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FILAMENTS
Edison State College 2012 Magazine of Art & Literature
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Most Dangerous Place on Earth by Nicholas Mazzareia ............................................................................1
Shines the Same by William Hill ......................................................................................................................2
Return to Devon by Janice Reuther ....................................................................................................................3
My Therapist Says I Suffer from Stockholm Syndrome by Megan Hill ............................................................5
Life by Stephanie Soberay ..................................................................................................................................5
Not a care in the world by Vincent Sabatino ......................................................................................................5
Black Bird, Fly by Monica Gomez .....................................................................................................................6
Arlington’s Winter Beauty by Angeline Anderson ............................................................................................7
Untitled by Ellen Pion ........................................................................................................................................8
The Brink of Brilliance/The Dusty Poet by Korina Chilcoat .............................................................................9
Untitled by A.J. Romero .....................................................................................................................................9
Aristotle’s Luck by Janice Reuther ..................................................................................................................10
Please Say You Heard Me by William Hill ......................................................................................................14
The Motions by William Hill ...........................................................................................................................14
Someone Who Cannot See by Monica Gomez ................................................................................................15
Rain by Stephanie Soberay ...............................................................................................................................16
Lens of Life by Jessica Torrito .........................................................................................................................16
Greetings from…Scenic New Mexico by Jessica Torrito ................................................................................17
Shedding My Skin by Vincent Sabatino ..........................................................................................................17
You are Not Alone by Ben Fosick ...................................................................................................................18
Venezuela’s Silk Road by Janice Reuther ........................................................................................................19
Death Bringer by William Hill .........................................................................................................................24
Cora’s Choice by Janice Reuther .....................................................................................................................25
Rain never ends in Eden by William Hill .........................................................................................................26
Dinner for Eight by Megan Hill .......................................................................................................................27
Florida Postcard – An Observation by Jordan Hess .........................................................................................30
Of Amber and Iron by Korina Chilcoat ............................................................................................................31
A Trade for the Worst by Lea Robinson ..........................................................................................................33
Paradise at Last by Jacqueline Flannery ...........................................................................................................34
Holding Down the Fort by Chris Craig ............................................................................................................35
Anticipation by Vincent Sabatino ....................................................................................................................35
Bon Appétit! By Megan Martin .......................................................................................................................36
Through the Viewfinder by Monica Gomez ....................................................................................................39
Corpses and Gucci Purses by Kristiana Gregoire ...........................................................................................40
Editorial Credits ................................................................................................................................................41
The Most Dangerous Place on Earth
By: Nicholas Mazzareia
We were three trucks to the rear in a convoy, and I was sitting behind the driver of an armored Humvee, may he rest in peace. Our truck barely made it into the four-way intersection when my ears went deaf, my eyes went black, and my body felt like it was struck by the force of god. At that instant I saw nothing and I felt nothing, until I started to fall. The only thought I could muster was: this is it…this is my death. And so I instantaneously looked backwards in time, similar to the way they say it happens, but not exactly.
I was then just a Private in the U.S. Army at Fort Carson, Colorado and had never been deployed to a foreign country, but thought of myself as some sort of Spartan warrior or something ridiculous like that.
"I can already feel myself going into my war mode!" I say to one of my peers as our rooms were being inspected. The Team Leader conducting the inspection smirks at me and says, "What do you know about a war?" I shrug off the query, impervious to logic.
A few months later, I find myself in what’s called the Green Zone of Baghdad, Iraq, a place where all the important politicians and military leaders go to be safe from hostility. It has lush green grass, palm trees, smooth roads, and plenty of monuments to Saddam’s former might. My Squad Leader enters the room and says, "We have orders. We’re going out into the red zone to establish an outpost." The Red Zone, of course, is the polar opposite of the Green Zone. But more specifically, the place we are assigned to go will be determined by some news source to be the most dangerous place on earth for the summer months of 2007. My Squad Leader, with a foreboding tone, looks at me and says, "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" I issue to him a naïve nod of courage.
March, 2007. Al Dora District of Baghdad, Iraq. I’m sitting in what you would sarcastically call the "cafeteria" of our newly established outpost. The walls are made of old Iraqi tile with Islamic paintings on them, and it smells as if someone has been cooking corned beef. My Lieutenant enters the room; he is tall like me but with lighter blonde hair. "Who wants to go out on mission with first platoon tomorrow?" I instantly raise my hand, without so much as a thought of the dangers I might face. He nods and exits. I look around the room at the older, wiser men who are giving me a look that says, you’ll be sorry.
It is now 10:13 in the morning, and I am upside down in a hole that was caused by a massive, deep-buried Improvised Explosive Device. I was ejected from the vehicle by the blast and landed in the crater left by the explosive. I place my gloved hands on the rocky dirt and struggle to push myself to my feet. An eerie feeling strikes me as I notice, even through my gloves, the ground is hot from the explosive. My head throbs, my neck aches, and I still see nothing. I remove my protective sunglasses and notice I am peppered with black dust and contusions from flying debris. I clearly remember that the first thing I account for are "the goods," and then make sure I have all my limbs. My environment is still a cloud of dust as I begin searching for the one thing a soldier always looks for when he is in danger, his weapon. I spot my M4 Carbine not far from the truck and pick it up. As soon it is slung around my shoulder, I notice a man lying in the spot in which I was seated. It was the driver. It is hard to describe the emotion that strikes me, but I am not permitted to feel it for more than a moment. Just as I shout to the other vehicles for help, a volley of rapid fire from an AK-47 comes spitting in my direction.
The bullets penetrate the cloud of dust, striking the Humvee all around me as I stay there on my knees. I am concussed, in shock, and afraid. The only thing speaking to me at the time is my instinct. I cannot help the man that is lying still before me, but the gunner is shouting for help from inside the truck. I climb on top of the Humvee, work my way to his hatch, and peek my head inside. To my relief, he is not gravely injured and is being extracted from the other side of the vehicle. My ears are still ringing, and my mind is still young, so I don’t know what to make of the sound of bullets hissing by my 2
head. The voice of a Platoon Sergeant yells from behind me. "Get the **** off the truck!" And, like an obedient soldier, I comply without question.
I stumble my way to the casualty collection point, and they fire at me some more, but they miss due to the massive cloud of lingering dust. My brain begins to establish the idea of anger again, so I start producing tears as well as rapid fire back in the enemy’s direction. The convoy leaves to take the severely wounded to the combat hospital. A few others and I elect to stay and search for the culprits of the attack. We are pinned down on a rooftop, and so the day drags on as such. Eventually the convoy makes it back, and we high tail it out of there for the night.
I sit on a block of stone in the outpost smoking a cigarette in the dead of night as my Lieutenant angrily approaches me. "Why didn’t you go back to base and get checked out by the medics?" he barks, holding back an outpour of emotion. It was my first experience of combat; it was the first time I have ever seen a dead body; it was a good man who died in front of my young eyes. So I look up "I’m good, I just want to get back out there and find them, whoever did this. When is the next mission?" He sighs, "Zero eight hundred, but you’re not going on the mission. You’re going back to base to get checked." There’s no sneaking by this time.
It is the last thing I wanted, to spend any time alone in safety and silence. The medics say I have a concussion, but I don’t care what they say. I am damaged more deeply than that. The headaches are starting, and I know this is going to be my life for the next year. It is only just beginning. My path to manhood began with an explosion.
Shines the Same
By: William Hill
Imagine the marvelous moon.
Gritty sand sifting between your toes.
The wild wind freely blows.
Just hours before the sultry sunset.
This a fabulous freedom.
This is where I want to be.
On the sands of South Beach.
Under the palm trees’ touch.
No, Not me.
My reality is more realistic.
Though sand sifts through my feet.
There is no beautiful beach.
Only the howling Humvees.
It’s just me and my squad.
The outline of my M-16
Drawn magnificently by the moonlight.
Left to imagine it if shines.
It can’t be as benevolent.
It can’t be as beautiful.
Does it shine the same here? 3
Return to Devon County
By: Janice Reuther
There it goes again, that damn knocking. I bet it’s them, the persistent little devils. This is what? The third, maybe fourth time this week, and theWheel of Fortune is starting. I paused the recorder and peeked through the beveled glass door. A torpedo shape wiggled through the glass in a fuzzy, optical illusion sort of way. It was definitely one of them, but a bigger one this time. I’d better get this over with, or I won’t be able to watch the Wheel before the generator stalls.
When I opened the door, it was what I expected. The black drum. He had huge scales that looked like plastic wafers coated with slime. I don’t know why he’s called black. He’s silver really, with dark undertones like a slab of scaly granite with lots of mica in it. He smelled like sun-baked sardines and was clearly an old one—the stripes were missing, and he had white shading on his chin where the creepy barbells dangled. They looked like a bad effort at growing a beard but without enough testosterone to do the trick. I’ve seen this one before, in the canal behind the house. He eats oysters from the seawall and flicks his tail when he dives as if he’s king of the cove. Once, he bared his weird flat teeth at me when I cast a rod his way. The snooty bottom-feeding croaker.
"What do you want? I’m in the middle of an important program," I snapped. Isn’t it enough that I added a fish light by the dock? Now, you’re a houseguest?
The sixty-pound humpback just stared at me with his cat-like eyes and get-over-yourself expression. I must admit, he was making me a bit uneasy, what with the new double tail and all.
"So?" I asked with a slow, beady-eyed blink.
"You know why I’m here. Time to go," he said, stretching his neck to suck in the damp afternoon air. He sounded like a two-stroke engine rattling as he flexed his sonic muscles against his swim bladder.
"You seriously don’t think I’m going in the water with you."
"Everyone else is in. Time for you to go."
I peered around the front door to make sure he didn’t bring reinforcements. "You expect me to believe I’m devolving?"
"No need to be offensive," he said, sticking out his already puffy lower lip. Talk about an image of collagen injections gone wild.
"Well, you swim in your toilet and eat each other." I was hoping to goad him. After all, his brain was the size of my big toe. But as luck would have it, my neck began to itch at that exact moment. What an inopportune time to draw attention to the new slits opening behind my ears. I quickly brushed hair over them.
He snorted. Bits of putrid slime and water blew out his fake nostrils, nearly hitting my face. "Look, we can’t come out until all of you are in. Can we discuss this civilly?"
"You can come inside, but let me get towels first," I held one finger in the air as I dashed to the laundry room. Luckily, the pantry was on the way. I popped my head inside to check my inventory: tuna, Pellegrino, flour, black-eyed peas, Cajun seasoning, cornmeal, vodka, cranberry juice. Vodka? Hmm. When I returned to the front door, I spread a carpet of towels and led him to a barstool that was out of view of the pantry. 4
"Might I interest you in something to eat? I have mostly canned items, but there’s plenty of tuna."
"That sounds fabulous," he said, stroking his scales with pectoral fins. I hadn’t notice the new set of fingers. How weird looking.
I gave him one of those I-told-you-so looks and scurried to the panty, but he just stared down his snotty nares and sneered. I swear he snorted at me again through the dark little holes, but my back was turned. When I peeked around the corner, I could see his gills sucking harder in the air conditioning. He tried to hide it. Not as far along as the others, huh? "Could I interest you in some water? Looks like you could use a little oxygen."
"That would be appreciated."
"I’m still running the air, sorry," I said, bumping it a notch colder out of spite. "Have you ever tried Pellegrino? The minerals do wonders for scales."
"I have, and I love it."
I grabbed a highball glass out of the cupboard and mixed a jigger of vodka with the fizzing Pellegrino, twirling it for good measure. "So how are the snook these days? Is the population rebounding without the fishermen?" I was hoping to distract him with small talk, which worked brilliantly.
He gazed at the canal and sighed. "Seems to be."
When I returned to the bar, I eyed the nares above his mouth and realized I knew little about a drum’s sense of smell. Could he detect the vodka? "Let me assist you," I offered in my best southern hospitality manner as I lifted the glass to his gills.
Then it happened—the dreaded sniff. He pulled his head back and eyed the glass. I plastered a look of innocence on my face. "Is everything okay?"
"Doesn’t smell right," he said.
"It’s been a while since I shopped. Might be flat." I poured the mixture on the gill filaments before he could protest.
It takes mere seconds for alcohol to kill a fish. By the time the big drum slid to the floor, the Henkel was being sharpened and the peanut oil was racing its way to 350 degrees.
"Too bad you can’t hold your liquor buddy boy," I said, taking the first whack.
"A thing," Pat Sajak announced. R, S, T, L, N, E. The audience cheered as Vanna White turned the letterboxes.
"Devonshire England Tetrapod, stupid!" I yelled, spitting fried fish through the slits in my neck.5
My Therapist says that I suffer from Stockholm Syndrome
By Megan Hill
O’ you wicked, wicked little devil!
I see you there on my banister, your eyes a ‘glow.
Why do you hiss and claw and scratch me so,
only to bite me when I try to pull myself free?
You knock over my stuff, you chew up all of my homework,
you trip me as I walk the stairs, and you are widely considered to be "Demon Spawn"!
I have raised you since you were a kitten;
I know this because I wanted to knit you mittens.
Even though I give you toys, you persistently steal my things.
Haven’t I taught you the value of other people’s property?
And then when I’ve had enough of your hate-fueled nature,
begging and pleading with you to behave,
That’s when you curl up next to me, purr, and fall asleep.
And then, I figure you are just going through an adolescent phase.
And I understand that this is a difficult time for you, peer pressure and all that.
Just know your Mummy is always here.
Life
By: Stephanie Soberay
Life is difficult
Life is stressful
Life is emotional
Life is a challenge
Life is ever changing
Life is a journey
That is all worth it in the end
Not a care in the world
By: Vincent Sabatino
I sighed in contentment as I took in the sights.
Everything was at peace as the sun was shining bright in the sky.
As I lay on my back, I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds around me.
Children were laughing and playing without a care in the world.
I could hear the waves crashing against the earth.
I could feel the wind brushing at my skin.
It was times like these when I felt I could just relax and not worry about anything at all.
I gave one final sigh as I stated to fall asleep on the hot sand. 6
Black Bird, Fly
By: Monica Gomez
The high gray-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world.
I remember our days with fondness.
We would run around with arms outstretched, laughing with all the breath our lungs could hold. The sun was too bright for our little eyes, so we'd reach towards the sky to block it. Small rays would escape through the cracks between our fingertips. The biggest rush of our day was trying to get home before the light completely faded. We didn't get in trouble if we were home by dusk.
We were inseparable.
We grew, and suddenly the world was smaller, easier to conquer. The days without limits. Mortality was for those too afraid to take a chance. Risks were only risks if you didn't think you could do it. "Dangerous" was fed to us because our parents missed their childhood. Nothing was impossible in the years of adolescence.
We fell apart.
Those days of teenaged joy, where every day could be a party, you went one way, and I went the other. You chose those parties, drugs, and sex, and I chose books, poetry, and music. You jumped off that bridge at midnight before the police came and arrested everyone who was out on the water the day before exams. I sat at my desk with the dull lamp, crouched over a book in hopes of getting that last bit of information in before daybreak.
The day we were told I would be graduating, and you would not.
I sat in envy as you sped by with your friends in that over-packed Jeep, on your way across the country just because you felt like it. I felt that squeeze at my heart. Your hair tangled with the wind, rapping against the side of the car. Oversized sunglasses perched on your nose as you held your head up, laughing. When you looked my way, your smile faded. You saw then what I didn't see—you were free, and I was not.
Years passed, and I missed you. Every day I would look down the street to your house to see if that Jeep ever returned to your driveway.
It never did.
I would see your mother in her garden, planting the roses each spring that the three of us would plant when we were children. She never looked up at me, but she knew I was watching. She knew the words I wanted to say to you. She knew, but she never spoke.
Now, I sit in my living room in silence, listening to the echoes of who we used to be resonating in my head. The light of day is fading, but it's still dusk. If you come home this time, you won't be in trouble. I'll forgive you for being out too late, and I'll open my arms to you. Instead, the soft knock on my door is not you. Your mother stares silently at me, her soft eyes swimming in her tears. She falls into me, and I know your spot in the driveway will always be empty.
For you, I remember our days with fondness. 7
Arlington’s Winter Beauty
By: Angeline Anderson
It was twilight. A thick wet snow was slowly twirling around the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses’ backs, on people’s shoulders and hats. Unfortunately, I could only view the vibrant scenery of the park’s racetrack through the windowpane.
The conductor’s voice flowed through the P.A. system. "Attention all passengers, at this time please have your tickets readied for collection. We will be arriving shortly at the Arlington, Illinois, train station. The current time is twelve o’ five a.m., and the temperature is thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Be sure to bundle up in some warm garments before you leave. Again, Metra would like to thank you for riding with us today. Have a warm and wonderful Christmas holiday!"
The train began to slow down. The whistle’s echoing bellow caused the waiting crowd at the station to stand up and gather their belongings. I was collecting my briefcases from under my seat when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Sir, tickets please."
I was about to hand in my ticket and looked up. I was suddenly bemused by her presence. Her voice was as soft as her appearance. Her short and slim physique fitted perfectly in the crimson, felt conductor uniform. Facial features, especially her amber eyes, expressed traits of Asian heritage.
"Sir, don’t forget your jacket. Did you not hear the conductor? It is dreadfully cold this time of year."
The overhead fluorescent rays reflected off her flawless skin. I felt obligated to talk to her. "Oh, thank you dear. Forgetting that would not be fair to my brittle bones. Out of curiosity, are you from here"?
She giggled; her cheeks became rosy pink. "Yes sir, I am originally from this town. But my family is from Asia, around the northern and eastern parts of China. Are you from here as well, or are you just visiting"?
For some reason, my mind and mouth began a war with one another. It was becoming difficult to talk to her as my lips stumbled over every other word. "Uh, n-no. I’m here to spend my holiday vacation with my brother and his family. I used to live here before I married. My wife persuaded me to move to Washington D.C., where we spent the rest of our days happily married. However, I have been contemplating living here again so I can spend more time with my remaining family."
She appeared puzzled when I referred to my marital relationship in past tense. I decided to fill her in with the dark parts of my life.
"Well, you see, I was married. In later years though, it began to fall apart. It started when she became forgetful of everything she did. There were moments when I could not even let her out of my sight. Then one night she was preparing braised ribs for dinner. She forgot to turn the stove off, nearly burning down all we cherished while we enjoyed our meal."
My voice began to stifle in my throat.
"The following day, I took her to a doctor. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. After being hospitalized for six months, she became oblivious of life. The treatments never were effective enough, and her dementia became so severe that she forgot who I was. I could not bear to see her in that state. It was hard, but I felt it was best to put an end to it all. Since then, I have been thinking of starting a new life elsewhere."
She apologized. For what, I am uncertain. Her sympathetic expression dulled her glowing aura.
The train doors opened to let the incoming passengers aboard. She told me to wait outside 8
while she dropped off the tickets. As she headed to the station’s door, I walked into the windy, snowy night. My cell vibrated in the inner pocket of my thick-layered overcoat. I dug deep into the pocket and pulled it out. It was a text from my brother. "Where are you? I am out in the parking lot."
I attempted to answer, but the falling snowflakes kept contacting the screen. When I brushed them aside, they instantaneously became liquid under my wrinkled fingers, smearing across the touch screen. "I am outside the station, waiting for this woman to clock out. Do you mind if I have her come by later today?"
Within minutes, I was granted his permission. As I was about to light a cigarette, I overheard the station’s Christmas adornments chime above the doorframe. I quickly returned it to its carton. When she stood in the doorway, I was acquainted with her radiant presence once more. Her eyes filled me with enough warmth to ignore the harsh surroundings.
"By the way, I didn’t get your name. I am Irvin."
She approached me slowly, fixing her coat with every step. "I’m Lien. It is an honor to meet you."
"Say, you said your shift is over, right? If you have nothing in mind, would you like to join me at my brother’s place later today around six-thirty p.m.? We’re having a gourmet Christmas dinner with roast duck and foie gras."
"That sounds wonderful. I should not be doing anything at that time. Let’s exchange numbers."
"Sure, but let me call you first. I hope to see you then."
A divided staircase parted our ways. We said our goodbyes and headed for the parking lots below. This evening could not be more perfect, I thought, ambling down the salt covered, oak wood staircase. On the way home, I attempted to converse with my brother, but I was too lost in the scenery of the moonlight rays reflecting off the icy paved roads and snow-covered, towering evergreens, and the memories of being with the Asian beauty. Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is Lien.
Untitled
By: Ellen Pion
Post
Jagged teeth emerge
Stained with the life of nature.
Calmness among them.
Steady
Rocks below me
Jutting out like the jaw of a stubborn child,
Refusing to retreat
No matter what is thrown at them.
Untouched,
Virgin,
Undeveloped in this built up world.
How long until the Naturalist
Is overthrown by the Capitalist?
The thought only propels my decent. 9
The Brink of Brilliance/The Dusty Poet
By: Korina Chilcoat
To say it quite plainly
My absent-minded brain is patterned
With mind-blowing ideas no one seems
To comprehend or understand, plainly
Like a Warholian banana, pop perfect
That was only truly understood posthumously
The shenanigans that plague my everyday life
Mar it with the pain that conceives the art
I go through existence as a modern-day Caesar
Triumphant, victorious yet in the end
Fell victim to those he trusted, put his faith in
Till I am left to my hopeless vices as
A wandering vagabond artist
A dust poet, stained with the beauty of life
So as I spend my artistic hours
At the local bar/coffee shop or Taco Bell on the corner
I let the ideas come like a breeze, with the changing seasons
Circling with the thoughts that gather hastily
Compiling in my brain till that one day
That, that one single person understands
Untitled
By: A.J. Romero
What is that dot?
It is the pupil in the eye of a student
starting his first day of college.
As his eyes take in the new world,
he develops a sense of fear.
He knows nothing of what he is to expect.
What if I don't recognize anyone?
What if my professors are strict?
What if I get lost?
What if I’m not prepared for my classes?
All of these questions and worries
buzz inside the young student’s mind.
He takes a deep breath and steadies himself.
A brave look of determination’s in his eyes.
He makes his first step... 10
Aristotle’s Luck
By: Janice Reuther
Terry Johnson had pulled double shifts at work the past two days. He was exhausted. Saturday was his day off, but he promised he’d take the kids to the beach. He intended to keep his word.
At 8:00 a.m., he was awakened by high-pitched chattering and the sensation of being rocked on a boat. His seven-year-old daughter, Lizzy, was jumping up and down on the bed. "Daddy, wake up! It’s time to go to the beach."
Terry looked at her with bleary eyes. The first thing that came into focus was the lime green snorkel and mask that was stuck to her head. "Morning sunshine," he mumbled then glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He had been asleep for three hours. "It’s a bit early, don’t you think?"
Lizzy tugged at a blow-up alligator float that refused to stay fixed to her skinny hips, giving his argument a nanosecond of consideration. "No, daddy. We want to get a good spot by the snow cone man. Ann made cereal, and Jessie already put his boogie board in the truck."
"Boogie board?"
"His birthday present, silly," she said, pulling at his pajama sleeve. "Get up."
Lizzy was wearing a mismatched two-piece swimsuit and a crooked ponytail. Her father had to suppress a laugh. She was going through an independent phase, and her styling showed it.
"Well, I guess it’s settled then," he said, flipping back a wrinkled sheet. "We’re going to the beach." Lizzy squealed and ran from the room, screaming for her siblings to get ready.
Terry rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He was a short man with a buzz cut, which is why he thought his friends called him wiry. When he took the time to consult a dictionary, he liked the lean and tough part of the definition, but sinewy was a word his wife used to describe a cheap cut of meat. He saw her three hours earlier, when he arrived home from the night shift. She was leaving for work and called him handsome before reminding him of the beach plans. It softened the blow, but when he looked in the mirror, he was glad she wasn’t there to see the weary image.
When they arrived at Rumrunner’s Bight, the kids helped him unload the car and drag a cooler, chairs, and a beach umbrella to a sandy knoll overlooking the lagoon. The beach on the northern end of the bight had a smattering of visitors, mostly locals. Snowbirds had begun flying north a month earlier, and the summer visitors wouldn’t arrive until school was out in a few weeks. Terry found the perfect spot within earshot of the snow cone vendor. He gored the sand with a massive umbrella and placed a low beach chair underneath.
Two of Jessie’s friends were already sliding over the waves, one on a boogie board and the other on a bright yellow surfboard. He grabbed his new blood-red Body Glove board with its sleek crescent tail and cool growling bear logo and headed toward the water. He was becoming a handsome young man, his father thought. Tall like his mother, with high cheekbones and blue eyes.
"Hey, Jessie!" Terry called out after him. "You and Ann need to help with Lizzy."
Jessie turned and eyed sister. "Ann, please watch her. I want to surf with the guys," he said, flicking his head toward the two teenagers floating on boards fifty feet offshore. 11
Ann gazed at the water, brushing a russet strand of hair out of her eyes. "Fine, but you’ll owe me."
"What do you want?"
"In addition to five bucks, I’ll take an introduction to the blonde one."
Jessie looked at his friends. Byron, stubby with greasy brown curls, and Seth, lanky with hair so blonde it was almost white. "Seth’s seventeen. He’s not interested in fifteen-year-olds."
"I’m almost sixteen."
"Whatever." Jessie turned and ran toward the surf.
The sun was sizzling. Humidity at 95 percent. Terry settled into the beach chair and propped his head on a rolled-up towel. The scent of coconut suntan lotion and briny seaweed lingered in the air around him. Waves beat the sand in a rhythmic cadence. He watched as Ann and Lizzy built miniature sandcastles at the shoreline. Every few minutes a frothy sheet of surf shot forward, flattening their efforts. Seagulls squawked and cawed, diving at scattering sand crabs.
The warm sun felt good on Terry’s exposed knees and feet, and the sound of the Gulf was hypnotic. He pulled a diet Coke out of the cooler and closed his heavy eyes. Minutes passed before he glanced up. The boys were horse playing, trying to knock one another off their boards. Ann was covering Lizzy with sand. She was old enough; she would keep Lizzy safe. He needed a quick nap.
Rumrunner’s Bight was a gentle, curving bend on the shoreline in southwest Florida. Located in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico with its extensive continental shelf and tropical climate, it was the perfect habitat for sea life, especially coastal sharks. Prized in Asia for its fins and among anglers for its fight, the blacktip shark was the most plentiful specimen in the bay. While Lizzy and Ann played safely near shore and Terry snored under the beach umbrella, a shiver of blacktip was feeding offshore.
Like a pack of wolves, blacktip sharks hunt in groups, or shivers. They have a unique toolkit that separates them from wolves, or from any other land-bound predator for that matter. Electroreceptive organs on their snout detect the faint electrical fields emitted by saltwater-submerged life forms. The lateral line, which runs lengthwise from their gills to their tail, senses movement and vibration. They hunt by weaving back and forth on watery highways, following a sensory roadmap as they hone in on unsuspecting prey. Attacking from below, blacktips corral schooling fish into a dense, underwater tornado then zigzag through the tight shoal, snapping powerful jaws to capture their gilled quarry with deadly serrated teeth.
Schools of mullet were funneling into the bight, passing in waves under Jessie and his friends. The blacktip shiver was in pursuit. Their sleek, streamlined bodies sliced through the water like torpedoes as they sensed their way toward the mullet and the tussling humans above them, which their ancient programming decoded as an animal in distress.
Their gray upper bodies were almost invisible in the deeper water as they drifted toward the bottom, setting up their ambush. The sharks didn’t know that Jessie had his seventeenth birthday two days earlier and finally got his dream boogie board. Or that he and his friends had a lifetime yet to live. These cold-blooded creatures weren’t designed for emotion or love or empathy or loss. That evolutionary feature came with the 12
neocortex, designed for the world’s apex predator—humans. Sharks were programmed to eat and breed. And they were five hundred feet from the teenagers.
It took the boys a few seconds to notice the dark cylindrical cloud forming below them as the sharks corralled the mullet school. Suddenly, their feet were being slapped by hundreds of fish, and the water below their boards became a solid, roiling mass.
The chunky kid Byron paddled away on his yellow surfboard, but Seth and Jessie lay stomach down on their much shorter boogie boards, heads whipping from side to side. Frenzied mullet pummeled their boards with cartilage-crushing thumps and battered the boys’ dangling shins and feet. They flinched with each slap.
When Bryon was well beyond the shoal, he stopped and sat up. As he watched his terrified buddies jerk and wince, he slapped the water and yelled. "You wussies!"
"Be quiet, hold still!" Jessie barked. He was the only one who knew what was happening. The fish were being chased, and he knew blacktip hunted in packs. He also knew the rules: slowly move away in the presence of a shark. He turned to Seth. "Stay flat and paddle. Slowly."
Seth was shuddering, wet blonde ropes plastered to his forehead. "Jessie, I. . . ."
"Let’s go, Seth." Jessie could envision what was below him and made light, brushing strokes that had little impact on forward momentum.
Dorsal fins began to breach the surface, weaving through the mullet shoal. Seth looked at Jessie with terror in his eyes. "I can’t put my hands in. I can’t."
"Move, Seth. Move!"
Seth tried to bend his knees to suspend his legs above the water, but kept losing his balance. "Damn it!" he screamed, and pressed his cheek on the end of the board. A mullet flew into the air and glanced the side of his head. A five-foot torpedo burst through the surface in a spinning leap in pursuit of the fish. Seth fell sideways, tumbling into the water.
"Get back on the board!" Jessie screamed when his friend popped to the surface.
Seth grabbed his boogie board and pulled himself onto it. He clenched his teeth and lay flat, trembling. His eyes were fixed on the water in front of him. It was alive with blacktips corkscrewing at the surface. Mullet were jumping, slapping the boys with their flat bodies, then wiggling and flipping skyward. Sharks were jettisoning after them. Jessie’s board seemed to shrink under him. He closed his eyes and waited, expecting to be bit at any moment. Razor teeth shredding flesh, tearing muscle, crunching bone. The image stalled his breath.
A shark blasted through the surface like a missile and snapped Seth’s leg. He shrieked as the monster yanked him off his board. Blood spewed the sky. Jessie froze, watching, waiting his turn.
Terry Johnson shot upright. The scene processed in seconds, synapses firing in a thousand shades of red. A parent’s nightmare was coming to life. His eyes swept the shoreline. Lizzy and Ann were in the water. Lizzy was snorkeling in a few feet of surf, chasing Ann’s legs as she ran in circles.
"Ann, get out of the water!" Terry screamed, barreling down a sandy mound. He stumbled and skidded in the soft grains, catching himself with one hand digging into searing sand. 13
Ann stopped, arms dangling at her side. Her face registered his fear. Lizzy swam toward her like a neon green anglerfish, grasping at her idle legs.
"Now, Ann! Now!"
Ann turned to see her brother lying on his board. Seth was screaming. Byron was frozen. Dorsal fins were in a twirling dance around them. Terry splashed into the surf. Ann’s head followed him in a labored twist. "Daddy, no!"
"Out, Ann! Get out!"
Ann grabbed Lizzy by the arm. Her slender body jerked sideways and spun in a circle. When she popped to the surface, Lizzy clutched her mask. Ann dragged her toward the beach, Lizzy wailing in protest. Their father hit waist-deep water and began swimming. "Daddy! Don’t go. Please don’t go."
Terry could hear Ann and Lizzy, but the sound was distant. He was in fight or flight mode and blood was racing to his limbs, heart, and respiratory system. Adrenaline and cortisol flooded his body, and he swam toward his son like a well-condition athlete. His senses were acute. He was focused on every swipe of his arm, every slap of his hand on the water, every explosion of breath. When he reached the boys, the mullet shoal was reduced to a few lucky fish. The sharks were weaving through them. He stopped ten feet away, treading water.
"Jessie, paddle toward me. Slowly. Do you understand? Slowly."
Jessie was trembling, barely able to stay on the board. But he paddled. "What about Seth and Byron, dad?"
"Just paddle. Which one’s hurt?"
"Seth."
"Okay. Now keep paddling, son." Terry looked at Byron. The kid was motionless with rigid arms suspended in the air as he gaped at his friend’s blood coloring the sea foam. "Byron, paddle to Jessie. Slowly." Terry motioned to his son with one arm. "Jessie, look at me. When he gets here, go to shore, but do it calmly. Do you understand what I’m telling you?" Terry’s face belied his anxious mind and racing heart. Jessie nodded.
Terry swam toward Seth. The boy was wailing in pain, clutching the side of his boogie board with both hands. Terry stopped a few feet away and treaded water. He could see Byron hadn’t moved. "Bryon, look at me, he prompted. His voice was low and reassuring. Their eyes met. "It’s okay, Byron. Lie down on the board and paddle. Just do it."
A five-foot blacktip bumped Terry’s side, but he didn’t seem to feel it or care. Fear was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Seth was in shock, and Terry planned to get him to shore. He swam up from behind and closed his arm around the boy’s neck. Seth shrieked in horror.
"Let go of the board." Seth refused to release his grip. Terry pulled him against his chest and began to swim backwards with boogie board in tow.
By the time they reached the shore, a crowd was gathered and an ambulance was whining a mile away. Seth would survive the attack but with a mangled leg that would never again dangle from a boogie board or 14
paddle the waves. He had become a statistic. Sixteen percent of shark attacks in Florida that year involved blacktips. Most also involved surfers.
Jessie sat on the beach with his legs tucked against his chest. His head rested on sand-caked knees. He was thinking about something one of his teachers had told him. Jessie hated the class almost as much as he hated the teacher. The man was a psycho for Aristotle and was always throwing around words like syllogism, stasis, and deduce. Jessie normally kept his head low, hoping the words wouldn’t hit him and hoping even more that he wouldn’t need to deduce anything. But one thing did hit him, and it was looping in his head--good luck is when the arrow hits the guy next to you.
Please Say You Heard Me
By: William Hill
I look into your eyes.
I see an empty gaze.
One last tear to cry.
The bullets leave a haze.
You left it all behind.
Lord I hate this place.
Solace is hard to find.
You left without a trace.
God please have some mercy.
On this lonely, sandy face.
Please say you heard me.
The Motions
By: William Hill
I can hear the footsteps of the dead, cluttering my head. Listen to the sounds of a 1,000 men, God laid them to rest with a bullet and a pen. I know the motions in which you move. The world moves to a million different tunes. But heed the words I say. Hold the ones you love. Because the wind might blow them away.
I can see the weapons of destruction, they cloud my vision. Watch the pops of a million shots fired. God laid them to rest because he knew they were tired. I know the motions in which you move. The world moves in one smooth groove. But heed the words I say. Hold the ones you love. Because the wind might blow them away.
I can feel the shattered lives, men taken from their wives. Understand the pain that we know. God laid them to rest, but he didn't really know. I know the motions in which you move. The moon revolves around one world. But heed the words I say. Hold on to the ones you love. Because the wind might blow them away. 15
Someone Who Cannot See
By: Monica Gomez
I sat perfectly still in my brother's old brown recliner. The day was slipping by too slowly, but I didn't care. Why should I? It's not like I had anything to do.
I shifted in the seat, crossing my legs under my body, and pushed myself up. I had another three hours before anyone would be home, but I really didn't want to move. I had chores to finish, food to cook, and a bunch of other busy work they left for me while they went to do whatever fun thing they were doing. They never invited me to these kinds of things, so I didn't care.
I closed my eyes against the setting sun that peeked through the window to my left. I wished for one moment that I hadn’t ripped down the curtain in a fit of anger, but as I looked at the mess of blue fabric on the ground, I didn't care. When they got home, they were going to find something to yell at me about. Might as well make it obvious what I did wrong.
I hadn't realized I fell asleep until I heard the door open. They were laughing, the jerks, as they made their way up the stairs. My brother came up first and glared at me. Maybe he was mad that I was in his chair or maybe because I hadn't made the food he demanded before he left. Obviously, since they always went out to eat after a day of fun stuff, he wasn't going to eat when he got home. He just wanted to make sure I knew he had power over me. He stormed past me, sat on his bed, and started pulling his shoes off. When my mother came into the room, he began talking. "The room needs to be cleaned," he snapped, not towards her, of course, but more to me. "I shouldn't be surprised that she hasn't done anything around here."
"No, but then again, we always wish for a broken toy to work," my sister-in-law joined in, sticking her nose up at me.
I didn't make eye contact–that was forbidden–but I did let my lips curl into a snarl, which quickly faded when my mother looked at me. "Why are my curtains on the floor? Why is there no food downstairs? Why is the bathroom still dirty?" Her voice got louder with every question. It scared me as a kid, but now I didn't care. I found it hard to care about anything anymore. "Why isn't the floor vacuumed? Why are there still dirty clothes in the house? Why aren't the rooms cleaned?" She marched over to me and grabbed my chin, turning my head to face her. "Look at me when I talk to you, girl!" She let go of my face with a quick shove and marched back down the stairs. "Good for nothing! Useless! Just like your father!" My brother and sister-in-law followed suit with noses high in the air, rolling their eyes when they looked at me.
For the first time in years, I cried.
I wasn't sad for myself. I hadn't been since I moved away, but I was sad for them. They didn't see what they were doing. They couldn't see the negativity in which they were engulfing the house. They didn't see the evil spirits that floated around the house, feeding off their anger. They were blind, and I would have to make them see.
Later that night, when they all drifted into sleep in their Queen-sized beds, I stood between them, eyes fixed on the wall. I hadn't tried to do this since I moved, but now I had overwhelming confidence in myself. I was doing something good, righteous even.
I lowered myself to the floor slowly, gathering energy as I did. Nothing, not even the spirits dancing around me taunting, would break my reserve and concentration. This needed to be done. I needed to make them see!
The third eyes of my ‘family’ began to glow softly, a faint purple in the pitch-black room. I closed my eyes and let my spiritual being take control. I projected into their dreams, equipped with 16
what I had seen, what they were blind to. I found myself in my mother first then took her to my brother then to my sister-in-law then back out again.
We stood in the center of my room, spiritual beings floating above the physical realm. They cowered together. I found myself smiling. "Take a look around," I said, swinging my arm around the room. "Do you see the shadows dancing without moonlight? Do you see how they exist without an entity to follow? They're evil, and they come from you. From the pain you inflict on others just for your self-gain. You have created a portal for negative spirits to come and go as they please, polluting the Earth with their evil. It's your fault!"
The shadows danced closer, feeding off my anger. I didn't care. This one time, I would allow myself to be angry.
I stepped closer to the people I called family, my eyes glowing a faint red. They started screaming, their eyes darkening. I'd make them see what I saw all the time. They wouldn't see with their physical eyes, but with their third eye. Nothing but their third eye. I would make them see.
The morning came, and I sat perfectly still on the recliner. My mother sat up and stretched. Her expression was normal, and her eyes were closed. I smiled and waited.
She opened them and sat as still as I did, her eyes straight forward. "What did you do?" she whispered, turning her face in my direction. She screeched, flinging herself off the bed. "I can't see!" She stumbled a bit but still managed to make it over to me. "What did you do?"
"I made you see!" I yelled back, standing. She threw her hands around my neck, squeezing tightly. "I made you all see! Suffer like I have! Feel how much they try to control you! I hope you suffer!"
Air was becoming harder to obtain. Everything was becoming dark around the edges until...
Nothing.
Rain
By: Stephanie Soberay
Why does the rain smell
What does it smell like
Does it smell like hot wet asphalt baking in the sun
Do you see steam rising from the hot wet streets
Why does the rain smell
What does it smell like
Lens of Life
By: Jessica Torrito
At first glance the black circle turns into a camera lens.
The lens is used as a microscope,
A weapon to unearth the model’s soul.
All the vulnerably and secrets are there for the taking.
Fear envelopes me as I face the black circle.
Yet, when on the other side my fear vanishes
I unmask the person in front of my lens.
Oh, the hypocrisy! 17
Greetings from…Scenic New Mexico
By: Jessica Torrito
Heat pulsed from the glaring set lights while a scantily clad woman posed for a seedy photographer. Elaine never wanted this, the camera flashing in her face, a handful of people staring through her while she tried to look inviting and "friendly." She only took this modeling job because it would put $5,000 in her pocket and give her chance to leave the mountains of New Mexico.
As the photographer told her to "smile with her eyes," she thought of the future. Thoughts of art school in New York, living in a studio apartment, and getting a stable job where she wouldn’t have to constantly avert the lustful stares of men old enough to be her father kept her from screaming at everyone in the room. She had been saving money ever since she was eight years old when the horrible car accident took the lives of her loving parents. Over the years, living with her grandparents, she purchased art supplies and books on Picasso and Renoir. She would stay in her room, just creating. All the anger, sadness, and regret pulsed through her pencil and paintbrush onto blank canvas, releasing Elaine of all the pent-up feelings inside her heavy heart.
In two days, she would be on the train heading to New York City, finally starting her life. Her life in New Mexico was just practice for the future. The non-existent parents, the dead-beat boyfriends, and the cheesy modeling jobs were just there to make her stronger and ready for her new life. She was more than ready; she had been packing to leave since she was told she wouldn’t be able to see her parents again.
As she refocused on the scene in front of her, the photographer told everyone to wrap it up because he got the shot he was looking for. Elaine went back to the closet they called a dressing room, put on her clothes, and went to collect her money. With the check of her future in her back pocket, she walked out of the studio into the blinding sunlight of New Mexico for the last time.
Shedding My Skin
By: Vincent Sabatino
What a remarkable life I’ve had. It’s hard to believe all that I had to go through to get to this point. I can still remember the feeling of being trapped inside my egg, struggling to escape. After ten days, my term of confinement finally ended, and I was free to explore the vastness of the world. I possessed quite an insatiable appetite; I chuckle at the memory of being able to eat half my weight in food. At times it felt like I would never be full. Even growing up was a challenge, constantly shedding my skin like the layers of an onion just to reach my full size. Then there is my fondest memory. After going though the frustration of finding the ideal spot, I was finally ready. Slowly I wrapped myself in a protective shell. After two weeks I achieved adulthood, bursting out of my shell much like the day I was born. I spread my newly formed wings, ready to take on the world in all its glory. 18
You Are Not Alone
By: Ben Fosick
Seven years. It’s been seven years since it happened. He never meant for anything to get out of hand. Never in his wildest dreams did he think the consequences of his actions would be so grave. It was just supposed to be a project, nothing more than an experiment. If things went as planned, the reward would be great. But that wasn’t the case, and the risk turned out to be far greater than he imagined.
He was alone now and in a way, that was alright. He was never much of a social butterfly. A curious introvert, he was content resigning himself to evenings spent with a cup of tea and a good book before letting the soothing crackles in the fireplace lull him to sleep. Sure, being devoid of human contact for seven years can make the days quite dreary, but he’d grown accustomed to it. After a while, the guilt that weighed on his heart because of the accident went away. He could finally look at all those photos of friends and colleagues with a clean conscience. He missed them dearly, but the days of wondering what he could’ve done to save them were in the past. They were gone; he accepted that.
As the night sky was beginning to cradle the sun into its slumber, the evening felt as if it would be like any other. The crisp autumn breeze caressed naked tree branches; the brisk air breathed a calming sensation over the desolate wasteland. It was time to retreat indoors and get ready for bed.
He assumed his usual position in his favorite recliner that sat in front of a blazing fire. With the footrest raised, he leaned back, nestled in the comfort of a heavy blanket, and closed his eyes. He could feel himself slipping away, just on the brink of falling into a world of dreams when he heard it.
KNOCK…KNOCK…KNOCK.
Startled, he leapt up from his chair. His heart was racing. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. "Hello?" he shouted nervously.
There was no answer. There wasn’t anybody there, it couldn’t be. He was alone. It was just his mind playing tricks or a branch hitting the side of the house. Yeah, that was it. It was nothing. Now that he knew there was nothing outside, he could lie back down and try to sleep. As soon as he got comfortable and shut his eyes, there it was again, louder than the first…
KNOCK…KNOCK…KNOCK.
"Wh-Who’s there? Hello?" he meekly asked, his voice choked by fear. Still, there was no answer. His body trembling in fright, he slowly rose from his chair and hesitantly sauntered towards the front door. Slowly, he creaked the large mahogany door open, only to be greeted by the sound of the wind blowing through the dead, rustling leaves. He couldn’t believe it. He knew there was a knock at the door. He heard it himself. Something was there, he was sure of it.
As he anxiously made his way into the front yard, he began to shout angrily. "Is anybody out there? Anyone? Why are you doing this to me?"
His nerves were getting the best of him. Maybe it really was just his imagination. But that noise. He didn’t know what to think. It was best just to go back inside and try to rest.
Back in the refuge of his chair, he stared at the door. A few minutes went by without any noise. Finally safe, he breathed a sigh of relief. As he started to close his eyes once again, he felt a soft, cold hand on his shoulder. His heart sank and his body went frigid. He was paralyzed with terror. A grim whisper came from behind his ear, "Seven long years. I’ve been looking for you. Did you miss me?" 19
Venezuela’s Silk Road
By: Janice Reuther
The big Sea Ray appeared to be drifting. It was a few hundred yards offshore, and the yacht looked new. Easily a half million-dollar investment. Sam extracted a pair of binoculars and studied the boat. No movement. No sign of life. It’s early, he thought. If it were five-thirty in the afternoon, he would expect to see the First Mate emerging from the cabin with frozen cocktails. That wouldn’t happen for another twelve hours.
"Maybe they’re asleep," Sam murmured as he twisted the housing on the binoculars to check for an anchor line. Nothing.
He was cruising at twenty knots in his Luhrs 34 Open just south of Boca Grande Pass, headed for Charlotte Harbor. It was crab season, and Sam had to stay on his toes to avoid the nests of styrofoam balls that marked submerged traps. He checked his watch. The tide would change soon. Once the current began to run through the narrow cut between Gasparilla Island and Cayo Costa, it would suck the yacht into the Pass. Without power, the vessel would likely go aground.
Sam grabbed the Raymarine’s handset and verified he was on channel sixteen. "Sea Ray drifting near Boca Grande Pass, this is The Correspondent. Do you copy?"
He waited. No answer.
"Sea Ray to the west of Boca Grande Pass. This is the Luhrs 34 to your south. Do you copy?"
Sam stared through the binoculars. The Sea Ray was yawing in the changing tide. He knew something was wrong—the vessel was in distress. He pushed forward on the throttle, sending his Yanmar engine into a whining frenzy. Sam’s tall, lean frame swayed in his Captain’s chair. As he approached, he could see the Sea Ray’s name emblazoned in dark blue lettering on the stern. Running Wild. Thirty feet from the yacht, he changed course to make a precautionary circle around her. The Luhrs’ bridge deck was aloft its hull by ten feet, giving Sam a good vantage point. He passed the stern and glanced down. Blood was splattered on Running Wild’s aft deck.
Sam knew it was time to call the Coast Guard, but the investigative journalist in him resisted. Not just yet. Three years earlier, he won a coveted IRE Award for "Condo Boards and Drug Lords," which chronicled the role a posh Miami Beach high-rise played in the drug trade. The mission of the Investigative Reporters and Editors organization was to foster excellence in investigative journalism, and they honored only the most talented in the field. Sam was now in that elite club and would never forget the elation and pride he felt when he heard the news. He knew another IRE story was inside the Sea Ray and wanted to check things out before the Coast Guard cordoned it off.
Sam secured fenders and rafted the two vessels together. He released the Luhrs’ anchor while keeping one eye glued to the yacht’s salon—he had no gun. He warily approached the enclosed cockpit, peering around the entrance before entering. Sam had hoped the blood came from an unsuspecting game fish. He was wrong. A large man was lying in the companionway between the cockpit and salon, staring at the fiberglass ceiling. The skin on his face was pale, almost white, with a hint of light gray around his mouth and eyes. He had a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and a rivulet of congealed blood marked its flow from the cockpit to the back decking. Sam crept toward the body, clutching his hand-held radio, and then knelt to examine it. 20
A whimpering groan alerted him that others were aboard. He hopped clear of the companionway, crouching low, waiting with eyes fixed on the opening. Seconds stretched. No more groans. Just cawing seagulls circling Gasparilla’s beach less than a mile away. Sam peered around the edge of the doorway, praying he wouldn’t hear the crack of a pistol when his head broached the opening. He scanned the luxurious salon. Shattered glassware strewn in the galley. A leaded-glass cabinet front dangled on one hinge. Teak paneling pierced with bullet holes. His eyes swept downward. A woman was tucked below the steps, staring at him with wide eyes. A knife was embedded in her shoulder. Her hands were bound, but one finger was still hooked in the pistol’s trigger guard.
Sam jumped over the dead man’s body and skidded down the steps, landing beside the girl with a thud. He released the gun from her rigid finger and checked the chamber. It was empty. She watched him, cringing at the slightest muscle flex, twist of his neck, shift of his eyes. Sam knew if he pulled the knife out of her shoulder, she might bleed out, so he opted to remove the tape from her hands and mouth. She winced when he touched her, but didn’t resist. When the tape was peeled from her mouth, a gush of incomprehensible words shot out. It was a language native to a country in the Far East. As a journalist, he had spent many years abroad and guessed he was hearing Laotian. Or Thai, maybe. He couldn’t tell.
"Just hold still. I’ll get you some help."
Sam could feel the boat jerk. He leapt to the window. The heavy Sea Ray was dragging both vessels toward the shore in the racing current. He went to the controls and released the Sea Ray’s anchor with the flick of a switch. It dove toward the sandy bottom with a loud rolling clang as the chain passed through the housing. The rattling gave Sam a creepy spine tingle, like the dead man’s ghost had come alive. He glanced at the corpse and shuddered.
The IRE award would have to wait. It was time to call the Coast Guard. He engaged the yacht’s DSC emergency button to transmit his position then adjusted the volume and squelch until he heard cracking static. He cupped the microphone. "U.S. Coast Guard, this is the motor vesselRunning Wild hailing on channel one-six, over."
"Motor vessel Running Wild, this is the United States Coast Guard sector St. Petersburg answering on channel one-six. We received your position and distress call on DSC. State the nature of your emergency."
Sam quickly described the situation aboard Running Wild. When he completed the call, he returned to the salon and found the woman had dragged herself toward the forward berth.
"Ma’am, Stop. Who’s in there?"
She replied in another tongue.
"Do you understand me?"
The woman shook her head and continued talking. She reached toward the handle on the cabin door then collapsed on the floor, moaning. Sam put out both hands and pumped them back and forth, indicating he wanted her to stay put. He approached the berth with trepidation, fearful of a second gun and of meeting the same fate as the pale man lying in the companionway. He steeled himself and yanked on the door.
"What the. . . ." 21
Five young women were lying on the bed bound by their hands and feet, horror in their eyes. They seemed to expect the same brutal end Sam feared.
***
Sam had moved from Miami to a small community near Fort Myers Beach two years earlier. As a freelance writer, he could work anywhere and was tired of the congestion and din of the city. But he found it difficult to adjust to small-town life, particularly the small-town neighborhood of Pinfish Cove. The constant stream of teenagers, pickups, and barbeques was annoying. Sam needed respite and was heading to Gasparilla Island to visit a friend. He found the Sea Ray instead.
As he expected, the Coast Guard immediately kicked him off the yacht, and the window for information gathering slammed shut. It didn’t help that he couldn’t communicate a single word with the young women. He knew nothing more than what was printed in the local papers.
But Sam had a game plan, and her name was Annie. Annie was a quiet woman, about six feet tall and wafer thin with long dark hair and a jagged scar that ran from her right temple to the corner of her mouth. When she walked, if the wind hit her hair just right, she looked like a cobra gliding upright across the lawn. She was one of the few Pinfish Cove residents with whom Sam bonded. The first day in his modest rancher, he was alone unpacking boxes when Annie appeared in his doorway with a plate of cookies and six-pack of beer. He would soon learn this gastronomic pairing was not strange for the Pinfish crowd.
On a few occasions, when Annie was in a pinch, Sam consented to babysit her son, Ryan. The twelve-year-old was bookish, which suited Sam’s temperament, and quiet like his mother. But Sam was an investigator, and Ryan learned to talk. Sam soon found out how Annie got the scar. She worked for the Coast Guard at the time as an IT expert and was instrumental in a major drug bust that led to five convictions. When she left work one evening after the bust, she was abducted and held captive in an abandoned warehouse for five days before being brutally beaten, stabbed, and left to die. The Coast Guard had interfered with the wrong cartel.
The day after Sam’s startling discovery aboard Running Wild, Annie sat on his barstool reading the news with righteous indignation. Sam knew it dredged up painful memories for her. That was key to the success of his plan. He laid it out in convincing detail, but when he finished, Annie gave him a look he had seen her give Ryan a few times. The boy was always grounded at the end of that look. "It’s illegal, Sam," she said.
"Come on, Annie. All you have to do is peek at a few computer files. I can help with this investigation. You know I can."
"I haven’t been with the Coast Guard in years. I couldn’t access the system if I wanted to, which I don’t."
"You and I both know you can."
"Leave this to law enforcement, Sam."
"You know what they had in mind with those girls, don’t you? Law enforcement will have to turn this over to the courts. It could drag on for years. In the meantime, how many other women are out there?" Sam waved his hand toward the Gulf and shook his head in horror.
"I realize that Sam, but. . . I don’t know." 22
Sam could see water pooling in Annie’s brown eyes. "You know I’m right. I can get this thing covered nationally. No one will know you helped."
A week later, Sam heard a knock on his door and opened it to find Annie with a six-pack in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. She threw the papers on his kitchen counter and plopped down on a barstool. After a smirking pause, she popped the tab off a Budweiser and drank half the can before setting it back down. "All paths lead to a man named Eduardo Juarez. You know the guy, right?"
Sam wished he didn’t. Juarez was the head of a Venezuelan cartel that had tight connections with Cuba. He investigated Juarez for three years but never got close. "Yeah, I know him."
"There wasn’t enough evidence in the records to prove it, but once I read up on Juarez, I bet my F150 pickup the guy was trafficking in women from Thailand. I had to use other channels, so to speak, to get the information I needed." Annie took another long swig and emptied the beer can. "You know they have serious issues with prostitution in Thailand. The girls are young and many are underage, but the government ignores this insidious practice."
"I know," Sam said. He could tell Annie was getting upset. He glanced at the photos of the young girls he found on the Sea Ray and realized most of them were the same age as Annie’s daughter.
"It appears that these women were working for a man in Thailand who’s connected to Juarez," Annie said, tapping the face of one of the girls. "His Venezuelan thugs hire them for a few nights then offer them a South American holiday, which they readily accept. Once the girls clear through Venezuela, they’re put on boats and shipped to various port cities around the Gulf where brokers disperse them to clients in the Caribbean and Americas."
"And the dead man on the Sea Ray was a broker?" Sam asked, sitting more erect on his barstool.
"That’s what it looks like."
"So, what do we have on Juarez? The man is squeaky clean."
"This," Annie said and tossed a sheet of paper to Sam.
The paper was a list of routing numbers. The banks were international—Thailand, Venezuela, Cuba, and the Caymans. Sam knew Juarez maintained a home in Grand Cayman. "Where did you get these?"
"Juarez’s computer."
Sam’s jaw was sagging. "What?"
"I like to be thorough. The law enforcement records were a bit thin on detail." Annie popped another beer tab. "And, I told you, I bet my F150. Couldn’t lose my baby."
"I’m glad the old jalopy is safe, Annie. But what does this prove?"
"The accounts belong to Juarez."
"All you have is a list of bank numbers you found on a computer. How does that prove anything?" 23
"This is how," Annie said, giving Sam a photo of a diminutive man leaving the Bank of Grand Cayman. She tapped it with a long forefinger. "Seems one of the bankers got on the wrong side of the Venezuelan cartel and lost a few family members as a result. He published the names tied to all the bank’s numbered accounts before fleeing the island. Juarez was on the list."
"Good work Annie." Sam finally popped a tab, and they clicked their cans together in toast.
"The other accounts were easy," Annie said with a cocky smirk. "Thailand and Cuba aren’t as sophisticated with their computer security as most countries."
Sam and Annie drank their beers in silence as he scanned the documents. He finally looked up and grinned. "There’s enough in here to put Juarez away for life. Were you careful? Did you leave any traces?"
"A few electronic fingerprints might be tracked back to Juarez’s computer."
"Huh?"
"I backdoored his personal computer to do my work. Seems the guy is a publicity hound and makes sure the whole of Miami is informed of every fundraiser he attends. I had all the time I needed to do my snooping, courtesy of Juarez in black tie." Annie chuckled. "If the Thais figure out they’ve been hacked, the trail will lead to him."
"Aren’t you a clever one? You should have gone into law enforcement."
"That was the plan," Annie said, holding her can in the air. "But investigative journalism is a lot more fun."
***
When the announcements were issued, Sam almost hyperventilated. "Venezuela’s Silk Road" won him a second IRE. But the book deal is what set him in high gear. He had always dreamed of crossing the bridge from watchdog journalist to novelist, but felt the leap from investigative fact finding to imaginative prose was too great. Once again, Sam had a game plan, and her name was Annie.
"One condition," he said when he offered her a research assistant job. "No more cookies with beer."
Annie had that look. He knew what was at the end of the look. And it wasn’t going to be pretzels. 24
Death Bringer
By: William Hill
Through the years
We chase our past
We fight back tears
Wishing it would last
Hold on, here comes our fears
Sailing thru, put up the mast
I look into the sun
I twitch my itchy finger
I raise my gun
Scratching at my soul to pull the Goddamn trigger
Now it’s done
For I am the Death Bringer
Rifle in hand
Ammos abound
Promised is the land
As we creep without a sound
Through the sand
Without a soul around
Come with me
Into tomorrow
Then you will see
I’ll take your sorrow
Just let it be
Time is not yours to borrow
A lost bit of time
A soulless singer
The bell begins to chime
Now I’m a dead ringer
I feel fine
For I am the Death Bringer 25
CORA’S CHOICE
By: Janice Reuther
Cora Wilson sat on the corner of her bed watching two boys play in the street. Skateboards thrummed on asphalt. Shouts filled with pubescent verve. Watching them usually brought her joy, a sense of life, of being—counterfeit relief. But that afternoon, it made her feel caged and lonely.
She pulled a thin pillow to her chest and buried her nose in it its soft edge. She could smell the spicy aroma of Frank’s aftershave. She chuckled. It didn’t matter how many bottles of good cologne she bought him–Lauren, D&G, Kenneth Cole–they just gathered dust in the cabinet. He wore Old Spice like his father and grandfather. That fact never changed.
Life was hard for the Wilsons. But Frank and Cora didn’t complain. It was their lot, they surmised, the result of choices made over the span of many years—choices about education, careers, community, even friends. They accepted life as a duty, a fate, and sometimes a test from God.
Frank travelled for a living, crisscrossing the state selling water filters to reluctant business owners. Cora was a hairdresser and worked in a small salon catering to the town’s aging population on fixed incomes and tight budgets. Frank came home each Friday hungry and tired, and Cora always made a special meal. He ate more than he should have then dozed for the next few hours in front of the television. Cora thought he looked like a snoring pink panther with his gangly legs and big nose.
Last Friday, his final one, he awoke with a snort as the evening news came. He stumbled to the bathroom where Cora was lathering her face with cold cream. "Need to wash off the road grime," he said, climbing behind the plastic shower curtain.
She patted a towel on her face and neck as she examined her image in the mirror. A pale face with blue eyes and sagging chin stared back. She wondered when she had become her mother.
Cora returned to the kitchen to set up the morning coffee, the first step in her nightly ritual. She stacked cups and spoons upside down next to the sugar bowl then measured five scoops of Folgers into a paper-lined basket, leveling each one with her finger. Then she crept through the house rattling doors and tugging on windows, peeking outside for waiting thieves. She finished her rounds in the bedroom, where she turned down the covers with military precision, knifing each fold with the tip of her finger.
When she heard the faucet squeak shut, Cora returned to the bathroom. Frank flicked back the shower curtain with a metallic rattle. "How’s your leg feeling?" she asked him, batting at the billow of steam.
"Better, I think. It’s still warm though."
"Why don’t you get that checked?"
"Too busy, no insurance," he replied as he pulled on a pair of cotton pajamas.
"But Frank. . . ."
Frank splashed on a healthy dose of aftershave then pecked her on the cheek. "Goodnight hon," he said, "I’m beat."
He climbed under the chenille bedspread and fluffed his favorite pillow under his head. Cora knew it was useless to argue with him. He always made the decisions, even trivial ones, and on his own schedule. It took him six months to replace her car, and she had little say in the selection. Cora was one of those drivers who never exceeded twenty-five in a thirty mph zone, hitting the brakes every few minutes as invisible threats emerged from the roadside. She wanted a Ford Fiesta, thinking it was the safest option in their price range. But Frank bought the Chevy Aveo. It didn’t matter that the car came in dead last in the crash test ratings. The Aveo was cheaper. 26
As she hugged Frank’s spicy pillow, watching the boys practice kick turns, she replayed their last conversation, miming her unspoken argument.Does it matter that you had no insurance?
Cora placed Frank’s pillow back on the bed and stroked it to smooth the wrinkles. She wondered what he would think of the choices she had made during the week. He would be upset if he knew—she was sure of it—particularly if he knew how she buried him. Frank had been claustrophobic since childhood and couldn’t bear the idea of being laid to rest in a box. But Cora was making the decisions now, and she thought cremation seemed un-Christian. "That’s a Buddhist tradition," she told the Funeral Director and ordered a casket.
She was washing Mrs. Johnson’s hair when the call came in. After she hung up, it took a full five minutes before she could speak to the hovering crowd. The Highway Patrol had found Frank at a rest stop. The car was still running, and one look at him was enough for the police to know they didn’t need to call an ambulance. The Coroner pronounced him dead at the scene. An embolism was the final verdict. Forty years of marriage ended that day with one gurgled breath, one last blink.
Cora called the officer to thank him for his help. "Deep vein thrombosis is an unfortunate hazard for road warriors," he told her. "Got to watch that ourselves, you know. We spend a lot of time on the road."
It was now Cora’s duty to dispose of Frank’s belongings—his treasures, both mundane and precious. As she sorted through a lifetime of gathering, she wondered if she was up to the task. Until she unearthed his baseball card collection. She tried to convince him to sell it two years earlier when things were particularly tight in the Wilson household. He wouldn’t hear of it, so Cora went behind Frank’s back to have the collection appraised. The findings shocked her. One card alone was valued near $200,000. It would take both of them four years to earn that amount of money. But Frank wouldn’t part with it. He wouldn’t part with any of his childhood treasures.
The sun was waning. Cora watched the boys run inside with skateboards tucked in armpits. She imagined their family laughing, eating pizza or hamburgers, and wondered what was next for her. Maybe she would take in a ball game. The season was almost over, and the nice man made such a generous offer for Frank’s collection. She might run into him and his wife; maybe they would become friends. Then she would go to Canada. Cora had never seen mountains before, at least not in person, and thought the experience would be magical. She would stay at the luxury Fairmont resort in Banff and take a gondola ride up the mountainside to Lake Louise. She could do whatever she wanted now. No more shampoo bowls, nor more long days standing over smelly heads. She would live in a way she only fantasized about a week earlier. Cora was new at being a millionaire, and the options were dizzying.
Rain never ends in Eden
By: William Hill
Soupy sand from rain
Hasn’t slowed or stopped for weeks
Wet rifles as we sit in our Humvees
Waiting for some sign of change
December is most sorrowful in Iraq
Rain never ends in Eden
One day of sweet sunshine
What we need, all we want
One day of brightness breaking through shades
But rain never ends in Eden 27
Dinner for Eight
By: Megan Hill
It was the night of the dinner as Professor Archimedes Brown walked up the steps of the Sinclair mansion. He was one of eight dinner guests that the Widow Sinclair had invited to her house for some sort of proposal. Standing in front of the great wooden doors, Professor Brown pulled the letter out of his vest pocket one more time. It read, in the widow’s delicate scrawl:
Dear Professor Archimedes Brown,
You and seven others are cordially invited to have dinner with both my children and myself. I am in great need of an instructor for them, and I wish for you to introduce yourself. Hope to see you at eight o’clock p.m.
Mrs. Theodora Sinclair
Professor Brown stuffed the letter back into his pocket. He straightened his coat and top hat, smoothed his bushy white mustache, and knocked on the wooden door. Within moments, the iron doorknob twisted and a rather miffed butler pulled open the door.
"Why, good evening my good chum!" Professor Brown greeted with a booming voice. "Professor Archimedes Brown and I am here for—"
"For the dinner party, yes, I know," the butler interrupted in a curt voice. "Madame Sinclair is already entertaining her other guests. Allow me to show you to the dining room." With a brisk turn, he led the taken-aback Brown inside.
"A right stuffy chap he is!" Brown harrumphed.
As they approached the dining room, music and laughter could be heard. "This way sir," the butler drawled. Without looking at the visitor, he opened the door and allowed Professor Brown to enter into the brightly illuminated room. It held a large dining table where seven other men and one (to his surprise) rather lovely young woman were seated, making jokes and small talk. The butler addressed the young woman. "Madame, your final guest has arrived." Then, without another word, he turned and strolled out of the room.
Archimedes scanned the faces until an "Archie!" grabbed his attention.
"Ren! How lovely it is to see you!" Archie replied as his friend Renard stood from his chair to shake his hand.
Renard’s narrowed eyes glanced around suspiciously. "Yes, quite lovely."
The young woman smoothly rose from the table and asked, "You are Archimedes Brown, correct?"
"Why, yes, yes I am. You must be Mrs. Sinclair," Brown said breathily as she approached, offering her hand for him to kiss.
"Yes, I am," she said with a sharp smile. Upon closer examination, she was more enchantingly beautiful than he originally thought, with pale porcelain skin and long, dark hair that was coiled thickly in a bun at the back of her head. She was quite lovely. He felt more than a little flustered and imagined that the other gentlemen felt the same way. Oh, if he were younger…
She continued in a soft voice. "I am so pleased that you were able to join us this evening. Now we may get to the business that I have alluded to in my letter. But first, it is suppertime!" She gestured to an empty seat next to Professor Brown’s friend.
Food was quickly brought out as the party conversed. Brown knew most of the men: there was his longtime friend, Renard Nickleby, a lawyer; Charles Taylor, a banker; Doctor Stuart Blow, a scientist; Peter Schutz, a composer of the local opera; and Heinrich Vondel, a painter who was 28
gaining popularity among the wealthy families. He did not recognize the last man.
Dinner consisted of roast pork, Cornish game hens, wild pheasant, and various tropical fruits along with some kind of red wine. "Madame, this is quite a feast you have prepared for us!" said the unnamed man with a thick Russian accent as grease shined on his fat chin. Brown could see that all the men (except for Renard) were beginning to succumb to the rich food and drink.
"Well, what better way to begin negotiations than to butter you up first?" Mrs. Sinclair said as she sipped her wine. A coy smile played on her lips. The gentlemen’s hearty laughter followed.
"Archie..." Renard whispered to Brown. "You noticed how the widow hasn’t eaten anything?"
Brown glanced at her plate. It was clean. "Yes," he said after emptying the contents in his mouth.
"Well why do you think that is?" Renard asked, giving her a strange look.
"I am certain there are any number of reasons. Perhaps this ‘business’ she’s mentioned has the poor thing too nervous to eat. Perhaps she is not used to being around gentlemen. The poor dear," Brown said, looking at her fondly.
Renard gave him a look before turning to Madame Sinclair. "I am dreadfully sorry my dear but what is this ‘business’ you mentioned before? In your letter you said you have children. Please excuse my boldness, but where are the delightful lads and lassies?"
The others nodded and agreed with a "Mm, yes," "Quite," and "Indubitably" thrown around.
Mrs. Sinclair straightened in her chair and bowed her head, "I do apologize good Sirs. My children will be with us shortly. You see, they are in need of schooling, and I have sent each of you a letter in the hopes that you may become tutors for them."
There was much discussion among the other men on this. "Schooling?" Renard asked. "Madame, surely you jest. Why not enroll them in The Academy? I’m sure they would receive far more education from the professors there than from us."
Mrs. Sinclair bowed her head again. "Yes, you are correct. You see, they are the spitting image of their father, and I just cannot bear to part with them. Not after what happened to my dear Arthur. I keep his remains close by."
She dabbed her eyes lightly with her handkerchief as the other men fixed Renard with scathing looks as if to say, "How rude!" Renard flushed a red as bright as his hair. "I- I apologize for intruding Madame…," he said bashfully. Brown, knowing Renard as well as he did, knew that he was not.
Doctor Blow, an older balding man adjusted his glasses and asked, "Mrs. Sinclair, forgive me if this seems forward, but whatever happened to Mr. Sinclair?"
She sighed and dabbed her eyes again. "Oh, Arthur. What a dear man he was! He died shortly after our marriage… My children are all I have left of him. They are his very image!" she sniffed. The men closest to her patted her hands and gave her soothing words of consolation. The others fixed Professor Blow with another stare.
Renard leaned in to whisper to Professor Brown. "Yes, but how? I understand that she cannot part with her children. That’s all very well and good, but is she going to deny them an education just because of her husband’s death?"
Brown gave him a look and hissed, "Ren, will you cut it out? The poor woman’s in shock!"
Renard gulped his wine and broodingly glanced around at the other men in silence. It was getting late in the evening. The servants had made the final rounds and left the house. By now, all of them, with the exception of Renard and the widow, were quite filled to the brim with both food and drink as 29
they shared stories and laughter. Renard sat in his chair with his arms folded. He looked disgruntled.
"Ren, why aren’t you enjoying the party?" Brown asked with another sip from his glass. His large face was quite red, and his eyes were watery by this time.
Renard shrugged and grumbled, "I have an important court case tomorrow, and I am getting nothing done!"
Just then, Mrs. Sinclair rose and announced to her guests, "Well, I hope you all enjoyed your dinner. Now we shall convene in the drawing room where you will meet my children, and we can discuss their… curriculum."
Brown, Renard and the other distinguished and drunk gentlemen followed the widow as she smoothly led them to the drawing room. Renard did not feel comfortable being inside the house. There was a strangely familiar smell in the murky and dank room. "Madame Sinclair, where are your children?" He asked as the men stumbled around, bumping into furniture and tables. Why aren’t there any lights?"
"Oh they will be with us shortly." Her voice came in a soft hiss followed by the sound of a door lock slamming in place. "I want to thank you all for coming on this evening. When Arthur died, I was afraid that there would be no father figure for my children. That is why I summoned all of you here…."
Renard stood perfectly still. Was it just him, or was there something sliding around on the floor above them? Hairs stood on his neck, and he gulped before asking the woman, "If- if you don’t mind my asking….When did your husband die?"
Light from the chandelier came on in that instant, with Madame Sinclair at the switch. Her eyes were fixed on Renard as he whirled around to face her. He noticed a change: darkness in her eyes and how the dimness of the chandeliers light made her hair to appear to squirm and wriggle from its bun.
"Why, the night of our wedding actually," she said through a smile that had too much teeth. "I still have his remains above my fireplace."
She pointed behind Renard. He turned and gasped. Hanging above the fireplace in a crucified fashion was a skeleton that was long ago picked clean. The sound of sliding and hissing began to fill the room as Renard looked back at the woman. The other men were passed out in a drugged stupor, lying on the couches.
Mrs. Theodora Sinclair released her hair. It quickly unraveled in a tangled mass of hissing and spitting snakes and as it did so, she seemed to grow taller as her torso stretched and contorted like that of a snake’s, even though her top half remained human. Renard now recognized that smell–snake musk.
"You see, I truly did summon you to my home to teach my children…"
Hissing erupted in the doorway that led from the entrance hall. "Muh-hhhhaaaaaameeee," came the hissing of serpents.
"Isssss it ssssssuppertime yet?" came from different voices in that strange hiss. Eight children with the lower bodies of a serpent and hair full of snakes came slithering around the room to examine the drunken men and the stunned Renard. "Muh-hhhhaaaameeeee, issss he our dinner?" a female child asked of Renard as she clung to her mother.
The Gorgon gazed fondly at her offspring. "Don’t you think they look exactly like him?"
Renard didn’t speak; he couldn’t answer. As she slowly slithered closer to him, he felt the fear. 30
The fear every prey has when cornered by a predator.
"I am teaching my children how to feed. It is one thing to eat the local wildlife but quite another to ingest a living human being."
Just then, he collapsed backwards over one of the passed out bodies of his fellow academics. He struggled to untangle himself as she kept taunting him, taking her time.
"I hope you are not taking this personally. I really do admire your profession. But a mother," she said, fondly petting the snakes atop their heads, "simply must look after the welfare of her children."
His hand touched the cold iron fire grate. He turned his head in every direction. There was simply nowhere to go. Death had come for him in the most gruesome manner. She stopped and waited until he made eye contact with her. She loved this part, the part where defeat was visible in the eyes. It thrilled her. Every hunter lived for this moment. Coiling her tail around his panicked body, she lifted him to eye level.
"You know, my dear Arthur made the same face you’re making now," she murmured softly as a cold delicate talon from her hand traced his chin. "Eyes wide and full of trepidation; uncertain, panicked gasps; and of course, a cold sweat. Yes, you look just like him."
The soft, half smile from the fond memory evaporated from her face as the feral gleam took precedence once again. She curled her scaly body around Renard, constricting him. With eyes nearly bugging out of his skull, he found himself mute in terror. He hoped he would pass out soon and his last images wouldn’t be of this hellish creature.
"Now, now, my loves, pay attention!" Sinclair said coiling her dark and elongated body tighter around him. "Humans will not be as easy as these will be when you are old enough to hunt for yourselves. It will require patience, speed, and skill. And remember darlings, because this is very, very important." She emphasized this with a shake of her clawed finger, "Always start headfirst!"
With a final sneer and scream, dinner was served.
Florida Postcard – An Observation
By: Jordan Hess
Sunspots, maybe cancer
It doesn’t take much these days
It’s funny how things work, punishment for pleasure
Go ahead, indulge, enjoy your life, but not too much.
So we take our plastic islands and liquid courage
Plant ourselves like pits of rust on mother nature’s surface
Spreading and corroding
The courage burns as it slides down our throats and the bottles fill the landfills
Punishment for pleasure
Landfills like freckles on the surface may be cancer
We laugh foolish laughs as the sand burns our toes
She is laughing too. 31
Of Amber and Iron
By: Korina Chilcoat
Fall and fall
Down goes the down
Of shriveled memories that the earth scattered ‘round
Taking the path that led towards desire
The never-ending fantasy that for no one did come true
I am the first, the only, the last of the living
Never to be another as long as I kept it in plain view
With unbridled optimism comparable with none
Brave enough to fight fire’s flame with bare hands
They outstretched in acceptance of the fire-drenched hell
That on that occasion did bear my name
Brandished gates thrust wide open
All mine for the taking as I sauntered through
How they pointed their fingers, oh, how they called me so calmly
Pulling me aside with their conceited worry
In attempts to shield me from the traumatizing view
How I did not listen
Turning blind eyes and a head to match
A victim of innocence
A victor of words
The whispers, the hush, all harbored in secret
As they turned their heads, shielding their gaze
Hands over mouths below widely-lit eyes
Scandal, rumour, flickered into a blaze
All while I stood confidently in the shining dark
I grabbed at desire with my greedy paws
Fingers clawing at what could never be mine
Lying to myself that I could have it all
While teetering on the fine line between love and obsession
Those two blazing diamonds in the mirror-blue night
They sparkled and shone with all of the brilliance of the moon
How the envy did blossom into a blood-hungry demon
Clawing, scratching for whatever could be salvaged
How the figure in the night stared from afar
Hands grasped together in desire’s stance
Two rows of pearls shimmering in the dark
And I bowed and I bowed and fingered scarlet satin
A gown constructed of seduction and intrigue 32
How I lingered and pined in a room full of mirrors
Held death in its ever-so-charming embrace
Painted, quite quickly, my perfection
A wounded heart I did eagerly chase
I walked to the beat of the music of my soul
As it carried me across rivers and streams
Through lands far and wide and those I never had heard
Until some frequent stop brought some rest from the pain
And I waited and watched
And I pondered and listened
And I wrote and I read
And I cried and I glistened
I bragged and I boasted to ears near and far
Proving my proof to those who would listen
Leaving behind all that I knew
To pursue the deepest depths of my heart’s ambition
And then how it stopped, as quick as light
The ink splattered letters no more came in the night
No messages on the telephone
standing still while moving fast
My anything’s everything did not last
I looked strongly at the figure in the mirror
And told her how she was to blame
No deserving of love as much as the other
Just a victim of disappointment and of shame
The innocent heart that did beat so strong
Flickered and faltered, it sang its last song
It shriveled and shrunk till it could no longer be seen
A curtain of tears to hide yesterday’s dream
My identity went missing
And voice escaped in the night
I looked up at the stars
Hoping I’d be alright
My friends started waning
As my face gathered years
But the day was complete
So long as I held back the tears
And everything wasn’t alright, but it was right
In the end 33
A Trade for the Worst
By: Lea Robinson
When I was nine years old, I was not exactly my father’s dream son. I didn’t love sports as he wanted me to, but I did love animals and all types at that. One day, my father took me to a Yankee game. As you can imagine, I was not thrilled. I decided to go, not only because I didn’t have a choice, but also because I wanted to make my father happy. Lord knows, that man could be a nightmare when he was upset.
During the game, my father caught a foul ball. Thinking he could spark my interest in the sport, he got a player to sign it and with a big smile, he handed it to me. He became impatient waiting for a thank you. I finally said on impluse, "Thanks Dad! It’s great," but the novelty of the signed baseball had already worn off.
On the way home, we passed a pawn shop. A green and yellow parrot hung in a cage outside the door. He kept repeating, "Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!" I only imagined owning parrots in my dreams, in which I also owned a zoo. I thought how cool it would be to have a bird I could teach to repeat anything I wanted him to say.
When we arrived back home, my father raved about the Yankee game, and he mentioned the signed baseball. He would expect to find it displayed in my room at some point. But father and I had very different ideas.
In the following weeks, I continued to think about the wonderful parrot that lived at the shop on Henry Street. I decided the bird had to be mine and went to the pawn shop to inquire about it.
"My baby Anton? He is worth much more than you think young man!" shouted the storekeeper.
It was discouraging to hear, but I thought I would bring in my souvenir baseball and find out if it had any value. I went back to the shop the next day. "How much will you give me for this ma’am?" I asked.
"A baseball signed by Reggie Jackson?" the storekeeper shouted. "You might as well pick anything in the store that you would like to have in trade for this baseball!"
I was so excited, I almost passed out. I told her I wanted Anton, the bird, and she agreed without hesitation.
My father nearly burst into flames. He didn’t know I traded the baseball he was so excited about, and he was furious that I brought a loud, dirty animal into the house. It made him absolutely irate. Unbeknownst to me, life at home was about to get a lot more difficult.
The bilingual bird was a horrible new pet. He would screech obscenities at my father as he passed, whistle at my mother, and rarely let me near him. He was nothing like I imagined during my daydreams. It was obvious the pawn shop keeper hung his cage outside of the store for a very specific reason. I could stand very few days with this bird. Before long, I was looking for a new home for him. My quiet grandmother decided he would be great company, since my grandfather had passed.
I always found my grandmother to be pretty mean anyway. 34
Paradise at Last
By: Jacqueline Flannery
This silence was deafening…
Typically, the girl couldn’t stand silence. But when you spend months upon months surrounded by the sound, you have no choice but to adjust to it really fast. Taking a deep breath, Cici stood at the end of the boardwalk admiring the beautiful white sands and blue waters. The tropical air felt like sweet relief compared to the cramped and stale air of the car.
A quiet whine broke the silence. Looking to her left, Cici smiled at the Border collie at her feet. Princess pawed anxiously at the rotting wood beneath her. Chuckling softly, Cici nodded. "Go." Hearing the command, Princess sped off, kicking up sand as she ran. She barked happily, spinning to look back at her owner–making sure that Cici was following.
Cici kicked off her black Chuck Taylor sneakers and left them at the stairs. With her first step into her sand, she wiggled her toes with a smile. It had been far too long since she felt comfortable enough to walk around without shoes. The sand felt so… warm…. Had it not been for a second bark, Cici would have continued relishing the feeling. Princess brushed against her leg and ran in excited circles. Then the dog bolted for the water. Cici slowly followed, pressing her feet into the sand with each step as if trying to be sure her foot steps would remain.
The sights were stunning, and the sun’s reflection off the water was almost blinding. Shielding her eyes, Cici felt a smile tugging at her lips as she moved towards the water. The feeling of the cool water splashing over her heated skin was… relaxing. She finally felt… at peace. Cici had finally reached her paradise… until quiet growls from her ever vigilant pet sent Cici into a small panic.
"Wh-what?" She turned her eyes to the her dog, who suddenly took off, kicking up the white sand as she ran. "WAIT! Princess! Stop!"
Cici broke into a run, although not nearly as fast as the canine. Princess bounced back and forth when she finally came to a stop in front of a figure. Cici skidded to a halt, her hand fell to her hip, instinctively reaching for a weapon—but there was none. Anxiety continued to creep into her mind. Their group was supposed to be alone—the island was supposed to be empty. Slowly, the young woman approached the other figure and the anxiety lifted when she recognized the man in front of her.
"You… you scared me," Cici sighed. Before her, petting Princess, stood Tyler David Anderoth. He reached out to her, his green eyes smiling.
"No worries here." He squeezed her hand and pulled her closer. Cici moved into his arms— the one place that through all the chaos she had always felt the safest—and let a wide smile take over her face.
"Right…. No worries." She turned her gaze to the gorgeous scenery. This was paradise. 35
Holding Down the Fort
By: Chris Craig
I am stronger than the strongest man.
I defend you better than your mother can.
I am old and tired, but I am not frail.
I withstand gunfire from soldiers in peril.
I’ve hidden treasure from greedy pirates.
I protected a city from a British riot.
I’ve been a prison for wrong-doing men,
but this is now, and that was then.
I’ve seen many a people,
I witnessed times change,
while being ping-ponged
from England to Spain.
For years I’ve stood up proud and tall,
each winter, spring, summer, and fall.
As time has progressed I get used less,
and all I do now is sit here and rest.
I’ve become a famous tourist attraction.
I’m an old Spanish fort who gets no more action.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be ceased,
that can mean one thing, my country’s at peace.
Anticipation
By: Vincent Sabatino
"This is taking forever," I moaned from my comfortable spot in the shade of an old hollow log. "I know time flies when you’re having fun, but I think it also freezes when you’re bored." Another yawn escaped my lips as I turned, ignoring the squishing sound my body made. I was cautious not to expose myself to the sunlight. I always preferred the nighttime; it was colder, and I was less a likely to dry up. I had never been dry before and didn’t want to think what would happen if I were.
You know, I once heard a rumor that humans like to keep us as pets. A shiver passed through my body. The sudden thought of being trapped in a glass case while a bunch of kids played with me like a rubber ducky entered my mind. "Well, not me." Despite my lazy demeanor, I was nobody’s house pet.
A plate of crickets wouldn’t be too bad about now. Placing my webbed hand on my stomach, it felt as empty as the hollow log. The grumbling sounds grew louder as the hunger pains persisted. Suddenly there was a drop in temperature, as the world seemed to go dark. Finally, I said, "Time to get something to eat. I’m starved," and I made my way out of the log. 36
Bon Appétit!
By: Megan Martian
Wilbur Larson was a big man. Not just in girth but in personality. When he wanted something done, it would be in your best interest to get it done or you would find yourself jobless. Most would attest that having a big personality was not a terrible thing, yet it was known that he was an obnoxious and uncouth man with an arrogance that would that could choke an elephant. How he had managed to keep his many girlfriends hidden from his wife of twenty-five years is anybody’s guess. It is unfortunate that, more often than not, most of the women who worked in his office would wind up as his new girl by Friday. So when Mr. Larson set his eyes on Ultima Garcia, the poor woman soon became the topic of office gossip. Bets were made on how long it would take for the two to partake in the horizontal monster mash.
She had always been told that she couldn’t be spotted in a crowd, at least that’s what her friends said. Straight-faced and silent, Ultima quietly made her way through life never making waves. She never wore makeup. If her dark hair wasn’t down, it was tied into a simple ponytail. Her wardrobe was always filled with dark or muted colors. Rarely did her coworkers talk to her. They mostly took her emotionless expression as standoffish or rude, always assuming she disliked them. This was fine by her because it was the truth. Oh sure, she would respond when someone stopped by her cubical, smiling and laughing at bad jokes or offering assistance where she could. But at the end of the day, she just did not care.
"So, Ultima, are you going to the office Christmas party tomorrow night?" Sarah Ford, one of her colleagues, asked as she sipped from a little Styrofoam cup of coffee.
Ultima leaned back in her chair, folded her arms and shrugged. "Eh, I don’t know. Parties aren’t exactly my thing." Sarah examined one of her nails. Ultima wondered if she forgot who she was talking too. "Do you have a boyfriend? You should bring him by."
"You know John Marino in the IT department? I heard he’s single. I might try to snatch him up as a date for the party."
Ultima blinked at her coworker’s absentminded stare. She had met Marino on a few occasions since she started working for the company and, despite his teasing, felt he was a decent enough guy, cute, even. But I really don’t care. "That’s nice. Well, I have to get to work…"
Unfortunately, Sarah didn’t get the not-so- subtle hint and stirred her coffee. "Oh. Well, you should try to come anyway. It’ll be fun," she promised with a little bounce for emphasis. "There’ll be food and drinks and music and everything!"
Ultima just blinked, looked at her, and plastered on a smile, "Yeah, sure. I’ll definitely see if I can." She made a point to look busy with her assignment. Just leave me alone!
Oblivious, Sarah continued, "You know, you actually have a nice smile. You would look a lot nicer if you smiled more often."
Later on, with the day’s work completed, overcoat in hand, and purse on shoulder, Ultima was silently making her way out of her cubicle. "Garcia! C'mere for a sec," came from Mr. Larson’s office. She glared at the clock, it read five after five. Damn it. She was under no obligation to see him now, yet if she didn't go, he would more than likely start something the next day. Sighing heavily, she adjusted her things and quickly made her way to his open door.
It was a stuffy, cigar-smelling place. In the corner was a withered plant that she assumed died from the amount of hot air this jerk managed to blow. She sent it sympathetic glance, poor thing. 37
Speaking of jerks, Wilbur Larson was sitting in his high-backed leather chair. He took a long draw from a big cigar. She was briefly reminded at how much she disliked her boss. "Is there a problem, Sir?" she asked, careful to keep her face blank.
"Why, yes, there is something that I would like to talk to you about Ms. Garcia," Larson said after he puffed a nasty smoke cloud from his cigar. Her nose crinkled and eyes watered, but she refused to show any kind of discomfort in front of this man. "The thing is, Ultima—"
"Garcia is fine," she interrupted.
"Little Pig, Little Pig, won’t you let me in?"
She jiggled the doorknob tauntingly, relishing in his terrified squeal from behind the door.
"Or do I have to huff."
She jiggled the handle.
"And puff."
And jiggled it again.
"And blow your house down!"
"Right, well, I've been keeping an eye on you and, although your work is top notch and professional, I see you’ve been having trouble fitting in among the staff."
"No trouble at all," the woman explained stoically. "I’d rather keep my work and private life separate."
He smiled and took his vice out of his mouth, shaking a you-get-it finger at her. "Ah, see, you understand how office life works."
It took all she had not to roll her eyes at his statement. "Is that all Sir?"
"That and… well…" Larson just smiled that cheesy smile of his. "I think you need to relax some. You’re too... uptight."
Ultima just blinked in response. "I think I act appropriately for the office. Excuse me, but I must leave if I am to catch my bus. Good evening, Mr. Larson." She strolled out of the office and nearly sped-walked toward the elevators when she realized that she had forgotten her cell phone in her desk. Damn it, damn it, damn it! She huffed and reluctantly raced back to her desk, passing six other empty cubicles to find hers. "I know it’s here…," she muttered to herself, sitting in her desk chair and rummaging through her drawers. Something caught her eye. "Hmm?" Sitting atop of her pile of paper was a small note that read:
The Christmas Party is at six tomorrow night. Come with me, and we’ll have a nice time. –John Marino
Ultima blinked in disbelief. She really didn’t want to go, but sweet Jesus, aren’t we demanding? Yet… I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to see what he wants.
The smell of bad cigars approached her from behind, and she scowled. "You know office romances are strictly prohibited in this company, Ms. Garcia," Larson drawled.
She swiveled in her chair, arms folded, legs crossed. "Then what do you call the little flings you have with every girl in this office?"
"Just that– Flings. They don’t mean anything. They wanted better pay and I gave it to them, for a small fee that is."
She narrowed her eyes, "You call that a small fee? You demand sex in exchange for raises!"
He shrugged and leaned towards her. The stubble on his round face could not hide his second chin. "What does it matter when there are women who look just like you who do the exact same thing?"
She sucked in her breath, ignoring the smell of stale smoke and the cigar taint on his small teeth. "You are scum, Mr. Larson."
His eyebrows knitted together as he growled, "What’s that?" 38
"No," she corrected herself and unfolded her arms and uncrossed her legs, "Because despite scum, you do provide some kind of benefit to society. You are more like a pig, Mr. Larson."
"I’m a what?" he snorted in anger.
"Yes, a pig. You are the most disgusting and revolting piece of meat I have ever seen."
"What did you just say?" he squeaked. His face turned pink with rage.
Ultima rose from her chair and glared down at her boss. "You eat garbage and roll around in your own filth! Your wife won’t even touch you! It’s all because you are such a pig!"
"You witch! I’ll –squeeee-- you! I’ll – scrreeech--!" He snarled, his beady black eyes swearing death as his big, flat, pink nose snorted and twitched up at her.
She laughed coldly and squatted to his eye level. "Oh, what’s wrong, Mr. Larson? You know what? I think you need to relax. You’re too uptight." She flicked his nose. He snorted and looked down at his cloven hooves and large pink hide.
Realizing what she had done to him, Wilbur Larson the Pig turned and galloped back to his office, nudging the door closed with his snout. "SQUEEEEAAAAAA!"
Ultima laughed again at the trotting form and casually walked towards her boss’s door, trailing her nails along the hallway of cubicles. She placed her hand on the doorknob. A smirk played on her lips. She softly knocked on the door mockingly.
"Little Pig, Little Pig, won’t you let me in?"
She jiggled the doorknob tauntingly, relishing in his terrified squeal from behind the door.
"Or do I have to huff."
She jiggled the handle.
"And puff."
And jiggled it again.
"And blow your house down!"
And then the squeak of the door knob couldn’t be heard over the whimpering mass that was too big to hide under the desk.
The next evening at the party, gossip abounded concerning the whereabouts of the staff’s employer and fellow coworker. "Have you seen Larson today?" one young man asked before he ate his cheese and cracker.
"No. I haven’t seen Garcia either. Do you think they–you know…?" Sarah asked as she eyed the tall man standing nearby with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Hey Johnny, you wanna dance?"
John Marino was a big man with a big personality. When he invited you to a Christmas party, it would be in your best interest to show up or you would have to make it up by seeing a movie or having dinner with him. "Nah," he said with a firm shake of his head as he drummed his fingertips against his cup to some musical beat. Then he heard a call from the elevator.
"Um, sorry I’m late."
John turned and smiled down at Ultima. "Hey there, you’re not late at all. You look nice," he remarked after examining her black and white cocktail dress and red pumps.
She smiled and adjusted the red rose that held her hair back. "You think so?"
"Yeah. What you got there?" he asked, now noticing the enormous white cooler that she had wheeled in behind her.
"Oh this? Well, that’s the reason why I’m late. I spent all night roasting this pig for the party. Figured everyone would like it. Do you like pork?"
He shook his head. "Nah. I don’t eat it. Come ‘ere, let’s get a drink. What music do you listen to…?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the cooler. 39
Meanwhile, the rest of the staff opened the cooler and examined the Tupperware within.
"Okay, we have pulled pork, sliced ham and what else…?" one of the men remarked as he handed the small plastic containers to the remaining coworkers.
"Ah, hey, check this out; looks delicious!" one man exclaimed as he pulled out a large platter that held a cone shape wrapped in aluminum foil. He removed it to reveal a big fat, pink, greasy head of a pig with a shiny red apple lodged in its mouth.
"Bon Appétit!"
Through the Viewfinder
By: Monica Gomez
Dusk. The sun was setting just beyond the Montana mountains. The sky was ablaze in orange and yellow. Kylie positioned herself in a tree, observing the clearing before her through the viewfinder of her Nikon D90. Quickly, the girl snapped a few pictures of the horizon before settling back to watch the day fade.
As she pushed her dark blonde hair away from her face, her hazel eyes roamed the open field and settled on three horses emerging from the trees. The first was white with a blonde mane, rearing his head back and shaking it about. The one behind him was chocolate brown with a black mane, flicking his tail behind him. The last was midnight black, following the other two with his head down.
The brown one took off first, and Kylie’s camera was back to her eye immediately. She aligned her cross-hairs with the beast as he galloped across the field, putting significant space between himself and the other two animals.
Click.
Next, the white beauty followed in a trot. He swung his head up and shook it again, his thick mane jumping from one side of its large head to the other. He let out a loud whinny before throwing himself into the wind to catch up with the brown one. He took the lead again, coming around behind the other before overtaking him and leading him across the clearing.
Click. Click. Click.
The black majesty lifted his head and watched the two gallop across the field. He paused at the edge of the clearing, seeming to contemplate his next move. Once the other two were far enough ahead, he took off into the clearing. His dark hooves pounded the earth and propelled him forward, the muscles of his legs visibly contracting and stretching with each motion. His mane whipped back as his back legs pushed him away from his spot in the trees. He easily closed the distance between himself and the two knights.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Soon, the three were gone, and Kylie sat still in the tree. The sun had set behind the mountains, leaving minimal light for her to move around in, but she couldn't bring herself to move. The screen of her camera still held the image of the horses as they dominated the Earth. 40
Corpses and Gucci Purses
By: Kristiana Gregoire
We waste our time of day fretting over our subdual to the nachos
We waste our time of day obsessing over the knick in our expensive boots
We waste our time of day gossiping over the length of a stranger’s dress
We waste our time of day struggling to conjure the perfect synonym for a paper
We waste our time of day mourning a broken nail or broken hammer
We waste our time of day
Decades from now our bodies will lay still in front of our grieving loved ones
And those tears will come regardless of the little catastrophes of life
Regardless of the pound you gained from indulging in self-satisfaction
Regardless of your lack of a perfect fashion sense
Regardless of another human’s decisions
Regardless
But humans won’t cease to waste their time of day on silly things
Not until the day their lungs give out and their limp bodies escapes their own minds
EDITORIAL CREDITS
Editor: Janice Reuther
Literary Advisor: John Pelot
Editorial Assistance: Fall creative writing class 2011
Military Photography provided by William Hill
We would like to thank Blossom O’Bradovich for
providing images of her original artwork Montage and Bubbles
and
Brianna Paradise for her original photography Final Destination
Edison State College 2012 Magazine of Art & Literature
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Most Dangerous Place on Earth by Nicholas Mazzareia ............................................................................1
Shines the Same by William Hill ......................................................................................................................2
Return to Devon by Janice Reuther ....................................................................................................................3
My Therapist Says I Suffer from Stockholm Syndrome by Megan Hill ............................................................5
Life by Stephanie Soberay ..................................................................................................................................5
Not a care in the world by Vincent Sabatino ......................................................................................................5
Black Bird, Fly by Monica Gomez .....................................................................................................................6
Arlington’s Winter Beauty by Angeline Anderson ............................................................................................7
Untitled by Ellen Pion ........................................................................................................................................8
The Brink of Brilliance/The Dusty Poet by Korina Chilcoat .............................................................................9
Untitled by A.J. Romero .....................................................................................................................................9
Aristotle’s Luck by Janice Reuther ..................................................................................................................10
Please Say You Heard Me by William Hill ......................................................................................................14
The Motions by William Hill ...........................................................................................................................14
Someone Who Cannot See by Monica Gomez ................................................................................................15
Rain by Stephanie Soberay ...............................................................................................................................16
Lens of Life by Jessica Torrito .........................................................................................................................16
Greetings from…Scenic New Mexico by Jessica Torrito ................................................................................17
Shedding My Skin by Vincent Sabatino ..........................................................................................................17
You are Not Alone by Ben Fosick ...................................................................................................................18
Venezuela’s Silk Road by Janice Reuther ........................................................................................................19
Death Bringer by William Hill .........................................................................................................................24
Cora’s Choice by Janice Reuther .....................................................................................................................25
Rain never ends in Eden by William Hill .........................................................................................................26
Dinner for Eight by Megan Hill .......................................................................................................................27
Florida Postcard – An Observation by Jordan Hess .........................................................................................30
Of Amber and Iron by Korina Chilcoat ............................................................................................................31
A Trade for the Worst by Lea Robinson ..........................................................................................................33
Paradise at Last by Jacqueline Flannery ...........................................................................................................34
Holding Down the Fort by Chris Craig ............................................................................................................35
Anticipation by Vincent Sabatino ....................................................................................................................35
Bon Appétit! By Megan Martin .......................................................................................................................36
Through the Viewfinder by Monica Gomez ....................................................................................................39
Corpses and Gucci Purses by Kristiana Gregoire ...........................................................................................40
Editorial Credits ................................................................................................................................................41
The Most Dangerous Place on Earth
By: Nicholas Mazzareia
We were three trucks to the rear in a convoy, and I was sitting behind the driver of an armored Humvee, may he rest in peace. Our truck barely made it into the four-way intersection when my ears went deaf, my eyes went black, and my body felt like it was struck by the force of god. At that instant I saw nothing and I felt nothing, until I started to fall. The only thought I could muster was: this is it…this is my death. And so I instantaneously looked backwards in time, similar to the way they say it happens, but not exactly.
I was then just a Private in the U.S. Army at Fort Carson, Colorado and had never been deployed to a foreign country, but thought of myself as some sort of Spartan warrior or something ridiculous like that.
"I can already feel myself going into my war mode!" I say to one of my peers as our rooms were being inspected. The Team Leader conducting the inspection smirks at me and says, "What do you know about a war?" I shrug off the query, impervious to logic.
A few months later, I find myself in what’s called the Green Zone of Baghdad, Iraq, a place where all the important politicians and military leaders go to be safe from hostility. It has lush green grass, palm trees, smooth roads, and plenty of monuments to Saddam’s former might. My Squad Leader enters the room and says, "We have orders. We’re going out into the red zone to establish an outpost." The Red Zone, of course, is the polar opposite of the Green Zone. But more specifically, the place we are assigned to go will be determined by some news source to be the most dangerous place on earth for the summer months of 2007. My Squad Leader, with a foreboding tone, looks at me and says, "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" I issue to him a naïve nod of courage.
March, 2007. Al Dora District of Baghdad, Iraq. I’m sitting in what you would sarcastically call the "cafeteria" of our newly established outpost. The walls are made of old Iraqi tile with Islamic paintings on them, and it smells as if someone has been cooking corned beef. My Lieutenant enters the room; he is tall like me but with lighter blonde hair. "Who wants to go out on mission with first platoon tomorrow?" I instantly raise my hand, without so much as a thought of the dangers I might face. He nods and exits. I look around the room at the older, wiser men who are giving me a look that says, you’ll be sorry.
It is now 10:13 in the morning, and I am upside down in a hole that was caused by a massive, deep-buried Improvised Explosive Device. I was ejected from the vehicle by the blast and landed in the crater left by the explosive. I place my gloved hands on the rocky dirt and struggle to push myself to my feet. An eerie feeling strikes me as I notice, even through my gloves, the ground is hot from the explosive. My head throbs, my neck aches, and I still see nothing. I remove my protective sunglasses and notice I am peppered with black dust and contusions from flying debris. I clearly remember that the first thing I account for are "the goods," and then make sure I have all my limbs. My environment is still a cloud of dust as I begin searching for the one thing a soldier always looks for when he is in danger, his weapon. I spot my M4 Carbine not far from the truck and pick it up. As soon it is slung around my shoulder, I notice a man lying in the spot in which I was seated. It was the driver. It is hard to describe the emotion that strikes me, but I am not permitted to feel it for more than a moment. Just as I shout to the other vehicles for help, a volley of rapid fire from an AK-47 comes spitting in my direction.
The bullets penetrate the cloud of dust, striking the Humvee all around me as I stay there on my knees. I am concussed, in shock, and afraid. The only thing speaking to me at the time is my instinct. I cannot help the man that is lying still before me, but the gunner is shouting for help from inside the truck. I climb on top of the Humvee, work my way to his hatch, and peek my head inside. To my relief, he is not gravely injured and is being extracted from the other side of the vehicle. My ears are still ringing, and my mind is still young, so I don’t know what to make of the sound of bullets hissing by my 2
head. The voice of a Platoon Sergeant yells from behind me. "Get the **** off the truck!" And, like an obedient soldier, I comply without question.
I stumble my way to the casualty collection point, and they fire at me some more, but they miss due to the massive cloud of lingering dust. My brain begins to establish the idea of anger again, so I start producing tears as well as rapid fire back in the enemy’s direction. The convoy leaves to take the severely wounded to the combat hospital. A few others and I elect to stay and search for the culprits of the attack. We are pinned down on a rooftop, and so the day drags on as such. Eventually the convoy makes it back, and we high tail it out of there for the night.
I sit on a block of stone in the outpost smoking a cigarette in the dead of night as my Lieutenant angrily approaches me. "Why didn’t you go back to base and get checked out by the medics?" he barks, holding back an outpour of emotion. It was my first experience of combat; it was the first time I have ever seen a dead body; it was a good man who died in front of my young eyes. So I look up "I’m good, I just want to get back out there and find them, whoever did this. When is the next mission?" He sighs, "Zero eight hundred, but you’re not going on the mission. You’re going back to base to get checked." There’s no sneaking by this time.
It is the last thing I wanted, to spend any time alone in safety and silence. The medics say I have a concussion, but I don’t care what they say. I am damaged more deeply than that. The headaches are starting, and I know this is going to be my life for the next year. It is only just beginning. My path to manhood began with an explosion.
Shines the Same
By: William Hill
Imagine the marvelous moon.
Gritty sand sifting between your toes.
The wild wind freely blows.
Just hours before the sultry sunset.
This a fabulous freedom.
This is where I want to be.
On the sands of South Beach.
Under the palm trees’ touch.
No, Not me.
My reality is more realistic.
Though sand sifts through my feet.
There is no beautiful beach.
Only the howling Humvees.
It’s just me and my squad.
The outline of my M-16
Drawn magnificently by the moonlight.
Left to imagine it if shines.
It can’t be as benevolent.
It can’t be as beautiful.
Does it shine the same here? 3
Return to Devon County
By: Janice Reuther
There it goes again, that damn knocking. I bet it’s them, the persistent little devils. This is what? The third, maybe fourth time this week, and theWheel of Fortune is starting. I paused the recorder and peeked through the beveled glass door. A torpedo shape wiggled through the glass in a fuzzy, optical illusion sort of way. It was definitely one of them, but a bigger one this time. I’d better get this over with, or I won’t be able to watch the Wheel before the generator stalls.
When I opened the door, it was what I expected. The black drum. He had huge scales that looked like plastic wafers coated with slime. I don’t know why he’s called black. He’s silver really, with dark undertones like a slab of scaly granite with lots of mica in it. He smelled like sun-baked sardines and was clearly an old one—the stripes were missing, and he had white shading on his chin where the creepy barbells dangled. They looked like a bad effort at growing a beard but without enough testosterone to do the trick. I’ve seen this one before, in the canal behind the house. He eats oysters from the seawall and flicks his tail when he dives as if he’s king of the cove. Once, he bared his weird flat teeth at me when I cast a rod his way. The snooty bottom-feeding croaker.
"What do you want? I’m in the middle of an important program," I snapped. Isn’t it enough that I added a fish light by the dock? Now, you’re a houseguest?
The sixty-pound humpback just stared at me with his cat-like eyes and get-over-yourself expression. I must admit, he was making me a bit uneasy, what with the new double tail and all.
"So?" I asked with a slow, beady-eyed blink.
"You know why I’m here. Time to go," he said, stretching his neck to suck in the damp afternoon air. He sounded like a two-stroke engine rattling as he flexed his sonic muscles against his swim bladder.
"You seriously don’t think I’m going in the water with you."
"Everyone else is in. Time for you to go."
I peered around the front door to make sure he didn’t bring reinforcements. "You expect me to believe I’m devolving?"
"No need to be offensive," he said, sticking out his already puffy lower lip. Talk about an image of collagen injections gone wild.
"Well, you swim in your toilet and eat each other." I was hoping to goad him. After all, his brain was the size of my big toe. But as luck would have it, my neck began to itch at that exact moment. What an inopportune time to draw attention to the new slits opening behind my ears. I quickly brushed hair over them.
He snorted. Bits of putrid slime and water blew out his fake nostrils, nearly hitting my face. "Look, we can’t come out until all of you are in. Can we discuss this civilly?"
"You can come inside, but let me get towels first," I held one finger in the air as I dashed to the laundry room. Luckily, the pantry was on the way. I popped my head inside to check my inventory: tuna, Pellegrino, flour, black-eyed peas, Cajun seasoning, cornmeal, vodka, cranberry juice. Vodka? Hmm. When I returned to the front door, I spread a carpet of towels and led him to a barstool that was out of view of the pantry. 4
"Might I interest you in something to eat? I have mostly canned items, but there’s plenty of tuna."
"That sounds fabulous," he said, stroking his scales with pectoral fins. I hadn’t notice the new set of fingers. How weird looking.
I gave him one of those I-told-you-so looks and scurried to the panty, but he just stared down his snotty nares and sneered. I swear he snorted at me again through the dark little holes, but my back was turned. When I peeked around the corner, I could see his gills sucking harder in the air conditioning. He tried to hide it. Not as far along as the others, huh? "Could I interest you in some water? Looks like you could use a little oxygen."
"That would be appreciated."
"I’m still running the air, sorry," I said, bumping it a notch colder out of spite. "Have you ever tried Pellegrino? The minerals do wonders for scales."
"I have, and I love it."
I grabbed a highball glass out of the cupboard and mixed a jigger of vodka with the fizzing Pellegrino, twirling it for good measure. "So how are the snook these days? Is the population rebounding without the fishermen?" I was hoping to distract him with small talk, which worked brilliantly.
He gazed at the canal and sighed. "Seems to be."
When I returned to the bar, I eyed the nares above his mouth and realized I knew little about a drum’s sense of smell. Could he detect the vodka? "Let me assist you," I offered in my best southern hospitality manner as I lifted the glass to his gills.
Then it happened—the dreaded sniff. He pulled his head back and eyed the glass. I plastered a look of innocence on my face. "Is everything okay?"
"Doesn’t smell right," he said.
"It’s been a while since I shopped. Might be flat." I poured the mixture on the gill filaments before he could protest.
It takes mere seconds for alcohol to kill a fish. By the time the big drum slid to the floor, the Henkel was being sharpened and the peanut oil was racing its way to 350 degrees.
"Too bad you can’t hold your liquor buddy boy," I said, taking the first whack.
"A thing," Pat Sajak announced. R, S, T, L, N, E. The audience cheered as Vanna White turned the letterboxes.
"Devonshire England Tetrapod, stupid!" I yelled, spitting fried fish through the slits in my neck.5
My Therapist says that I suffer from Stockholm Syndrome
By Megan Hill
O’ you wicked, wicked little devil!
I see you there on my banister, your eyes a ‘glow.
Why do you hiss and claw and scratch me so,
only to bite me when I try to pull myself free?
You knock over my stuff, you chew up all of my homework,
you trip me as I walk the stairs, and you are widely considered to be "Demon Spawn"!
I have raised you since you were a kitten;
I know this because I wanted to knit you mittens.
Even though I give you toys, you persistently steal my things.
Haven’t I taught you the value of other people’s property?
And then when I’ve had enough of your hate-fueled nature,
begging and pleading with you to behave,
That’s when you curl up next to me, purr, and fall asleep.
And then, I figure you are just going through an adolescent phase.
And I understand that this is a difficult time for you, peer pressure and all that.
Just know your Mummy is always here.
Life
By: Stephanie Soberay
Life is difficult
Life is stressful
Life is emotional
Life is a challenge
Life is ever changing
Life is a journey
That is all worth it in the end
Not a care in the world
By: Vincent Sabatino
I sighed in contentment as I took in the sights.
Everything was at peace as the sun was shining bright in the sky.
As I lay on my back, I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds around me.
Children were laughing and playing without a care in the world.
I could hear the waves crashing against the earth.
I could feel the wind brushing at my skin.
It was times like these when I felt I could just relax and not worry about anything at all.
I gave one final sigh as I stated to fall asleep on the hot sand. 6
Black Bird, Fly
By: Monica Gomez
The high gray-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world.
I remember our days with fondness.
We would run around with arms outstretched, laughing with all the breath our lungs could hold. The sun was too bright for our little eyes, so we'd reach towards the sky to block it. Small rays would escape through the cracks between our fingertips. The biggest rush of our day was trying to get home before the light completely faded. We didn't get in trouble if we were home by dusk.
We were inseparable.
We grew, and suddenly the world was smaller, easier to conquer. The days without limits. Mortality was for those too afraid to take a chance. Risks were only risks if you didn't think you could do it. "Dangerous" was fed to us because our parents missed their childhood. Nothing was impossible in the years of adolescence.
We fell apart.
Those days of teenaged joy, where every day could be a party, you went one way, and I went the other. You chose those parties, drugs, and sex, and I chose books, poetry, and music. You jumped off that bridge at midnight before the police came and arrested everyone who was out on the water the day before exams. I sat at my desk with the dull lamp, crouched over a book in hopes of getting that last bit of information in before daybreak.
The day we were told I would be graduating, and you would not.
I sat in envy as you sped by with your friends in that over-packed Jeep, on your way across the country just because you felt like it. I felt that squeeze at my heart. Your hair tangled with the wind, rapping against the side of the car. Oversized sunglasses perched on your nose as you held your head up, laughing. When you looked my way, your smile faded. You saw then what I didn't see—you were free, and I was not.
Years passed, and I missed you. Every day I would look down the street to your house to see if that Jeep ever returned to your driveway.
It never did.
I would see your mother in her garden, planting the roses each spring that the three of us would plant when we were children. She never looked up at me, but she knew I was watching. She knew the words I wanted to say to you. She knew, but she never spoke.
Now, I sit in my living room in silence, listening to the echoes of who we used to be resonating in my head. The light of day is fading, but it's still dusk. If you come home this time, you won't be in trouble. I'll forgive you for being out too late, and I'll open my arms to you. Instead, the soft knock on my door is not you. Your mother stares silently at me, her soft eyes swimming in her tears. She falls into me, and I know your spot in the driveway will always be empty.
For you, I remember our days with fondness. 7
Arlington’s Winter Beauty
By: Angeline Anderson
It was twilight. A thick wet snow was slowly twirling around the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses’ backs, on people’s shoulders and hats. Unfortunately, I could only view the vibrant scenery of the park’s racetrack through the windowpane.
The conductor’s voice flowed through the P.A. system. "Attention all passengers, at this time please have your tickets readied for collection. We will be arriving shortly at the Arlington, Illinois, train station. The current time is twelve o’ five a.m., and the temperature is thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Be sure to bundle up in some warm garments before you leave. Again, Metra would like to thank you for riding with us today. Have a warm and wonderful Christmas holiday!"
The train began to slow down. The whistle’s echoing bellow caused the waiting crowd at the station to stand up and gather their belongings. I was collecting my briefcases from under my seat when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Sir, tickets please."
I was about to hand in my ticket and looked up. I was suddenly bemused by her presence. Her voice was as soft as her appearance. Her short and slim physique fitted perfectly in the crimson, felt conductor uniform. Facial features, especially her amber eyes, expressed traits of Asian heritage.
"Sir, don’t forget your jacket. Did you not hear the conductor? It is dreadfully cold this time of year."
The overhead fluorescent rays reflected off her flawless skin. I felt obligated to talk to her. "Oh, thank you dear. Forgetting that would not be fair to my brittle bones. Out of curiosity, are you from here"?
She giggled; her cheeks became rosy pink. "Yes sir, I am originally from this town. But my family is from Asia, around the northern and eastern parts of China. Are you from here as well, or are you just visiting"?
For some reason, my mind and mouth began a war with one another. It was becoming difficult to talk to her as my lips stumbled over every other word. "Uh, n-no. I’m here to spend my holiday vacation with my brother and his family. I used to live here before I married. My wife persuaded me to move to Washington D.C., where we spent the rest of our days happily married. However, I have been contemplating living here again so I can spend more time with my remaining family."
She appeared puzzled when I referred to my marital relationship in past tense. I decided to fill her in with the dark parts of my life.
"Well, you see, I was married. In later years though, it began to fall apart. It started when she became forgetful of everything she did. There were moments when I could not even let her out of my sight. Then one night she was preparing braised ribs for dinner. She forgot to turn the stove off, nearly burning down all we cherished while we enjoyed our meal."
My voice began to stifle in my throat.
"The following day, I took her to a doctor. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. After being hospitalized for six months, she became oblivious of life. The treatments never were effective enough, and her dementia became so severe that she forgot who I was. I could not bear to see her in that state. It was hard, but I felt it was best to put an end to it all. Since then, I have been thinking of starting a new life elsewhere."
She apologized. For what, I am uncertain. Her sympathetic expression dulled her glowing aura.
The train doors opened to let the incoming passengers aboard. She told me to wait outside 8
while she dropped off the tickets. As she headed to the station’s door, I walked into the windy, snowy night. My cell vibrated in the inner pocket of my thick-layered overcoat. I dug deep into the pocket and pulled it out. It was a text from my brother. "Where are you? I am out in the parking lot."
I attempted to answer, but the falling snowflakes kept contacting the screen. When I brushed them aside, they instantaneously became liquid under my wrinkled fingers, smearing across the touch screen. "I am outside the station, waiting for this woman to clock out. Do you mind if I have her come by later today?"
Within minutes, I was granted his permission. As I was about to light a cigarette, I overheard the station’s Christmas adornments chime above the doorframe. I quickly returned it to its carton. When she stood in the doorway, I was acquainted with her radiant presence once more. Her eyes filled me with enough warmth to ignore the harsh surroundings.
"By the way, I didn’t get your name. I am Irvin."
She approached me slowly, fixing her coat with every step. "I’m Lien. It is an honor to meet you."
"Say, you said your shift is over, right? If you have nothing in mind, would you like to join me at my brother’s place later today around six-thirty p.m.? We’re having a gourmet Christmas dinner with roast duck and foie gras."
"That sounds wonderful. I should not be doing anything at that time. Let’s exchange numbers."
"Sure, but let me call you first. I hope to see you then."
A divided staircase parted our ways. We said our goodbyes and headed for the parking lots below. This evening could not be more perfect, I thought, ambling down the salt covered, oak wood staircase. On the way home, I attempted to converse with my brother, but I was too lost in the scenery of the moonlight rays reflecting off the icy paved roads and snow-covered, towering evergreens, and the memories of being with the Asian beauty. Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is Lien.
Untitled
By: Ellen Pion
Post
Jagged teeth emerge
Stained with the life of nature.
Calmness among them.
Steady
Rocks below me
Jutting out like the jaw of a stubborn child,
Refusing to retreat
No matter what is thrown at them.
Untouched,
Virgin,
Undeveloped in this built up world.
How long until the Naturalist
Is overthrown by the Capitalist?
The thought only propels my decent. 9
The Brink of Brilliance/The Dusty Poet
By: Korina Chilcoat
To say it quite plainly
My absent-minded brain is patterned
With mind-blowing ideas no one seems
To comprehend or understand, plainly
Like a Warholian banana, pop perfect
That was only truly understood posthumously
The shenanigans that plague my everyday life
Mar it with the pain that conceives the art
I go through existence as a modern-day Caesar
Triumphant, victorious yet in the end
Fell victim to those he trusted, put his faith in
Till I am left to my hopeless vices as
A wandering vagabond artist
A dust poet, stained with the beauty of life
So as I spend my artistic hours
At the local bar/coffee shop or Taco Bell on the corner
I let the ideas come like a breeze, with the changing seasons
Circling with the thoughts that gather hastily
Compiling in my brain till that one day
That, that one single person understands
Untitled
By: A.J. Romero
What is that dot?
It is the pupil in the eye of a student
starting his first day of college.
As his eyes take in the new world,
he develops a sense of fear.
He knows nothing of what he is to expect.
What if I don't recognize anyone?
What if my professors are strict?
What if I get lost?
What if I’m not prepared for my classes?
All of these questions and worries
buzz inside the young student’s mind.
He takes a deep breath and steadies himself.
A brave look of determination’s in his eyes.
He makes his first step... 10
Aristotle’s Luck
By: Janice Reuther
Terry Johnson had pulled double shifts at work the past two days. He was exhausted. Saturday was his day off, but he promised he’d take the kids to the beach. He intended to keep his word.
At 8:00 a.m., he was awakened by high-pitched chattering and the sensation of being rocked on a boat. His seven-year-old daughter, Lizzy, was jumping up and down on the bed. "Daddy, wake up! It’s time to go to the beach."
Terry looked at her with bleary eyes. The first thing that came into focus was the lime green snorkel and mask that was stuck to her head. "Morning sunshine," he mumbled then glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He had been asleep for three hours. "It’s a bit early, don’t you think?"
Lizzy tugged at a blow-up alligator float that refused to stay fixed to her skinny hips, giving his argument a nanosecond of consideration. "No, daddy. We want to get a good spot by the snow cone man. Ann made cereal, and Jessie already put his boogie board in the truck."
"Boogie board?"
"His birthday present, silly," she said, pulling at his pajama sleeve. "Get up."
Lizzy was wearing a mismatched two-piece swimsuit and a crooked ponytail. Her father had to suppress a laugh. She was going through an independent phase, and her styling showed it.
"Well, I guess it’s settled then," he said, flipping back a wrinkled sheet. "We’re going to the beach." Lizzy squealed and ran from the room, screaming for her siblings to get ready.
Terry rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He was a short man with a buzz cut, which is why he thought his friends called him wiry. When he took the time to consult a dictionary, he liked the lean and tough part of the definition, but sinewy was a word his wife used to describe a cheap cut of meat. He saw her three hours earlier, when he arrived home from the night shift. She was leaving for work and called him handsome before reminding him of the beach plans. It softened the blow, but when he looked in the mirror, he was glad she wasn’t there to see the weary image.
When they arrived at Rumrunner’s Bight, the kids helped him unload the car and drag a cooler, chairs, and a beach umbrella to a sandy knoll overlooking the lagoon. The beach on the northern end of the bight had a smattering of visitors, mostly locals. Snowbirds had begun flying north a month earlier, and the summer visitors wouldn’t arrive until school was out in a few weeks. Terry found the perfect spot within earshot of the snow cone vendor. He gored the sand with a massive umbrella and placed a low beach chair underneath.
Two of Jessie’s friends were already sliding over the waves, one on a boogie board and the other on a bright yellow surfboard. He grabbed his new blood-red Body Glove board with its sleek crescent tail and cool growling bear logo and headed toward the water. He was becoming a handsome young man, his father thought. Tall like his mother, with high cheekbones and blue eyes.
"Hey, Jessie!" Terry called out after him. "You and Ann need to help with Lizzy."
Jessie turned and eyed sister. "Ann, please watch her. I want to surf with the guys," he said, flicking his head toward the two teenagers floating on boards fifty feet offshore. 11
Ann gazed at the water, brushing a russet strand of hair out of her eyes. "Fine, but you’ll owe me."
"What do you want?"
"In addition to five bucks, I’ll take an introduction to the blonde one."
Jessie looked at his friends. Byron, stubby with greasy brown curls, and Seth, lanky with hair so blonde it was almost white. "Seth’s seventeen. He’s not interested in fifteen-year-olds."
"I’m almost sixteen."
"Whatever." Jessie turned and ran toward the surf.
The sun was sizzling. Humidity at 95 percent. Terry settled into the beach chair and propped his head on a rolled-up towel. The scent of coconut suntan lotion and briny seaweed lingered in the air around him. Waves beat the sand in a rhythmic cadence. He watched as Ann and Lizzy built miniature sandcastles at the shoreline. Every few minutes a frothy sheet of surf shot forward, flattening their efforts. Seagulls squawked and cawed, diving at scattering sand crabs.
The warm sun felt good on Terry’s exposed knees and feet, and the sound of the Gulf was hypnotic. He pulled a diet Coke out of the cooler and closed his heavy eyes. Minutes passed before he glanced up. The boys were horse playing, trying to knock one another off their boards. Ann was covering Lizzy with sand. She was old enough; she would keep Lizzy safe. He needed a quick nap.
Rumrunner’s Bight was a gentle, curving bend on the shoreline in southwest Florida. Located in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico with its extensive continental shelf and tropical climate, it was the perfect habitat for sea life, especially coastal sharks. Prized in Asia for its fins and among anglers for its fight, the blacktip shark was the most plentiful specimen in the bay. While Lizzy and Ann played safely near shore and Terry snored under the beach umbrella, a shiver of blacktip was feeding offshore.
Like a pack of wolves, blacktip sharks hunt in groups, or shivers. They have a unique toolkit that separates them from wolves, or from any other land-bound predator for that matter. Electroreceptive organs on their snout detect the faint electrical fields emitted by saltwater-submerged life forms. The lateral line, which runs lengthwise from their gills to their tail, senses movement and vibration. They hunt by weaving back and forth on watery highways, following a sensory roadmap as they hone in on unsuspecting prey. Attacking from below, blacktips corral schooling fish into a dense, underwater tornado then zigzag through the tight shoal, snapping powerful jaws to capture their gilled quarry with deadly serrated teeth.
Schools of mullet were funneling into the bight, passing in waves under Jessie and his friends. The blacktip shiver was in pursuit. Their sleek, streamlined bodies sliced through the water like torpedoes as they sensed their way toward the mullet and the tussling humans above them, which their ancient programming decoded as an animal in distress.
Their gray upper bodies were almost invisible in the deeper water as they drifted toward the bottom, setting up their ambush. The sharks didn’t know that Jessie had his seventeenth birthday two days earlier and finally got his dream boogie board. Or that he and his friends had a lifetime yet to live. These cold-blooded creatures weren’t designed for emotion or love or empathy or loss. That evolutionary feature came with the 12
neocortex, designed for the world’s apex predator—humans. Sharks were programmed to eat and breed. And they were five hundred feet from the teenagers.
It took the boys a few seconds to notice the dark cylindrical cloud forming below them as the sharks corralled the mullet school. Suddenly, their feet were being slapped by hundreds of fish, and the water below their boards became a solid, roiling mass.
The chunky kid Byron paddled away on his yellow surfboard, but Seth and Jessie lay stomach down on their much shorter boogie boards, heads whipping from side to side. Frenzied mullet pummeled their boards with cartilage-crushing thumps and battered the boys’ dangling shins and feet. They flinched with each slap.
When Bryon was well beyond the shoal, he stopped and sat up. As he watched his terrified buddies jerk and wince, he slapped the water and yelled. "You wussies!"
"Be quiet, hold still!" Jessie barked. He was the only one who knew what was happening. The fish were being chased, and he knew blacktip hunted in packs. He also knew the rules: slowly move away in the presence of a shark. He turned to Seth. "Stay flat and paddle. Slowly."
Seth was shuddering, wet blonde ropes plastered to his forehead. "Jessie, I. . . ."
"Let’s go, Seth." Jessie could envision what was below him and made light, brushing strokes that had little impact on forward momentum.
Dorsal fins began to breach the surface, weaving through the mullet shoal. Seth looked at Jessie with terror in his eyes. "I can’t put my hands in. I can’t."
"Move, Seth. Move!"
Seth tried to bend his knees to suspend his legs above the water, but kept losing his balance. "Damn it!" he screamed, and pressed his cheek on the end of the board. A mullet flew into the air and glanced the side of his head. A five-foot torpedo burst through the surface in a spinning leap in pursuit of the fish. Seth fell sideways, tumbling into the water.
"Get back on the board!" Jessie screamed when his friend popped to the surface.
Seth grabbed his boogie board and pulled himself onto it. He clenched his teeth and lay flat, trembling. His eyes were fixed on the water in front of him. It was alive with blacktips corkscrewing at the surface. Mullet were jumping, slapping the boys with their flat bodies, then wiggling and flipping skyward. Sharks were jettisoning after them. Jessie’s board seemed to shrink under him. He closed his eyes and waited, expecting to be bit at any moment. Razor teeth shredding flesh, tearing muscle, crunching bone. The image stalled his breath.
A shark blasted through the surface like a missile and snapped Seth’s leg. He shrieked as the monster yanked him off his board. Blood spewed the sky. Jessie froze, watching, waiting his turn.
Terry Johnson shot upright. The scene processed in seconds, synapses firing in a thousand shades of red. A parent’s nightmare was coming to life. His eyes swept the shoreline. Lizzy and Ann were in the water. Lizzy was snorkeling in a few feet of surf, chasing Ann’s legs as she ran in circles.
"Ann, get out of the water!" Terry screamed, barreling down a sandy mound. He stumbled and skidded in the soft grains, catching himself with one hand digging into searing sand. 13
Ann stopped, arms dangling at her side. Her face registered his fear. Lizzy swam toward her like a neon green anglerfish, grasping at her idle legs.
"Now, Ann! Now!"
Ann turned to see her brother lying on his board. Seth was screaming. Byron was frozen. Dorsal fins were in a twirling dance around them. Terry splashed into the surf. Ann’s head followed him in a labored twist. "Daddy, no!"
"Out, Ann! Get out!"
Ann grabbed Lizzy by the arm. Her slender body jerked sideways and spun in a circle. When she popped to the surface, Lizzy clutched her mask. Ann dragged her toward the beach, Lizzy wailing in protest. Their father hit waist-deep water and began swimming. "Daddy! Don’t go. Please don’t go."
Terry could hear Ann and Lizzy, but the sound was distant. He was in fight or flight mode and blood was racing to his limbs, heart, and respiratory system. Adrenaline and cortisol flooded his body, and he swam toward his son like a well-condition athlete. His senses were acute. He was focused on every swipe of his arm, every slap of his hand on the water, every explosion of breath. When he reached the boys, the mullet shoal was reduced to a few lucky fish. The sharks were weaving through them. He stopped ten feet away, treading water.
"Jessie, paddle toward me. Slowly. Do you understand? Slowly."
Jessie was trembling, barely able to stay on the board. But he paddled. "What about Seth and Byron, dad?"
"Just paddle. Which one’s hurt?"
"Seth."
"Okay. Now keep paddling, son." Terry looked at Byron. The kid was motionless with rigid arms suspended in the air as he gaped at his friend’s blood coloring the sea foam. "Byron, paddle to Jessie. Slowly." Terry motioned to his son with one arm. "Jessie, look at me. When he gets here, go to shore, but do it calmly. Do you understand what I’m telling you?" Terry’s face belied his anxious mind and racing heart. Jessie nodded.
Terry swam toward Seth. The boy was wailing in pain, clutching the side of his boogie board with both hands. Terry stopped a few feet away and treaded water. He could see Byron hadn’t moved. "Bryon, look at me, he prompted. His voice was low and reassuring. Their eyes met. "It’s okay, Byron. Lie down on the board and paddle. Just do it."
A five-foot blacktip bumped Terry’s side, but he didn’t seem to feel it or care. Fear was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Seth was in shock, and Terry planned to get him to shore. He swam up from behind and closed his arm around the boy’s neck. Seth shrieked in horror.
"Let go of the board." Seth refused to release his grip. Terry pulled him against his chest and began to swim backwards with boogie board in tow.
By the time they reached the shore, a crowd was gathered and an ambulance was whining a mile away. Seth would survive the attack but with a mangled leg that would never again dangle from a boogie board or 14
paddle the waves. He had become a statistic. Sixteen percent of shark attacks in Florida that year involved blacktips. Most also involved surfers.
Jessie sat on the beach with his legs tucked against his chest. His head rested on sand-caked knees. He was thinking about something one of his teachers had told him. Jessie hated the class almost as much as he hated the teacher. The man was a psycho for Aristotle and was always throwing around words like syllogism, stasis, and deduce. Jessie normally kept his head low, hoping the words wouldn’t hit him and hoping even more that he wouldn’t need to deduce anything. But one thing did hit him, and it was looping in his head--good luck is when the arrow hits the guy next to you.
Please Say You Heard Me
By: William Hill
I look into your eyes.
I see an empty gaze.
One last tear to cry.
The bullets leave a haze.
You left it all behind.
Lord I hate this place.
Solace is hard to find.
You left without a trace.
God please have some mercy.
On this lonely, sandy face.
Please say you heard me.
The Motions
By: William Hill
I can hear the footsteps of the dead, cluttering my head. Listen to the sounds of a 1,000 men, God laid them to rest with a bullet and a pen. I know the motions in which you move. The world moves to a million different tunes. But heed the words I say. Hold the ones you love. Because the wind might blow them away.
I can see the weapons of destruction, they cloud my vision. Watch the pops of a million shots fired. God laid them to rest because he knew they were tired. I know the motions in which you move. The world moves in one smooth groove. But heed the words I say. Hold the ones you love. Because the wind might blow them away.
I can feel the shattered lives, men taken from their wives. Understand the pain that we know. God laid them to rest, but he didn't really know. I know the motions in which you move. The moon revolves around one world. But heed the words I say. Hold on to the ones you love. Because the wind might blow them away. 15
Someone Who Cannot See
By: Monica Gomez
I sat perfectly still in my brother's old brown recliner. The day was slipping by too slowly, but I didn't care. Why should I? It's not like I had anything to do.
I shifted in the seat, crossing my legs under my body, and pushed myself up. I had another three hours before anyone would be home, but I really didn't want to move. I had chores to finish, food to cook, and a bunch of other busy work they left for me while they went to do whatever fun thing they were doing. They never invited me to these kinds of things, so I didn't care.
I closed my eyes against the setting sun that peeked through the window to my left. I wished for one moment that I hadn’t ripped down the curtain in a fit of anger, but as I looked at the mess of blue fabric on the ground, I didn't care. When they got home, they were going to find something to yell at me about. Might as well make it obvious what I did wrong.
I hadn't realized I fell asleep until I heard the door open. They were laughing, the jerks, as they made their way up the stairs. My brother came up first and glared at me. Maybe he was mad that I was in his chair or maybe because I hadn't made the food he demanded before he left. Obviously, since they always went out to eat after a day of fun stuff, he wasn't going to eat when he got home. He just wanted to make sure I knew he had power over me. He stormed past me, sat on his bed, and started pulling his shoes off. When my mother came into the room, he began talking. "The room needs to be cleaned," he snapped, not towards her, of course, but more to me. "I shouldn't be surprised that she hasn't done anything around here."
"No, but then again, we always wish for a broken toy to work," my sister-in-law joined in, sticking her nose up at me.
I didn't make eye contact–that was forbidden–but I did let my lips curl into a snarl, which quickly faded when my mother looked at me. "Why are my curtains on the floor? Why is there no food downstairs? Why is the bathroom still dirty?" Her voice got louder with every question. It scared me as a kid, but now I didn't care. I found it hard to care about anything anymore. "Why isn't the floor vacuumed? Why are there still dirty clothes in the house? Why aren't the rooms cleaned?" She marched over to me and grabbed my chin, turning my head to face her. "Look at me when I talk to you, girl!" She let go of my face with a quick shove and marched back down the stairs. "Good for nothing! Useless! Just like your father!" My brother and sister-in-law followed suit with noses high in the air, rolling their eyes when they looked at me.
For the first time in years, I cried.
I wasn't sad for myself. I hadn't been since I moved away, but I was sad for them. They didn't see what they were doing. They couldn't see the negativity in which they were engulfing the house. They didn't see the evil spirits that floated around the house, feeding off their anger. They were blind, and I would have to make them see.
Later that night, when they all drifted into sleep in their Queen-sized beds, I stood between them, eyes fixed on the wall. I hadn't tried to do this since I moved, but now I had overwhelming confidence in myself. I was doing something good, righteous even.
I lowered myself to the floor slowly, gathering energy as I did. Nothing, not even the spirits dancing around me taunting, would break my reserve and concentration. This needed to be done. I needed to make them see!
The third eyes of my ‘family’ began to glow softly, a faint purple in the pitch-black room. I closed my eyes and let my spiritual being take control. I projected into their dreams, equipped with 16
what I had seen, what they were blind to. I found myself in my mother first then took her to my brother then to my sister-in-law then back out again.
We stood in the center of my room, spiritual beings floating above the physical realm. They cowered together. I found myself smiling. "Take a look around," I said, swinging my arm around the room. "Do you see the shadows dancing without moonlight? Do you see how they exist without an entity to follow? They're evil, and they come from you. From the pain you inflict on others just for your self-gain. You have created a portal for negative spirits to come and go as they please, polluting the Earth with their evil. It's your fault!"
The shadows danced closer, feeding off my anger. I didn't care. This one time, I would allow myself to be angry.
I stepped closer to the people I called family, my eyes glowing a faint red. They started screaming, their eyes darkening. I'd make them see what I saw all the time. They wouldn't see with their physical eyes, but with their third eye. Nothing but their third eye. I would make them see.
The morning came, and I sat perfectly still on the recliner. My mother sat up and stretched. Her expression was normal, and her eyes were closed. I smiled and waited.
She opened them and sat as still as I did, her eyes straight forward. "What did you do?" she whispered, turning her face in my direction. She screeched, flinging herself off the bed. "I can't see!" She stumbled a bit but still managed to make it over to me. "What did you do?"
"I made you see!" I yelled back, standing. She threw her hands around my neck, squeezing tightly. "I made you all see! Suffer like I have! Feel how much they try to control you! I hope you suffer!"
Air was becoming harder to obtain. Everything was becoming dark around the edges until...
Nothing.
Rain
By: Stephanie Soberay
Why does the rain smell
What does it smell like
Does it smell like hot wet asphalt baking in the sun
Do you see steam rising from the hot wet streets
Why does the rain smell
What does it smell like
Lens of Life
By: Jessica Torrito
At first glance the black circle turns into a camera lens.
The lens is used as a microscope,
A weapon to unearth the model’s soul.
All the vulnerably and secrets are there for the taking.
Fear envelopes me as I face the black circle.
Yet, when on the other side my fear vanishes
I unmask the person in front of my lens.
Oh, the hypocrisy! 17
Greetings from…Scenic New Mexico
By: Jessica Torrito
Heat pulsed from the glaring set lights while a scantily clad woman posed for a seedy photographer. Elaine never wanted this, the camera flashing in her face, a handful of people staring through her while she tried to look inviting and "friendly." She only took this modeling job because it would put $5,000 in her pocket and give her chance to leave the mountains of New Mexico.
As the photographer told her to "smile with her eyes," she thought of the future. Thoughts of art school in New York, living in a studio apartment, and getting a stable job where she wouldn’t have to constantly avert the lustful stares of men old enough to be her father kept her from screaming at everyone in the room. She had been saving money ever since she was eight years old when the horrible car accident took the lives of her loving parents. Over the years, living with her grandparents, she purchased art supplies and books on Picasso and Renoir. She would stay in her room, just creating. All the anger, sadness, and regret pulsed through her pencil and paintbrush onto blank canvas, releasing Elaine of all the pent-up feelings inside her heavy heart.
In two days, she would be on the train heading to New York City, finally starting her life. Her life in New Mexico was just practice for the future. The non-existent parents, the dead-beat boyfriends, and the cheesy modeling jobs were just there to make her stronger and ready for her new life. She was more than ready; she had been packing to leave since she was told she wouldn’t be able to see her parents again.
As she refocused on the scene in front of her, the photographer told everyone to wrap it up because he got the shot he was looking for. Elaine went back to the closet they called a dressing room, put on her clothes, and went to collect her money. With the check of her future in her back pocket, she walked out of the studio into the blinding sunlight of New Mexico for the last time.
Shedding My Skin
By: Vincent Sabatino
What a remarkable life I’ve had. It’s hard to believe all that I had to go through to get to this point. I can still remember the feeling of being trapped inside my egg, struggling to escape. After ten days, my term of confinement finally ended, and I was free to explore the vastness of the world. I possessed quite an insatiable appetite; I chuckle at the memory of being able to eat half my weight in food. At times it felt like I would never be full. Even growing up was a challenge, constantly shedding my skin like the layers of an onion just to reach my full size. Then there is my fondest memory. After going though the frustration of finding the ideal spot, I was finally ready. Slowly I wrapped myself in a protective shell. After two weeks I achieved adulthood, bursting out of my shell much like the day I was born. I spread my newly formed wings, ready to take on the world in all its glory. 18
You Are Not Alone
By: Ben Fosick
Seven years. It’s been seven years since it happened. He never meant for anything to get out of hand. Never in his wildest dreams did he think the consequences of his actions would be so grave. It was just supposed to be a project, nothing more than an experiment. If things went as planned, the reward would be great. But that wasn’t the case, and the risk turned out to be far greater than he imagined.
He was alone now and in a way, that was alright. He was never much of a social butterfly. A curious introvert, he was content resigning himself to evenings spent with a cup of tea and a good book before letting the soothing crackles in the fireplace lull him to sleep. Sure, being devoid of human contact for seven years can make the days quite dreary, but he’d grown accustomed to it. After a while, the guilt that weighed on his heart because of the accident went away. He could finally look at all those photos of friends and colleagues with a clean conscience. He missed them dearly, but the days of wondering what he could’ve done to save them were in the past. They were gone; he accepted that.
As the night sky was beginning to cradle the sun into its slumber, the evening felt as if it would be like any other. The crisp autumn breeze caressed naked tree branches; the brisk air breathed a calming sensation over the desolate wasteland. It was time to retreat indoors and get ready for bed.
He assumed his usual position in his favorite recliner that sat in front of a blazing fire. With the footrest raised, he leaned back, nestled in the comfort of a heavy blanket, and closed his eyes. He could feel himself slipping away, just on the brink of falling into a world of dreams when he heard it.
KNOCK…KNOCK…KNOCK.
Startled, he leapt up from his chair. His heart was racing. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. "Hello?" he shouted nervously.
There was no answer. There wasn’t anybody there, it couldn’t be. He was alone. It was just his mind playing tricks or a branch hitting the side of the house. Yeah, that was it. It was nothing. Now that he knew there was nothing outside, he could lie back down and try to sleep. As soon as he got comfortable and shut his eyes, there it was again, louder than the first…
KNOCK…KNOCK…KNOCK.
"Wh-Who’s there? Hello?" he meekly asked, his voice choked by fear. Still, there was no answer. His body trembling in fright, he slowly rose from his chair and hesitantly sauntered towards the front door. Slowly, he creaked the large mahogany door open, only to be greeted by the sound of the wind blowing through the dead, rustling leaves. He couldn’t believe it. He knew there was a knock at the door. He heard it himself. Something was there, he was sure of it.
As he anxiously made his way into the front yard, he began to shout angrily. "Is anybody out there? Anyone? Why are you doing this to me?"
His nerves were getting the best of him. Maybe it really was just his imagination. But that noise. He didn’t know what to think. It was best just to go back inside and try to rest.
Back in the refuge of his chair, he stared at the door. A few minutes went by without any noise. Finally safe, he breathed a sigh of relief. As he started to close his eyes once again, he felt a soft, cold hand on his shoulder. His heart sank and his body went frigid. He was paralyzed with terror. A grim whisper came from behind his ear, "Seven long years. I’ve been looking for you. Did you miss me?" 19
Venezuela’s Silk Road
By: Janice Reuther
The big Sea Ray appeared to be drifting. It was a few hundred yards offshore, and the yacht looked new. Easily a half million-dollar investment. Sam extracted a pair of binoculars and studied the boat. No movement. No sign of life. It’s early, he thought. If it were five-thirty in the afternoon, he would expect to see the First Mate emerging from the cabin with frozen cocktails. That wouldn’t happen for another twelve hours.
"Maybe they’re asleep," Sam murmured as he twisted the housing on the binoculars to check for an anchor line. Nothing.
He was cruising at twenty knots in his Luhrs 34 Open just south of Boca Grande Pass, headed for Charlotte Harbor. It was crab season, and Sam had to stay on his toes to avoid the nests of styrofoam balls that marked submerged traps. He checked his watch. The tide would change soon. Once the current began to run through the narrow cut between Gasparilla Island and Cayo Costa, it would suck the yacht into the Pass. Without power, the vessel would likely go aground.
Sam grabbed the Raymarine’s handset and verified he was on channel sixteen. "Sea Ray drifting near Boca Grande Pass, this is The Correspondent. Do you copy?"
He waited. No answer.
"Sea Ray to the west of Boca Grande Pass. This is the Luhrs 34 to your south. Do you copy?"
Sam stared through the binoculars. The Sea Ray was yawing in the changing tide. He knew something was wrong—the vessel was in distress. He pushed forward on the throttle, sending his Yanmar engine into a whining frenzy. Sam’s tall, lean frame swayed in his Captain’s chair. As he approached, he could see the Sea Ray’s name emblazoned in dark blue lettering on the stern. Running Wild. Thirty feet from the yacht, he changed course to make a precautionary circle around her. The Luhrs’ bridge deck was aloft its hull by ten feet, giving Sam a good vantage point. He passed the stern and glanced down. Blood was splattered on Running Wild’s aft deck.
Sam knew it was time to call the Coast Guard, but the investigative journalist in him resisted. Not just yet. Three years earlier, he won a coveted IRE Award for "Condo Boards and Drug Lords," which chronicled the role a posh Miami Beach high-rise played in the drug trade. The mission of the Investigative Reporters and Editors organization was to foster excellence in investigative journalism, and they honored only the most talented in the field. Sam was now in that elite club and would never forget the elation and pride he felt when he heard the news. He knew another IRE story was inside the Sea Ray and wanted to check things out before the Coast Guard cordoned it off.
Sam secured fenders and rafted the two vessels together. He released the Luhrs’ anchor while keeping one eye glued to the yacht’s salon—he had no gun. He warily approached the enclosed cockpit, peering around the entrance before entering. Sam had hoped the blood came from an unsuspecting game fish. He was wrong. A large man was lying in the companionway between the cockpit and salon, staring at the fiberglass ceiling. The skin on his face was pale, almost white, with a hint of light gray around his mouth and eyes. He had a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and a rivulet of congealed blood marked its flow from the cockpit to the back decking. Sam crept toward the body, clutching his hand-held radio, and then knelt to examine it. 20
A whimpering groan alerted him that others were aboard. He hopped clear of the companionway, crouching low, waiting with eyes fixed on the opening. Seconds stretched. No more groans. Just cawing seagulls circling Gasparilla’s beach less than a mile away. Sam peered around the edge of the doorway, praying he wouldn’t hear the crack of a pistol when his head broached the opening. He scanned the luxurious salon. Shattered glassware strewn in the galley. A leaded-glass cabinet front dangled on one hinge. Teak paneling pierced with bullet holes. His eyes swept downward. A woman was tucked below the steps, staring at him with wide eyes. A knife was embedded in her shoulder. Her hands were bound, but one finger was still hooked in the pistol’s trigger guard.
Sam jumped over the dead man’s body and skidded down the steps, landing beside the girl with a thud. He released the gun from her rigid finger and checked the chamber. It was empty. She watched him, cringing at the slightest muscle flex, twist of his neck, shift of his eyes. Sam knew if he pulled the knife out of her shoulder, she might bleed out, so he opted to remove the tape from her hands and mouth. She winced when he touched her, but didn’t resist. When the tape was peeled from her mouth, a gush of incomprehensible words shot out. It was a language native to a country in the Far East. As a journalist, he had spent many years abroad and guessed he was hearing Laotian. Or Thai, maybe. He couldn’t tell.
"Just hold still. I’ll get you some help."
Sam could feel the boat jerk. He leapt to the window. The heavy Sea Ray was dragging both vessels toward the shore in the racing current. He went to the controls and released the Sea Ray’s anchor with the flick of a switch. It dove toward the sandy bottom with a loud rolling clang as the chain passed through the housing. The rattling gave Sam a creepy spine tingle, like the dead man’s ghost had come alive. He glanced at the corpse and shuddered.
The IRE award would have to wait. It was time to call the Coast Guard. He engaged the yacht’s DSC emergency button to transmit his position then adjusted the volume and squelch until he heard cracking static. He cupped the microphone. "U.S. Coast Guard, this is the motor vesselRunning Wild hailing on channel one-six, over."
"Motor vessel Running Wild, this is the United States Coast Guard sector St. Petersburg answering on channel one-six. We received your position and distress call on DSC. State the nature of your emergency."
Sam quickly described the situation aboard Running Wild. When he completed the call, he returned to the salon and found the woman had dragged herself toward the forward berth.
"Ma’am, Stop. Who’s in there?"
She replied in another tongue.
"Do you understand me?"
The woman shook her head and continued talking. She reached toward the handle on the cabin door then collapsed on the floor, moaning. Sam put out both hands and pumped them back and forth, indicating he wanted her to stay put. He approached the berth with trepidation, fearful of a second gun and of meeting the same fate as the pale man lying in the companionway. He steeled himself and yanked on the door.
"What the. . . ." 21
Five young women were lying on the bed bound by their hands and feet, horror in their eyes. They seemed to expect the same brutal end Sam feared.
***
Sam had moved from Miami to a small community near Fort Myers Beach two years earlier. As a freelance writer, he could work anywhere and was tired of the congestion and din of the city. But he found it difficult to adjust to small-town life, particularly the small-town neighborhood of Pinfish Cove. The constant stream of teenagers, pickups, and barbeques was annoying. Sam needed respite and was heading to Gasparilla Island to visit a friend. He found the Sea Ray instead.
As he expected, the Coast Guard immediately kicked him off the yacht, and the window for information gathering slammed shut. It didn’t help that he couldn’t communicate a single word with the young women. He knew nothing more than what was printed in the local papers.
But Sam had a game plan, and her name was Annie. Annie was a quiet woman, about six feet tall and wafer thin with long dark hair and a jagged scar that ran from her right temple to the corner of her mouth. When she walked, if the wind hit her hair just right, she looked like a cobra gliding upright across the lawn. She was one of the few Pinfish Cove residents with whom Sam bonded. The first day in his modest rancher, he was alone unpacking boxes when Annie appeared in his doorway with a plate of cookies and six-pack of beer. He would soon learn this gastronomic pairing was not strange for the Pinfish crowd.
On a few occasions, when Annie was in a pinch, Sam consented to babysit her son, Ryan. The twelve-year-old was bookish, which suited Sam’s temperament, and quiet like his mother. But Sam was an investigator, and Ryan learned to talk. Sam soon found out how Annie got the scar. She worked for the Coast Guard at the time as an IT expert and was instrumental in a major drug bust that led to five convictions. When she left work one evening after the bust, she was abducted and held captive in an abandoned warehouse for five days before being brutally beaten, stabbed, and left to die. The Coast Guard had interfered with the wrong cartel.
The day after Sam’s startling discovery aboard Running Wild, Annie sat on his barstool reading the news with righteous indignation. Sam knew it dredged up painful memories for her. That was key to the success of his plan. He laid it out in convincing detail, but when he finished, Annie gave him a look he had seen her give Ryan a few times. The boy was always grounded at the end of that look. "It’s illegal, Sam," she said.
"Come on, Annie. All you have to do is peek at a few computer files. I can help with this investigation. You know I can."
"I haven’t been with the Coast Guard in years. I couldn’t access the system if I wanted to, which I don’t."
"You and I both know you can."
"Leave this to law enforcement, Sam."
"You know what they had in mind with those girls, don’t you? Law enforcement will have to turn this over to the courts. It could drag on for years. In the meantime, how many other women are out there?" Sam waved his hand toward the Gulf and shook his head in horror.
"I realize that Sam, but. . . I don’t know." 22
Sam could see water pooling in Annie’s brown eyes. "You know I’m right. I can get this thing covered nationally. No one will know you helped."
A week later, Sam heard a knock on his door and opened it to find Annie with a six-pack in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. She threw the papers on his kitchen counter and plopped down on a barstool. After a smirking pause, she popped the tab off a Budweiser and drank half the can before setting it back down. "All paths lead to a man named Eduardo Juarez. You know the guy, right?"
Sam wished he didn’t. Juarez was the head of a Venezuelan cartel that had tight connections with Cuba. He investigated Juarez for three years but never got close. "Yeah, I know him."
"There wasn’t enough evidence in the records to prove it, but once I read up on Juarez, I bet my F150 pickup the guy was trafficking in women from Thailand. I had to use other channels, so to speak, to get the information I needed." Annie took another long swig and emptied the beer can. "You know they have serious issues with prostitution in Thailand. The girls are young and many are underage, but the government ignores this insidious practice."
"I know," Sam said. He could tell Annie was getting upset. He glanced at the photos of the young girls he found on the Sea Ray and realized most of them were the same age as Annie’s daughter.
"It appears that these women were working for a man in Thailand who’s connected to Juarez," Annie said, tapping the face of one of the girls. "His Venezuelan thugs hire them for a few nights then offer them a South American holiday, which they readily accept. Once the girls clear through Venezuela, they’re put on boats and shipped to various port cities around the Gulf where brokers disperse them to clients in the Caribbean and Americas."
"And the dead man on the Sea Ray was a broker?" Sam asked, sitting more erect on his barstool.
"That’s what it looks like."
"So, what do we have on Juarez? The man is squeaky clean."
"This," Annie said and tossed a sheet of paper to Sam.
The paper was a list of routing numbers. The banks were international—Thailand, Venezuela, Cuba, and the Caymans. Sam knew Juarez maintained a home in Grand Cayman. "Where did you get these?"
"Juarez’s computer."
Sam’s jaw was sagging. "What?"
"I like to be thorough. The law enforcement records were a bit thin on detail." Annie popped another beer tab. "And, I told you, I bet my F150. Couldn’t lose my baby."
"I’m glad the old jalopy is safe, Annie. But what does this prove?"
"The accounts belong to Juarez."
"All you have is a list of bank numbers you found on a computer. How does that prove anything?" 23
"This is how," Annie said, giving Sam a photo of a diminutive man leaving the Bank of Grand Cayman. She tapped it with a long forefinger. "Seems one of the bankers got on the wrong side of the Venezuelan cartel and lost a few family members as a result. He published the names tied to all the bank’s numbered accounts before fleeing the island. Juarez was on the list."
"Good work Annie." Sam finally popped a tab, and they clicked their cans together in toast.
"The other accounts were easy," Annie said with a cocky smirk. "Thailand and Cuba aren’t as sophisticated with their computer security as most countries."
Sam and Annie drank their beers in silence as he scanned the documents. He finally looked up and grinned. "There’s enough in here to put Juarez away for life. Were you careful? Did you leave any traces?"
"A few electronic fingerprints might be tracked back to Juarez’s computer."
"Huh?"
"I backdoored his personal computer to do my work. Seems the guy is a publicity hound and makes sure the whole of Miami is informed of every fundraiser he attends. I had all the time I needed to do my snooping, courtesy of Juarez in black tie." Annie chuckled. "If the Thais figure out they’ve been hacked, the trail will lead to him."
"Aren’t you a clever one? You should have gone into law enforcement."
"That was the plan," Annie said, holding her can in the air. "But investigative journalism is a lot more fun."
***
When the announcements were issued, Sam almost hyperventilated. "Venezuela’s Silk Road" won him a second IRE. But the book deal is what set him in high gear. He had always dreamed of crossing the bridge from watchdog journalist to novelist, but felt the leap from investigative fact finding to imaginative prose was too great. Once again, Sam had a game plan, and her name was Annie.
"One condition," he said when he offered her a research assistant job. "No more cookies with beer."
Annie had that look. He knew what was at the end of the look. And it wasn’t going to be pretzels. 24
Death Bringer
By: William Hill
Through the years
We chase our past
We fight back tears
Wishing it would last
Hold on, here comes our fears
Sailing thru, put up the mast
I look into the sun
I twitch my itchy finger
I raise my gun
Scratching at my soul to pull the Goddamn trigger
Now it’s done
For I am the Death Bringer
Rifle in hand
Ammos abound
Promised is the land
As we creep without a sound
Through the sand
Without a soul around
Come with me
Into tomorrow
Then you will see
I’ll take your sorrow
Just let it be
Time is not yours to borrow
A lost bit of time
A soulless singer
The bell begins to chime
Now I’m a dead ringer
I feel fine
For I am the Death Bringer 25
CORA’S CHOICE
By: Janice Reuther
Cora Wilson sat on the corner of her bed watching two boys play in the street. Skateboards thrummed on asphalt. Shouts filled with pubescent verve. Watching them usually brought her joy, a sense of life, of being—counterfeit relief. But that afternoon, it made her feel caged and lonely.
She pulled a thin pillow to her chest and buried her nose in it its soft edge. She could smell the spicy aroma of Frank’s aftershave. She chuckled. It didn’t matter how many bottles of good cologne she bought him–Lauren, D&G, Kenneth Cole–they just gathered dust in the cabinet. He wore Old Spice like his father and grandfather. That fact never changed.
Life was hard for the Wilsons. But Frank and Cora didn’t complain. It was their lot, they surmised, the result of choices made over the span of many years—choices about education, careers, community, even friends. They accepted life as a duty, a fate, and sometimes a test from God.
Frank travelled for a living, crisscrossing the state selling water filters to reluctant business owners. Cora was a hairdresser and worked in a small salon catering to the town’s aging population on fixed incomes and tight budgets. Frank came home each Friday hungry and tired, and Cora always made a special meal. He ate more than he should have then dozed for the next few hours in front of the television. Cora thought he looked like a snoring pink panther with his gangly legs and big nose.
Last Friday, his final one, he awoke with a snort as the evening news came. He stumbled to the bathroom where Cora was lathering her face with cold cream. "Need to wash off the road grime," he said, climbing behind the plastic shower curtain.
She patted a towel on her face and neck as she examined her image in the mirror. A pale face with blue eyes and sagging chin stared back. She wondered when she had become her mother.
Cora returned to the kitchen to set up the morning coffee, the first step in her nightly ritual. She stacked cups and spoons upside down next to the sugar bowl then measured five scoops of Folgers into a paper-lined basket, leveling each one with her finger. Then she crept through the house rattling doors and tugging on windows, peeking outside for waiting thieves. She finished her rounds in the bedroom, where she turned down the covers with military precision, knifing each fold with the tip of her finger.
When she heard the faucet squeak shut, Cora returned to the bathroom. Frank flicked back the shower curtain with a metallic rattle. "How’s your leg feeling?" she asked him, batting at the billow of steam.
"Better, I think. It’s still warm though."
"Why don’t you get that checked?"
"Too busy, no insurance," he replied as he pulled on a pair of cotton pajamas.
"But Frank. . . ."
Frank splashed on a healthy dose of aftershave then pecked her on the cheek. "Goodnight hon," he said, "I’m beat."
He climbed under the chenille bedspread and fluffed his favorite pillow under his head. Cora knew it was useless to argue with him. He always made the decisions, even trivial ones, and on his own schedule. It took him six months to replace her car, and she had little say in the selection. Cora was one of those drivers who never exceeded twenty-five in a thirty mph zone, hitting the brakes every few minutes as invisible threats emerged from the roadside. She wanted a Ford Fiesta, thinking it was the safest option in their price range. But Frank bought the Chevy Aveo. It didn’t matter that the car came in dead last in the crash test ratings. The Aveo was cheaper. 26
As she hugged Frank’s spicy pillow, watching the boys practice kick turns, she replayed their last conversation, miming her unspoken argument.Does it matter that you had no insurance?
Cora placed Frank’s pillow back on the bed and stroked it to smooth the wrinkles. She wondered what he would think of the choices she had made during the week. He would be upset if he knew—she was sure of it—particularly if he knew how she buried him. Frank had been claustrophobic since childhood and couldn’t bear the idea of being laid to rest in a box. But Cora was making the decisions now, and she thought cremation seemed un-Christian. "That’s a Buddhist tradition," she told the Funeral Director and ordered a casket.
She was washing Mrs. Johnson’s hair when the call came in. After she hung up, it took a full five minutes before she could speak to the hovering crowd. The Highway Patrol had found Frank at a rest stop. The car was still running, and one look at him was enough for the police to know they didn’t need to call an ambulance. The Coroner pronounced him dead at the scene. An embolism was the final verdict. Forty years of marriage ended that day with one gurgled breath, one last blink.
Cora called the officer to thank him for his help. "Deep vein thrombosis is an unfortunate hazard for road warriors," he told her. "Got to watch that ourselves, you know. We spend a lot of time on the road."
It was now Cora’s duty to dispose of Frank’s belongings—his treasures, both mundane and precious. As she sorted through a lifetime of gathering, she wondered if she was up to the task. Until she unearthed his baseball card collection. She tried to convince him to sell it two years earlier when things were particularly tight in the Wilson household. He wouldn’t hear of it, so Cora went behind Frank’s back to have the collection appraised. The findings shocked her. One card alone was valued near $200,000. It would take both of them four years to earn that amount of money. But Frank wouldn’t part with it. He wouldn’t part with any of his childhood treasures.
The sun was waning. Cora watched the boys run inside with skateboards tucked in armpits. She imagined their family laughing, eating pizza or hamburgers, and wondered what was next for her. Maybe she would take in a ball game. The season was almost over, and the nice man made such a generous offer for Frank’s collection. She might run into him and his wife; maybe they would become friends. Then she would go to Canada. Cora had never seen mountains before, at least not in person, and thought the experience would be magical. She would stay at the luxury Fairmont resort in Banff and take a gondola ride up the mountainside to Lake Louise. She could do whatever she wanted now. No more shampoo bowls, nor more long days standing over smelly heads. She would live in a way she only fantasized about a week earlier. Cora was new at being a millionaire, and the options were dizzying.
Rain never ends in Eden
By: William Hill
Soupy sand from rain
Hasn’t slowed or stopped for weeks
Wet rifles as we sit in our Humvees
Waiting for some sign of change
December is most sorrowful in Iraq
Rain never ends in Eden
One day of sweet sunshine
What we need, all we want
One day of brightness breaking through shades
But rain never ends in Eden 27
Dinner for Eight
By: Megan Hill
It was the night of the dinner as Professor Archimedes Brown walked up the steps of the Sinclair mansion. He was one of eight dinner guests that the Widow Sinclair had invited to her house for some sort of proposal. Standing in front of the great wooden doors, Professor Brown pulled the letter out of his vest pocket one more time. It read, in the widow’s delicate scrawl:
Dear Professor Archimedes Brown,
You and seven others are cordially invited to have dinner with both my children and myself. I am in great need of an instructor for them, and I wish for you to introduce yourself. Hope to see you at eight o’clock p.m.
Mrs. Theodora Sinclair
Professor Brown stuffed the letter back into his pocket. He straightened his coat and top hat, smoothed his bushy white mustache, and knocked on the wooden door. Within moments, the iron doorknob twisted and a rather miffed butler pulled open the door.
"Why, good evening my good chum!" Professor Brown greeted with a booming voice. "Professor Archimedes Brown and I am here for—"
"For the dinner party, yes, I know," the butler interrupted in a curt voice. "Madame Sinclair is already entertaining her other guests. Allow me to show you to the dining room." With a brisk turn, he led the taken-aback Brown inside.
"A right stuffy chap he is!" Brown harrumphed.
As they approached the dining room, music and laughter could be heard. "This way sir," the butler drawled. Without looking at the visitor, he opened the door and allowed Professor Brown to enter into the brightly illuminated room. It held a large dining table where seven other men and one (to his surprise) rather lovely young woman were seated, making jokes and small talk. The butler addressed the young woman. "Madame, your final guest has arrived." Then, without another word, he turned and strolled out of the room.
Archimedes scanned the faces until an "Archie!" grabbed his attention.
"Ren! How lovely it is to see you!" Archie replied as his friend Renard stood from his chair to shake his hand.
Renard’s narrowed eyes glanced around suspiciously. "Yes, quite lovely."
The young woman smoothly rose from the table and asked, "You are Archimedes Brown, correct?"
"Why, yes, yes I am. You must be Mrs. Sinclair," Brown said breathily as she approached, offering her hand for him to kiss.
"Yes, I am," she said with a sharp smile. Upon closer examination, she was more enchantingly beautiful than he originally thought, with pale porcelain skin and long, dark hair that was coiled thickly in a bun at the back of her head. She was quite lovely. He felt more than a little flustered and imagined that the other gentlemen felt the same way. Oh, if he were younger…
She continued in a soft voice. "I am so pleased that you were able to join us this evening. Now we may get to the business that I have alluded to in my letter. But first, it is suppertime!" She gestured to an empty seat next to Professor Brown’s friend.
Food was quickly brought out as the party conversed. Brown knew most of the men: there was his longtime friend, Renard Nickleby, a lawyer; Charles Taylor, a banker; Doctor Stuart Blow, a scientist; Peter Schutz, a composer of the local opera; and Heinrich Vondel, a painter who was 28
gaining popularity among the wealthy families. He did not recognize the last man.
Dinner consisted of roast pork, Cornish game hens, wild pheasant, and various tropical fruits along with some kind of red wine. "Madame, this is quite a feast you have prepared for us!" said the unnamed man with a thick Russian accent as grease shined on his fat chin. Brown could see that all the men (except for Renard) were beginning to succumb to the rich food and drink.
"Well, what better way to begin negotiations than to butter you up first?" Mrs. Sinclair said as she sipped her wine. A coy smile played on her lips. The gentlemen’s hearty laughter followed.
"Archie..." Renard whispered to Brown. "You noticed how the widow hasn’t eaten anything?"
Brown glanced at her plate. It was clean. "Yes," he said after emptying the contents in his mouth.
"Well why do you think that is?" Renard asked, giving her a strange look.
"I am certain there are any number of reasons. Perhaps this ‘business’ she’s mentioned has the poor thing too nervous to eat. Perhaps she is not used to being around gentlemen. The poor dear," Brown said, looking at her fondly.
Renard gave him a look before turning to Madame Sinclair. "I am dreadfully sorry my dear but what is this ‘business’ you mentioned before? In your letter you said you have children. Please excuse my boldness, but where are the delightful lads and lassies?"
The others nodded and agreed with a "Mm, yes," "Quite," and "Indubitably" thrown around.
Mrs. Sinclair straightened in her chair and bowed her head, "I do apologize good Sirs. My children will be with us shortly. You see, they are in need of schooling, and I have sent each of you a letter in the hopes that you may become tutors for them."
There was much discussion among the other men on this. "Schooling?" Renard asked. "Madame, surely you jest. Why not enroll them in The Academy? I’m sure they would receive far more education from the professors there than from us."
Mrs. Sinclair bowed her head again. "Yes, you are correct. You see, they are the spitting image of their father, and I just cannot bear to part with them. Not after what happened to my dear Arthur. I keep his remains close by."
She dabbed her eyes lightly with her handkerchief as the other men fixed Renard with scathing looks as if to say, "How rude!" Renard flushed a red as bright as his hair. "I- I apologize for intruding Madame…," he said bashfully. Brown, knowing Renard as well as he did, knew that he was not.
Doctor Blow, an older balding man adjusted his glasses and asked, "Mrs. Sinclair, forgive me if this seems forward, but whatever happened to Mr. Sinclair?"
She sighed and dabbed her eyes again. "Oh, Arthur. What a dear man he was! He died shortly after our marriage… My children are all I have left of him. They are his very image!" she sniffed. The men closest to her patted her hands and gave her soothing words of consolation. The others fixed Professor Blow with another stare.
Renard leaned in to whisper to Professor Brown. "Yes, but how? I understand that she cannot part with her children. That’s all very well and good, but is she going to deny them an education just because of her husband’s death?"
Brown gave him a look and hissed, "Ren, will you cut it out? The poor woman’s in shock!"
Renard gulped his wine and broodingly glanced around at the other men in silence. It was getting late in the evening. The servants had made the final rounds and left the house. By now, all of them, with the exception of Renard and the widow, were quite filled to the brim with both food and drink as 29
they shared stories and laughter. Renard sat in his chair with his arms folded. He looked disgruntled.
"Ren, why aren’t you enjoying the party?" Brown asked with another sip from his glass. His large face was quite red, and his eyes were watery by this time.
Renard shrugged and grumbled, "I have an important court case tomorrow, and I am getting nothing done!"
Just then, Mrs. Sinclair rose and announced to her guests, "Well, I hope you all enjoyed your dinner. Now we shall convene in the drawing room where you will meet my children, and we can discuss their… curriculum."
Brown, Renard and the other distinguished and drunk gentlemen followed the widow as she smoothly led them to the drawing room. Renard did not feel comfortable being inside the house. There was a strangely familiar smell in the murky and dank room. "Madame Sinclair, where are your children?" He asked as the men stumbled around, bumping into furniture and tables. Why aren’t there any lights?"
"Oh they will be with us shortly." Her voice came in a soft hiss followed by the sound of a door lock slamming in place. "I want to thank you all for coming on this evening. When Arthur died, I was afraid that there would be no father figure for my children. That is why I summoned all of you here…."
Renard stood perfectly still. Was it just him, or was there something sliding around on the floor above them? Hairs stood on his neck, and he gulped before asking the woman, "If- if you don’t mind my asking….When did your husband die?"
Light from the chandelier came on in that instant, with Madame Sinclair at the switch. Her eyes were fixed on Renard as he whirled around to face her. He noticed a change: darkness in her eyes and how the dimness of the chandeliers light made her hair to appear to squirm and wriggle from its bun.
"Why, the night of our wedding actually," she said through a smile that had too much teeth. "I still have his remains above my fireplace."
She pointed behind Renard. He turned and gasped. Hanging above the fireplace in a crucified fashion was a skeleton that was long ago picked clean. The sound of sliding and hissing began to fill the room as Renard looked back at the woman. The other men were passed out in a drugged stupor, lying on the couches.
Mrs. Theodora Sinclair released her hair. It quickly unraveled in a tangled mass of hissing and spitting snakes and as it did so, she seemed to grow taller as her torso stretched and contorted like that of a snake’s, even though her top half remained human. Renard now recognized that smell–snake musk.
"You see, I truly did summon you to my home to teach my children…"
Hissing erupted in the doorway that led from the entrance hall. "Muh-hhhhaaaaaameeee," came the hissing of serpents.
"Isssss it ssssssuppertime yet?" came from different voices in that strange hiss. Eight children with the lower bodies of a serpent and hair full of snakes came slithering around the room to examine the drunken men and the stunned Renard. "Muh-hhhhaaaameeeee, issss he our dinner?" a female child asked of Renard as she clung to her mother.
The Gorgon gazed fondly at her offspring. "Don’t you think they look exactly like him?"
Renard didn’t speak; he couldn’t answer. As she slowly slithered closer to him, he felt the fear. 30
The fear every prey has when cornered by a predator.
"I am teaching my children how to feed. It is one thing to eat the local wildlife but quite another to ingest a living human being."
Just then, he collapsed backwards over one of the passed out bodies of his fellow academics. He struggled to untangle himself as she kept taunting him, taking her time.
"I hope you are not taking this personally. I really do admire your profession. But a mother," she said, fondly petting the snakes atop their heads, "simply must look after the welfare of her children."
His hand touched the cold iron fire grate. He turned his head in every direction. There was simply nowhere to go. Death had come for him in the most gruesome manner. She stopped and waited until he made eye contact with her. She loved this part, the part where defeat was visible in the eyes. It thrilled her. Every hunter lived for this moment. Coiling her tail around his panicked body, she lifted him to eye level.
"You know, my dear Arthur made the same face you’re making now," she murmured softly as a cold delicate talon from her hand traced his chin. "Eyes wide and full of trepidation; uncertain, panicked gasps; and of course, a cold sweat. Yes, you look just like him."
The soft, half smile from the fond memory evaporated from her face as the feral gleam took precedence once again. She curled her scaly body around Renard, constricting him. With eyes nearly bugging out of his skull, he found himself mute in terror. He hoped he would pass out soon and his last images wouldn’t be of this hellish creature.
"Now, now, my loves, pay attention!" Sinclair said coiling her dark and elongated body tighter around him. "Humans will not be as easy as these will be when you are old enough to hunt for yourselves. It will require patience, speed, and skill. And remember darlings, because this is very, very important." She emphasized this with a shake of her clawed finger, "Always start headfirst!"
With a final sneer and scream, dinner was served.
Florida Postcard – An Observation
By: Jordan Hess
Sunspots, maybe cancer
It doesn’t take much these days
It’s funny how things work, punishment for pleasure
Go ahead, indulge, enjoy your life, but not too much.
So we take our plastic islands and liquid courage
Plant ourselves like pits of rust on mother nature’s surface
Spreading and corroding
The courage burns as it slides down our throats and the bottles fill the landfills
Punishment for pleasure
Landfills like freckles on the surface may be cancer
We laugh foolish laughs as the sand burns our toes
She is laughing too. 31
Of Amber and Iron
By: Korina Chilcoat
Fall and fall
Down goes the down
Of shriveled memories that the earth scattered ‘round
Taking the path that led towards desire
The never-ending fantasy that for no one did come true
I am the first, the only, the last of the living
Never to be another as long as I kept it in plain view
With unbridled optimism comparable with none
Brave enough to fight fire’s flame with bare hands
They outstretched in acceptance of the fire-drenched hell
That on that occasion did bear my name
Brandished gates thrust wide open
All mine for the taking as I sauntered through
How they pointed their fingers, oh, how they called me so calmly
Pulling me aside with their conceited worry
In attempts to shield me from the traumatizing view
How I did not listen
Turning blind eyes and a head to match
A victim of innocence
A victor of words
The whispers, the hush, all harbored in secret
As they turned their heads, shielding their gaze
Hands over mouths below widely-lit eyes
Scandal, rumour, flickered into a blaze
All while I stood confidently in the shining dark
I grabbed at desire with my greedy paws
Fingers clawing at what could never be mine
Lying to myself that I could have it all
While teetering on the fine line between love and obsession
Those two blazing diamonds in the mirror-blue night
They sparkled and shone with all of the brilliance of the moon
How the envy did blossom into a blood-hungry demon
Clawing, scratching for whatever could be salvaged
How the figure in the night stared from afar
Hands grasped together in desire’s stance
Two rows of pearls shimmering in the dark
And I bowed and I bowed and fingered scarlet satin
A gown constructed of seduction and intrigue 32
How I lingered and pined in a room full of mirrors
Held death in its ever-so-charming embrace
Painted, quite quickly, my perfection
A wounded heart I did eagerly chase
I walked to the beat of the music of my soul
As it carried me across rivers and streams
Through lands far and wide and those I never had heard
Until some frequent stop brought some rest from the pain
And I waited and watched
And I pondered and listened
And I wrote and I read
And I cried and I glistened
I bragged and I boasted to ears near and far
Proving my proof to those who would listen
Leaving behind all that I knew
To pursue the deepest depths of my heart’s ambition
And then how it stopped, as quick as light
The ink splattered letters no more came in the night
No messages on the telephone
standing still while moving fast
My anything’s everything did not last
I looked strongly at the figure in the mirror
And told her how she was to blame
No deserving of love as much as the other
Just a victim of disappointment and of shame
The innocent heart that did beat so strong
Flickered and faltered, it sang its last song
It shriveled and shrunk till it could no longer be seen
A curtain of tears to hide yesterday’s dream
My identity went missing
And voice escaped in the night
I looked up at the stars
Hoping I’d be alright
My friends started waning
As my face gathered years
But the day was complete
So long as I held back the tears
And everything wasn’t alright, but it was right
In the end 33
A Trade for the Worst
By: Lea Robinson
When I was nine years old, I was not exactly my father’s dream son. I didn’t love sports as he wanted me to, but I did love animals and all types at that. One day, my father took me to a Yankee game. As you can imagine, I was not thrilled. I decided to go, not only because I didn’t have a choice, but also because I wanted to make my father happy. Lord knows, that man could be a nightmare when he was upset.
During the game, my father caught a foul ball. Thinking he could spark my interest in the sport, he got a player to sign it and with a big smile, he handed it to me. He became impatient waiting for a thank you. I finally said on impluse, "Thanks Dad! It’s great," but the novelty of the signed baseball had already worn off.
On the way home, we passed a pawn shop. A green and yellow parrot hung in a cage outside the door. He kept repeating, "Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!" I only imagined owning parrots in my dreams, in which I also owned a zoo. I thought how cool it would be to have a bird I could teach to repeat anything I wanted him to say.
When we arrived back home, my father raved about the Yankee game, and he mentioned the signed baseball. He would expect to find it displayed in my room at some point. But father and I had very different ideas.
In the following weeks, I continued to think about the wonderful parrot that lived at the shop on Henry Street. I decided the bird had to be mine and went to the pawn shop to inquire about it.
"My baby Anton? He is worth much more than you think young man!" shouted the storekeeper.
It was discouraging to hear, but I thought I would bring in my souvenir baseball and find out if it had any value. I went back to the shop the next day. "How much will you give me for this ma’am?" I asked.
"A baseball signed by Reggie Jackson?" the storekeeper shouted. "You might as well pick anything in the store that you would like to have in trade for this baseball!"
I was so excited, I almost passed out. I told her I wanted Anton, the bird, and she agreed without hesitation.
My father nearly burst into flames. He didn’t know I traded the baseball he was so excited about, and he was furious that I brought a loud, dirty animal into the house. It made him absolutely irate. Unbeknownst to me, life at home was about to get a lot more difficult.
The bilingual bird was a horrible new pet. He would screech obscenities at my father as he passed, whistle at my mother, and rarely let me near him. He was nothing like I imagined during my daydreams. It was obvious the pawn shop keeper hung his cage outside of the store for a very specific reason. I could stand very few days with this bird. Before long, I was looking for a new home for him. My quiet grandmother decided he would be great company, since my grandfather had passed.
I always found my grandmother to be pretty mean anyway. 34
Paradise at Last
By: Jacqueline Flannery
This silence was deafening…
Typically, the girl couldn’t stand silence. But when you spend months upon months surrounded by the sound, you have no choice but to adjust to it really fast. Taking a deep breath, Cici stood at the end of the boardwalk admiring the beautiful white sands and blue waters. The tropical air felt like sweet relief compared to the cramped and stale air of the car.
A quiet whine broke the silence. Looking to her left, Cici smiled at the Border collie at her feet. Princess pawed anxiously at the rotting wood beneath her. Chuckling softly, Cici nodded. "Go." Hearing the command, Princess sped off, kicking up sand as she ran. She barked happily, spinning to look back at her owner–making sure that Cici was following.
Cici kicked off her black Chuck Taylor sneakers and left them at the stairs. With her first step into her sand, she wiggled her toes with a smile. It had been far too long since she felt comfortable enough to walk around without shoes. The sand felt so… warm…. Had it not been for a second bark, Cici would have continued relishing the feeling. Princess brushed against her leg and ran in excited circles. Then the dog bolted for the water. Cici slowly followed, pressing her feet into the sand with each step as if trying to be sure her foot steps would remain.
The sights were stunning, and the sun’s reflection off the water was almost blinding. Shielding her eyes, Cici felt a smile tugging at her lips as she moved towards the water. The feeling of the cool water splashing over her heated skin was… relaxing. She finally felt… at peace. Cici had finally reached her paradise… until quiet growls from her ever vigilant pet sent Cici into a small panic.
"Wh-what?" She turned her eyes to the her dog, who suddenly took off, kicking up the white sand as she ran. "WAIT! Princess! Stop!"
Cici broke into a run, although not nearly as fast as the canine. Princess bounced back and forth when she finally came to a stop in front of a figure. Cici skidded to a halt, her hand fell to her hip, instinctively reaching for a weapon—but there was none. Anxiety continued to creep into her mind. Their group was supposed to be alone—the island was supposed to be empty. Slowly, the young woman approached the other figure and the anxiety lifted when she recognized the man in front of her.
"You… you scared me," Cici sighed. Before her, petting Princess, stood Tyler David Anderoth. He reached out to her, his green eyes smiling.
"No worries here." He squeezed her hand and pulled her closer. Cici moved into his arms— the one place that through all the chaos she had always felt the safest—and let a wide smile take over her face.
"Right…. No worries." She turned her gaze to the gorgeous scenery. This was paradise. 35
Holding Down the Fort
By: Chris Craig
I am stronger than the strongest man.
I defend you better than your mother can.
I am old and tired, but I am not frail.
I withstand gunfire from soldiers in peril.
I’ve hidden treasure from greedy pirates.
I protected a city from a British riot.
I’ve been a prison for wrong-doing men,
but this is now, and that was then.
I’ve seen many a people,
I witnessed times change,
while being ping-ponged
from England to Spain.
For years I’ve stood up proud and tall,
each winter, spring, summer, and fall.
As time has progressed I get used less,
and all I do now is sit here and rest.
I’ve become a famous tourist attraction.
I’m an old Spanish fort who gets no more action.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be ceased,
that can mean one thing, my country’s at peace.
Anticipation
By: Vincent Sabatino
"This is taking forever," I moaned from my comfortable spot in the shade of an old hollow log. "I know time flies when you’re having fun, but I think it also freezes when you’re bored." Another yawn escaped my lips as I turned, ignoring the squishing sound my body made. I was cautious not to expose myself to the sunlight. I always preferred the nighttime; it was colder, and I was less a likely to dry up. I had never been dry before and didn’t want to think what would happen if I were.
You know, I once heard a rumor that humans like to keep us as pets. A shiver passed through my body. The sudden thought of being trapped in a glass case while a bunch of kids played with me like a rubber ducky entered my mind. "Well, not me." Despite my lazy demeanor, I was nobody’s house pet.
A plate of crickets wouldn’t be too bad about now. Placing my webbed hand on my stomach, it felt as empty as the hollow log. The grumbling sounds grew louder as the hunger pains persisted. Suddenly there was a drop in temperature, as the world seemed to go dark. Finally, I said, "Time to get something to eat. I’m starved," and I made my way out of the log. 36
Bon Appétit!
By: Megan Martian
Wilbur Larson was a big man. Not just in girth but in personality. When he wanted something done, it would be in your best interest to get it done or you would find yourself jobless. Most would attest that having a big personality was not a terrible thing, yet it was known that he was an obnoxious and uncouth man with an arrogance that would that could choke an elephant. How he had managed to keep his many girlfriends hidden from his wife of twenty-five years is anybody’s guess. It is unfortunate that, more often than not, most of the women who worked in his office would wind up as his new girl by Friday. So when Mr. Larson set his eyes on Ultima Garcia, the poor woman soon became the topic of office gossip. Bets were made on how long it would take for the two to partake in the horizontal monster mash.
She had always been told that she couldn’t be spotted in a crowd, at least that’s what her friends said. Straight-faced and silent, Ultima quietly made her way through life never making waves. She never wore makeup. If her dark hair wasn’t down, it was tied into a simple ponytail. Her wardrobe was always filled with dark or muted colors. Rarely did her coworkers talk to her. They mostly took her emotionless expression as standoffish or rude, always assuming she disliked them. This was fine by her because it was the truth. Oh sure, she would respond when someone stopped by her cubical, smiling and laughing at bad jokes or offering assistance where she could. But at the end of the day, she just did not care.
"So, Ultima, are you going to the office Christmas party tomorrow night?" Sarah Ford, one of her colleagues, asked as she sipped from a little Styrofoam cup of coffee.
Ultima leaned back in her chair, folded her arms and shrugged. "Eh, I don’t know. Parties aren’t exactly my thing." Sarah examined one of her nails. Ultima wondered if she forgot who she was talking too. "Do you have a boyfriend? You should bring him by."
"You know John Marino in the IT department? I heard he’s single. I might try to snatch him up as a date for the party."
Ultima blinked at her coworker’s absentminded stare. She had met Marino on a few occasions since she started working for the company and, despite his teasing, felt he was a decent enough guy, cute, even. But I really don’t care. "That’s nice. Well, I have to get to work…"
Unfortunately, Sarah didn’t get the not-so- subtle hint and stirred her coffee. "Oh. Well, you should try to come anyway. It’ll be fun," she promised with a little bounce for emphasis. "There’ll be food and drinks and music and everything!"
Ultima just blinked, looked at her, and plastered on a smile, "Yeah, sure. I’ll definitely see if I can." She made a point to look busy with her assignment. Just leave me alone!
Oblivious, Sarah continued, "You know, you actually have a nice smile. You would look a lot nicer if you smiled more often."
Later on, with the day’s work completed, overcoat in hand, and purse on shoulder, Ultima was silently making her way out of her cubicle. "Garcia! C'mere for a sec," came from Mr. Larson’s office. She glared at the clock, it read five after five. Damn it. She was under no obligation to see him now, yet if she didn't go, he would more than likely start something the next day. Sighing heavily, she adjusted her things and quickly made her way to his open door.
It was a stuffy, cigar-smelling place. In the corner was a withered plant that she assumed died from the amount of hot air this jerk managed to blow. She sent it sympathetic glance, poor thing. 37
Speaking of jerks, Wilbur Larson was sitting in his high-backed leather chair. He took a long draw from a big cigar. She was briefly reminded at how much she disliked her boss. "Is there a problem, Sir?" she asked, careful to keep her face blank.
"Why, yes, there is something that I would like to talk to you about Ms. Garcia," Larson said after he puffed a nasty smoke cloud from his cigar. Her nose crinkled and eyes watered, but she refused to show any kind of discomfort in front of this man. "The thing is, Ultima—"
"Garcia is fine," she interrupted.
"Little Pig, Little Pig, won’t you let me in?"
She jiggled the doorknob tauntingly, relishing in his terrified squeal from behind the door.
"Or do I have to huff."
She jiggled the handle.
"And puff."
And jiggled it again.
"And blow your house down!"
"Right, well, I've been keeping an eye on you and, although your work is top notch and professional, I see you’ve been having trouble fitting in among the staff."
"No trouble at all," the woman explained stoically. "I’d rather keep my work and private life separate."
He smiled and took his vice out of his mouth, shaking a you-get-it finger at her. "Ah, see, you understand how office life works."
It took all she had not to roll her eyes at his statement. "Is that all Sir?"
"That and… well…" Larson just smiled that cheesy smile of his. "I think you need to relax some. You’re too... uptight."
Ultima just blinked in response. "I think I act appropriately for the office. Excuse me, but I must leave if I am to catch my bus. Good evening, Mr. Larson." She strolled out of the office and nearly sped-walked toward the elevators when she realized that she had forgotten her cell phone in her desk. Damn it, damn it, damn it! She huffed and reluctantly raced back to her desk, passing six other empty cubicles to find hers. "I know it’s here…," she muttered to herself, sitting in her desk chair and rummaging through her drawers. Something caught her eye. "Hmm?" Sitting atop of her pile of paper was a small note that read:
The Christmas Party is at six tomorrow night. Come with me, and we’ll have a nice time. –John Marino
Ultima blinked in disbelief. She really didn’t want to go, but sweet Jesus, aren’t we demanding? Yet… I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to see what he wants.
The smell of bad cigars approached her from behind, and she scowled. "You know office romances are strictly prohibited in this company, Ms. Garcia," Larson drawled.
She swiveled in her chair, arms folded, legs crossed. "Then what do you call the little flings you have with every girl in this office?"
"Just that– Flings. They don’t mean anything. They wanted better pay and I gave it to them, for a small fee that is."
She narrowed her eyes, "You call that a small fee? You demand sex in exchange for raises!"
He shrugged and leaned towards her. The stubble on his round face could not hide his second chin. "What does it matter when there are women who look just like you who do the exact same thing?"
She sucked in her breath, ignoring the smell of stale smoke and the cigar taint on his small teeth. "You are scum, Mr. Larson."
His eyebrows knitted together as he growled, "What’s that?" 38
"No," she corrected herself and unfolded her arms and uncrossed her legs, "Because despite scum, you do provide some kind of benefit to society. You are more like a pig, Mr. Larson."
"I’m a what?" he snorted in anger.
"Yes, a pig. You are the most disgusting and revolting piece of meat I have ever seen."
"What did you just say?" he squeaked. His face turned pink with rage.
Ultima rose from her chair and glared down at her boss. "You eat garbage and roll around in your own filth! Your wife won’t even touch you! It’s all because you are such a pig!"
"You witch! I’ll –squeeee-- you! I’ll – scrreeech--!" He snarled, his beady black eyes swearing death as his big, flat, pink nose snorted and twitched up at her.
She laughed coldly and squatted to his eye level. "Oh, what’s wrong, Mr. Larson? You know what? I think you need to relax. You’re too uptight." She flicked his nose. He snorted and looked down at his cloven hooves and large pink hide.
Realizing what she had done to him, Wilbur Larson the Pig turned and galloped back to his office, nudging the door closed with his snout. "SQUEEEEAAAAAA!"
Ultima laughed again at the trotting form and casually walked towards her boss’s door, trailing her nails along the hallway of cubicles. She placed her hand on the doorknob. A smirk played on her lips. She softly knocked on the door mockingly.
"Little Pig, Little Pig, won’t you let me in?"
She jiggled the doorknob tauntingly, relishing in his terrified squeal from behind the door.
"Or do I have to huff."
She jiggled the handle.
"And puff."
And jiggled it again.
"And blow your house down!"
And then the squeak of the door knob couldn’t be heard over the whimpering mass that was too big to hide under the desk.
The next evening at the party, gossip abounded concerning the whereabouts of the staff’s employer and fellow coworker. "Have you seen Larson today?" one young man asked before he ate his cheese and cracker.
"No. I haven’t seen Garcia either. Do you think they–you know…?" Sarah asked as she eyed the tall man standing nearby with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Hey Johnny, you wanna dance?"
John Marino was a big man with a big personality. When he invited you to a Christmas party, it would be in your best interest to show up or you would have to make it up by seeing a movie or having dinner with him. "Nah," he said with a firm shake of his head as he drummed his fingertips against his cup to some musical beat. Then he heard a call from the elevator.
"Um, sorry I’m late."
John turned and smiled down at Ultima. "Hey there, you’re not late at all. You look nice," he remarked after examining her black and white cocktail dress and red pumps.
She smiled and adjusted the red rose that held her hair back. "You think so?"
"Yeah. What you got there?" he asked, now noticing the enormous white cooler that she had wheeled in behind her.
"Oh this? Well, that’s the reason why I’m late. I spent all night roasting this pig for the party. Figured everyone would like it. Do you like pork?"
He shook his head. "Nah. I don’t eat it. Come ‘ere, let’s get a drink. What music do you listen to…?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the cooler. 39
Meanwhile, the rest of the staff opened the cooler and examined the Tupperware within.
"Okay, we have pulled pork, sliced ham and what else…?" one of the men remarked as he handed the small plastic containers to the remaining coworkers.
"Ah, hey, check this out; looks delicious!" one man exclaimed as he pulled out a large platter that held a cone shape wrapped in aluminum foil. He removed it to reveal a big fat, pink, greasy head of a pig with a shiny red apple lodged in its mouth.
"Bon Appétit!"
Through the Viewfinder
By: Monica Gomez
Dusk. The sun was setting just beyond the Montana mountains. The sky was ablaze in orange and yellow. Kylie positioned herself in a tree, observing the clearing before her through the viewfinder of her Nikon D90. Quickly, the girl snapped a few pictures of the horizon before settling back to watch the day fade.
As she pushed her dark blonde hair away from her face, her hazel eyes roamed the open field and settled on three horses emerging from the trees. The first was white with a blonde mane, rearing his head back and shaking it about. The one behind him was chocolate brown with a black mane, flicking his tail behind him. The last was midnight black, following the other two with his head down.
The brown one took off first, and Kylie’s camera was back to her eye immediately. She aligned her cross-hairs with the beast as he galloped across the field, putting significant space between himself and the other two animals.
Click.
Next, the white beauty followed in a trot. He swung his head up and shook it again, his thick mane jumping from one side of its large head to the other. He let out a loud whinny before throwing himself into the wind to catch up with the brown one. He took the lead again, coming around behind the other before overtaking him and leading him across the clearing.
Click. Click. Click.
The black majesty lifted his head and watched the two gallop across the field. He paused at the edge of the clearing, seeming to contemplate his next move. Once the other two were far enough ahead, he took off into the clearing. His dark hooves pounded the earth and propelled him forward, the muscles of his legs visibly contracting and stretching with each motion. His mane whipped back as his back legs pushed him away from his spot in the trees. He easily closed the distance between himself and the two knights.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Soon, the three were gone, and Kylie sat still in the tree. The sun had set behind the mountains, leaving minimal light for her to move around in, but she couldn't bring herself to move. The screen of her camera still held the image of the horses as they dominated the Earth. 40
Corpses and Gucci Purses
By: Kristiana Gregoire
We waste our time of day fretting over our subdual to the nachos
We waste our time of day obsessing over the knick in our expensive boots
We waste our time of day gossiping over the length of a stranger’s dress
We waste our time of day struggling to conjure the perfect synonym for a paper
We waste our time of day mourning a broken nail or broken hammer
We waste our time of day
Decades from now our bodies will lay still in front of our grieving loved ones
And those tears will come regardless of the little catastrophes of life
Regardless of the pound you gained from indulging in self-satisfaction
Regardless of your lack of a perfect fashion sense
Regardless of another human’s decisions
Regardless
But humans won’t cease to waste their time of day on silly things
Not until the day their lungs give out and their limp bodies escapes their own minds
EDITORIAL CREDITS
Editor: Janice Reuther
Literary Advisor: John Pelot
Editorial Assistance: Fall creative writing class 2011
Military Photography provided by William Hill
We would like to thank Blossom O’Bradovich for
providing images of her original artwork Montage and Bubbles
and
Brianna Paradise for her original photography Final Destination
Joseph Millar’s newest collection is Blue Rust (2012) from Carnegie-Mellon. His first collection, Overtime (2001) was finalist for the Oregon Book Award and a second collection, Fortune, appeared in 2007. Millar grew up in Pennsylvania, attended the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars and spent 30 years in the San Francisco Bay area working at a variety of jobs, from telephone repairman to commercial fisherman. It would be two decades before he returned to poetry. His poems—stark, clean, unsparing—record the narrative of a life fully lived among fathers, sons, brothers, daughters, weddings and divorces, men and women. His work has won fellowships from the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts as well as a Pushcart Prize. Poems have appeared in such magazines as DoubleTake, The Southern Review, TriQuarterly, APR, andPloughshares. In 1997 he gave up his job as telephone installation foreman to try his hand at teaching. He is now core faculty at Pacific University’s Low Residency MFA and lives in Raleigh, NC.
Art Davis was born in Buffalo, New York on January 2, 1917. An architect by profession, he began writing poetry as he courted his wife, Marge. His first book, "Once Upon a Rhyme", is a collection of poems. "This book is a gathering up of little chips of heart, of moments. I contend there is a rhyme in every moment. One has to observe, listen, and capture. I write of reality, moments, family, friends, events, nature, experience, births, goodbyes, graduations. Nothing ephemeral, or mythic, all a shy man's revenge against the popular, the handsome, the captains of the football teams." (from the Introduction) His second book, "A Promise Kept", is mostly essays, written during his wife's illness. As he says, "Conversation was limited to writing our thoughts down." Marge insisted he "do that book", thus a promise kept. He and Marge celebrated 75 years of marriage together. Art has been writing for over 70 years.