated which movie they wanted to see.

“They’re having a revival of Joan Crawford movies at the Roxy,”Sadie said. Sadie loved Joan Crawford.

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18

“But we saw an old Bogie movie last week,” Pearl complained.Pearl preferred more modern films.

“And Doris Day the week before that,” Sarah said under her breath.“Wait. Look…,” Sadie said, waving the paper in her hand, “They’re

showing Camelot again, at the Odeon! That’s only four blocks away!”“We could walk!”As Pearl began to nod in agreement, Sarah suddenly stood up.“Look at us! What are we doing? What did we do this week?

Played Bingo, bought out Macy’s, and now we’re going to a movie.And last week? We played bridge, shopped Bloomingdale’s, and sawBogart. And the week before that? And the week before that? Actually,we saw Camelot last year in August, at the Roxy! ‘Trouble is, girls…we’rein a rut.”

Sadie and Pearl sat speechless as Sarah gathered up her packagesand purse.

“Where are you going?” Sadie stammered.“Shopping,” replied Sarah.“Shopping!” Pearl said incredulously, “For what?”“Chicken livers.” Sarah said, smiling.

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19

UndertoeTerry O’Mara

Undertoe a soft manufactured fiberStill wetA kaleidoscope of colorsNew red on already brownA little clear murky yellowSeeping, step gentlyon the sensitive scenic backdropStill wet,spattered with the liquidof uncooked red meatLying awkwardlyon the ground’s soft ceilingNext to droves of people hovering overlike tonight’s feastSomeone’s already carveda place on the couchWatching another numberapproaching 300 for the yearWhile early fall birdsdisseminate the clues,a rat finds one morechalk figure,his next meal.

“If you want to have clean ideas,

change them as often as your shirts.”

—Francis Picabia

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20

Paying CustomersSharon Mullings

Her defiance had ripped apartwhat was left of the cloth of homebut any regret was checked at the stationwhere she boarded the busto Who-the-hell-cares, Anywhere.

Her ticket money ran outat the Houston bus depot,but a man who claimed to bevital to the local economyoffered her a ground floor job—if she was willing.

The first time she said noto the streetswas the last timehe let her get away with it.She said it once more(just because she thought she couldand she damn well felt like it),but that was before she understoodthat the customers come first,

and beforehe fully explained her roleas a trader on the commodities marketdown on Sunset and Main,punctuating his speechwith punches on the paper of her soul.The exclamation markof his controlled passionconcluded any further debateon the economics of business as usual.

“Self-creation is an art of fire.”

—M.C. Richards

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21

Nowthe woman’s militant soul is tamedby the lash of fear, shocked into grim submission;mated with lesser gods,raped by callused hands,never trusted to lie unbound,she lets the paying customersfool themselves into conceited oblivion.

Stolen DreamsMichael Anthony Smith

All the years I’ve clung to you at night,All the years I laid with you in the darkness.Through the jeers of friends,Through the worries of family,I kept you by my side.I realize now what happened then,I realize now what you did to me.You stole my dreams, the solace of the night.You took from me the only reason to close my eyes.For this I can never forgive you.So…DIE Mr. Fluffy!!Rot in the city dump with all the other dream stealin’ teddy bears!Spend the rest of your days in the same misery you have brought

me!So I can go on with my life,So I can go on with my dreams.Because my life and dreams...are waiting for me.

What do I care w

hat they think of my w

ork,

or how they rate it?

I never truckle—I told the truth.

—Frank N

orris

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22

A Common SeaSharon Mullings

I am not my mother,nor do I want to be;I am not my mother,and you are not me.

Different ages each call for a different direction and way;every generation is unlike the one that went before,radical to the other in what they do and say.The past is on the outgoing tide as the present comes ashore.

I am not my mother,in ways we didn’t foresee;I am not my mother,and you are not me.

She was born in another place and time,when life was simpler but more tragic,when women and men were strictly defined;love was war-time romance and shore-leave magic.

I am not my mother;she surpassed respectability.I am not my mother,and you are not me.

The time came when the anchors of convention would not hold,and we floated free, caught by the current’s clutch.Being beauticians, stewardesses, and secretaries was no longer our

highest goal;we wanted more, but found we were asking too much.

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I am not my mother,that’s how it should be;I am not my mother,and you are not me.

You are another chapter of a whole new world,when you can earn equal pay and open your own door,where a man is still a man, but a woman no longer a girl;although having it all may cost you even more.

I am not my mother,but will be eventually;I am not my mother,and you are not me.

You may be a mother one day and live to grow old;each one has a place in time, each holds to the moor.

we come in high on the tide, but leave clawing the shore.

I am not my mother.Just as divergent waves crest a common sea,I am not my mother,and you are not me.

“We are nature.

We are nature seeing nature.

The red-winged blackbird flies in us.”

—Susan Griffin

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The DreamPhil Sevin

0645 hours.Flynn trudged into the makeshift ready room wearing his old flan-

nel shirt and jeans. Orange, who was loading shells on the other endof the room, eyed him suspiciously.

“You know, Green isn’t going to like that very much.”“The clothes? No…suppose not. But he can eat it…it’s not going to

take me long if I have to change.”“Yeah, well… don’t worry about it. He and Blue took off earlier this

morning.”Flynn rubbed an eye with the back of his hand. “What was it…

an airport?”“Greendale Mall. It’s in Arkansas.”Flynn stopped cold. “They hit a mall? What the hell for?”Orange shrugged its shoulders. “All I know is how to make

’em quit.”“Jeez. A freakin’ mall. Anything about casualties?”“Hasn’t come back yet.”Flynn shook his head for a minute, then pulled up a crate. “How

much is left to do?”Orange looked over the pile. “Sixteen boxes.” Flynn grabbed a loader

and got to work. About halfway through the first chain, Flynn becameaware that he was being stared at. He looked up and there was Or-ange, with its mouth pulled way over to one side.

Flynn’s expression was of uncharacteristic but abject malice.“Problem?”

Orange looked characteristically humbled. “Uh, no. Uh-uh.”Flynn softened a bit, realizing that he’d come off a bit harshly.

“Hey…I’m sorry. That was rough.”Orange shrugged again and went back to loading. “No problem.”

Three shells later it turned back. “You OK?”Flynn smiled without humor. “No…not really.”“Damage?”

“The deepest secret in our heart of hearts

is that we are writing

because we love the world.”

—Natalie Goldberg

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25

A chuckle. “No…no damage.”Orange tweaked its antennae in a reasonable impression of a fur-

rowed brow. “But you’re not OK?”“I, uh…I had a dream.” Flynn pondered for a moment how to

explain a dream, and then a light opened up in his head. I might nothave to explain it. “Do you guys dream? I mean they say that someA.I.s do, and you guys are pretty top notch…”

Orange stopped working and a look crossed its face that Flynncouldn’t read. “Dream? No…I don’t. Some of the others do, though. Idon’t know if I’d ask them about it, though.”

“Why not?”Orange went a little cold. “I mean, what’s the point?”“For me to ask?”“For us to dream.” Orange began to load again. Flynn got the

unsettling feeling that he’d upset it. Come on…don’t personify. It’s likeupsetting a VCR. You’re really the only one in this room. But they dosuch realistic impressions of being upset.

“So…what was the dream about?” Orange had changed its tonecompletely; Flynn was relieved.

“Well…” Flynn wondered where to begin.

She was there, standing about three feet from him. Same outfit. Samehairstyle. Same maddening light from behind her head; he guessed itwas the sun. It was coming in from a hole rusted in the roof. We’re ina damn steel mill…that one in Hampton. He smiled at her. I guess I’vebeen living out of warehouses for a while if they’re popping up in mydreams now, huh?

She sat cross-legged and propped her chin on her palms. Yeah. Butdon’t worry about it. You’ve been working hard. It wasn’t the sun,because the light was still behind her. He wished that, for once, hecould just see her face, just for one second. Still, he could hear thesmile in her voice. He couldn’t remember her voice any other way.

I saved Indy’s ass the other day. Shoulda seen it. His glance dartedover one of her shoes. It was an old pair she’d had in ninth grade;she’d written THE RULEHAVENS on the instep in blue ink.

Outside the Lines

26

You’re doing so well. I’m really proud of you. She had a way ofsaying “I’m proud of you” without sounding condescending; he reallydidn’t know how she did it. It made her feel like she was still theresometimes.

She held her hands out to him, and somehow they weren’t anycloser. I can’t touch you, you know.

I know.Doesn’t mean I don’t want to. He didn’t think she was smiling

anymore.I know. He wasn’t smiling either.She brightened, but he could tell that it was a tired brightening;

none of the mischief that was usually with her had crept into hervoice. In fact, she sounded a little sad. Do you think we could justpretend?

I’d like that. He closed his eyes, not wanting to actually see how faraway from him she was. Let’s pretend.

She told him how she would touch him. She described the brush ofher fingers across his face perfectly. He could almost feel it. He listenedto her as she traced his lips. He remembered how fascinated she’dalways been with his mouth; he didn’t see it. It’s just a mouth, he’dsay. But it’s so defined…so strong, she’d reply. He would just let herbe fascinated and count himself lucky that he had such a mouth.Now hers was a beautiful mouth. A little too stretched out to be aCupid’s bow and a little too thin to be considered full. Sometimes hethought that it was just a regular mouth and that it was her smile thatmade it work. But then he’d see her when she wasn’t smiling, when hecould tell she was staring at him, when he could feel how lost shewas in him. And he could tell that she was beautiful no matter whatshe did.

He forgot and reached out for her, and it was over.

Silence. Orange was still, its head cocked to one side. It was the onlyone that had the knack of making it seem as if it were digesting whatit had heard… the others would reply too quickly. Over-efficient. Flynnwasn’t thinking about it, but if he had been, he would have appreci-ated that.

Outside the Lines

27

“Who was she?”“She was…” He cast for a word, and realized he wasn’t ever going

to find one that did her justice. “I loved her.”Orange smiled, but it looked like a sad smile. It was a good one; it

looked real. Flynn wondered momentarily how long it had taken towork out the subroutine that did that. Then he let himself imaginethat it was a real smile.

“I think I’m glad I don’t dream.”“Yeah…I think you are too. Toss me another chain, will ya?”

This is the first of what we hope will be many more chapbooksfeaturing the creative works of SLU students. Work for next year’sissue—either poetry or short fiction—can be submitted via email tocreativewriters@selu.edu or by bringing a printed copy and a 3.5”floppy disk to Dan Butcher’s office, 360 D. Vickers.

Founded in 1996, the SLU Creative Writers Group is a student-runorganization open to all students at Southeastern; it exists to promoteexcellence in poetry and fiction and to provide support for studentwriters.

The CWG isFaculty Advisors

Bev MarshallMichelle MossTana BradleyVince MiholicDan Butcher

Dan BrownWayne CainLeigh ComachoMichael LibersatBeckie MayMindy MiceliCorbett MountTerry O’MaraVictoria PennisonPhil SevinMichael SmithBrian SpearsChris TusaKatie Wainwright

Thanks toSGA Organizational Grant

Magnacorp PrintingSue Parrill, Department of English

The Writing Center

text and cover design by Dan Butcher