Zephyr

Zephyr
2009-2010

W elcome, reader. The English Department of

Santa Fe College and the staff of Zephyr
thank all of the students who contributed to this
inaugural edition of Zephyr. Many were encour-
aged by faculty and many found us on their own.
We honor you all.

This year’s journal has been a shared faculty/

student endeavor, and has, through that collabora-
tion, made all the participants a little bit smarter.
We have enjoyed building not only this journal,
but also a new opportunity for students who under-
stand the magic of writing.

This year’s intrepid staff:

Clay Arnold
Zach Bryant
Romi Gutierrez
Andy Jordan
Frank Lambright
Steve Robitaille
Holly Sprinkle
Aliesa Zoecklein
 Contents

Failure 4
Frank Lambright

Life on the Half-Shell 5

Kristina Mullins

indian child 11
Sarah Koehler

The Mission that Took My Soul 12

Brandon Crider

Listen 15
Frank Lambright

Sad Clown 16
Navarre Simpson

Lost in the Okefenokee 17

Andrew Potochnik

The Bush 20
Heather Jarosz

Road to Nowhere 21
Michael Neff

2
The Argument of Reason 24
David Richardson

The Hole 30
Amber Stone

Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam

& Haberdashery 34
Frank Lambright

The Dance 36
Sarah Hutchinson

Cover image “Self Portrait” by Lauren Beckham

3
 Failure

Frank Lambright

I have attempted, with much frustration,

to write a sonnet, and three villanelles
with seven syllabic meter poems.
I even contemplated a pantoum,
only for a moment. A very brief
moment. These poem forms are exciting,
even exhilarating, but without
a muse, a love, or even a simple
emotion, the image will not appear.
It is like painting in the dark with broad
brush stokes, only to find the burgeoning
blue-green pastels of the landscape
are merely water. I always found blank
canvases intriguing, like the sculptor
who sees the form inside the stone and works
to set it free. The blank page is the same.
The pen is the rock hammer, the chisel
or the brush, a tool for freeing the form
inside the mind's eye. If that eye is blind,
even for a short time, what happens then?
What if the inspiration is lacking?
I have witnessed art forced onto itself
for the sake of itself. It is ugly
and formless, lacking the spirit to move
the artist. The square peg can not fit with-
in the round hole no matter how hard you
hit it with your hammer. I keep swinging.
Sooner or later, after many more
square pegs I might just reach down and pick up
the right one. Could this be the right one?

4
Life on the Half Shell

Kristina Mullins

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

nally found that profound calm I used to know. The
answer had come so suddenly I still wasn’t used to my stom-
ach not being in knots. Shoulders thrown back, head held
high, I felt polished in my best suit. I could smell my own
aftershave it had been so long since I’d last worn it.
Approaching the large glass, front of the restaurant I
used the reflection to straighten my tie and fix a few rough
hairs that had gotten loose in the taxi ride over. Walking to-
wards the entrance the door swung open, seemingly on its
own accord until I noticed the forearm of the stiff maître de
in a half bow and motioning me inside. He was smiling but it
did not meet his eyes until I slipped a fifty into his palm and
walked through the door. He reacted with a startled ‘Sir!’ and
then side-stepped me to get to the hostess who was standing
behind a podium marking into a ledger. The restaurant was
cool and dimly lit causing my vision to struggle for a mo-
ment before bringing the large dining room, littered with tiny
tables, into focus. The unused napkins were folded tightly
with defined edges and the ample amounts of silverware had
been laid with precision. It was the kind of place you met
the CEO’s at to iron out the final details of a big deal or
brought a woman to when you’re finally ready to pop the
question. I was only standing for a minute or so when they
pulled me from behind several waiting couples and a party of
business men to be seated immediately.
“A booth, sir? Or maybe somewhere more private in
the back?” the maître de asked through his nose. I could hear
the disapproving murmurs of the people who had been wait-
ing.
“There.” I said, leaning around him pointing to a
small table in the center of the room. The attendant looked
perplexed. The table was crowded in on all sides and danger-
ously close to two messy, noisy children who were over-
dressed and being ignored by bored looking parents.

5
 “But sir, we have a nice window seat, just on the far
side of the room…”
“No, no,” I cut him short, “that table will do just
fine. Thank you.”
“Very, well.” With that he was rushing off to pre-
pare it.
Now it was the hostess’ turn to ooze.
“Evening, sir! How many will be joining you to-
night?” she said through her fake smile.
“Just me.”
She offered an ‘Ah’ as we started for the table, but
didn’t divert her eyes fast enough to hide the shock. I knew
what she was thinking; hell I’d have thought the same thing.
Why spend a small fortune for a meal if I wasn’t here to im-
press anyone? Her smile was suddenly warmer, but the tim-
ing was off. She obviously thought I was someone important,
which was just like a woman, affection easily bought by the
mere suggestion of wealth. This thought reminded me of
why I had come here tonight, and the sudden, unexpected
thought of my wife tightened my stomach and brought it up
into my chest. I calmed myself, knowing that I had solved
that problem, or was about to anyway. With a deep breath my
muscles released and my insides dropped back an inch or
two. I realized the hostess was still standing there, waiting
for her tip. I gave her a polite smile that said ‘Fuck off.’ She
gave me a smile back, silently letting me know she thought I
was a prick and probably gay. No matter, she wouldn’t be
seeing me out anyway.
Opening the menu I passed up the soup and salads
outright. Eagerly flipping pages I stopped when I hit steaks,
realizing I had gone too far. Back-tracking I found what I
was looking for. The sleek page had Seafood curling across
the top making the English word look French at a quick
glance. Passing my finger down the page I read the entrees,
getting excited.
“Would you like to see the wine list, sir?” The
waiter had managed to sneak up behind me as I browsed.
“Your best champagne, please.”
“Sir, are you sure? We have a 1988 Krug a Reims,
which can be quite pricey after a few glasses.”

6
 “Fine then, the bottle, please, as I’m in a mood to
celebrate.”
“Yes, sir! Right away!” he scampered away hoping
for a tip to help with the car payment.
The rest of the staff must have caught on that I was
a man to be catered to, because before waiter number one
had made it to the bar there was a second waiter closing in
from the other side.
“Evening, sir,” he said professionally, “have you
had enough time to see the menu?”
“Yes, I have.” I paused, waiting for him to gather
pen and paper. “I’ll have oysters, two dozen, raw. The fried
clams and crab legs, king crab, if you have them. A shrimp
cocktail, and the shrimp scampi, but add scallops to that, and
a bowl of the seafood gumbo, what sides are included with
the gumbo?”
“Normally a vegetable or potato, but let me assure
you sir, our entrees are quite large enough…”
“I don’t need your assurances, waiter. Substitute the
vegetable with crab cakes; I don’t want to see a goddamn
veggie on my plate anywhere. I also want a plate of boiled
crawfish, with extra butter for all of it.”
“Yes, sir. Of course. An order of this magnitude will
take some preparation time. If your aversion to vegetables
doesn’t extend too far, might I recommend the house salad?
We boast the employment of Brian Lowery, the best salad
chef in the state.”
“Is there shellfish in it?” I asked.
“No, sir. We could put some in, however…”
“No, bring the salad as it comes.”
I hadn’t planned on getting a salad, but ordered one
anyway upon hearing the salad chef bit. I hadn’t known such
a position existed and needed to see what the fuss was about.
Watching waiter number two blatantly run for the kitchen,
waiter number one swooped back over and popped the cork
on my champagne. He poured a glass and stood back, staring
at me expectantly and waiting for me to try it.
“Waiter, have you ever tried the champagne that you
serve?” I asked.
“No, sir we don’t normally…”

7
 I picked up an empty glass and set it in front of him.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, we aren’t allowed to drink
on the job and...”
“I really must insist,” I said as sincerely as I could
muster and looked him straight in the eye until he half sat in
the chair across from my own moved for the glass.
“Good man! A toast!” I called out as we held our
glasses high. “To the bitch who ruined me, may her guilty
soul burn eternally in hell.”
The waiter glanced apologetically at the table with
the children as they stared in disbelief but then dutifully
drained his goblet for my honor. The taste didn’t seem much
different from the cheap stuff we had served at my wedding
and I was stuck thinking of how ironic it was that marriage
had been the last time I’d had champagne at all.
“Hear, hear.” He said and stood to leave. “Will there
be anything else, sir?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Will you add a lobster to my or-
der? The largest one in the tank.”
With a strange smile and a curt nod he shuffled for
the kitchen.
In no time at all they were bringing me a huge salad
bowl. It was colorful, with an array of vegetables, some I
couldn’t recognize, and even fruits and nuts. It included a
large variety of oils and dressings that all seemed to merge
and blend throughout the bowl.
“Please, waiter, can you see to it that all of my
dishes come out at once. This is extremely important.”
“Of course, sir.”
For the next half hour I grazed over the food slowly,
scrutinizing it harshly, then surprisingly admitting to myself
that it was the best salad I’d ever eaten. People came and
went from my table leaving sauces of various kinds and re-
filling my glass now and then but never to bring out so much
as a dinner roll.
Then abruptly both waiters and several cooks
poured from the kitchen, each laden with plates crammed
with multiple dishes to make all of the food fit on my tiny
table. There was a commotion as the other diners stopped
their conversations and set down their forks to stare at the

8
spectacle. Someone removed my salad plate and refilled my
champagne again and in a matter of moments they had all
shuffled off to their respective parts of the restaurant again to
gossip about the man who had ordered everything.
Setting a napkin into my lap like a gentleman, I
smiled at the small boy leaning over the back of his chair to
openly gawk at me. I said a quick prayer and thought of the
look on my wife’s face when they told her. I ate as fast as I
could, stuffing my mouth to capacity, jumping from plate to
plate, mixing things, and grabbing with my bare hands. I
dumped wet oysters into my open mouth as I chewed and
when the crab legs gave me trouble I bit through the shells,
letting them crunch between my teeth. I slurped the shrimp
scampi and bit into the crab cakes like apples. I washed it all
down with huge gulps of expensive champagne. I felt it first
on my hands and the corners of my mouth, the itching and
swelling and then burning. I was running out of time. Eyes
watering, I was still pushing food down my throat as it
started to close. The lights of the restaurant grew dark and
multicolored stars blocked my vision as my breathing was
cut off.
“I’ll show her,” I thought. My wife’s face, stricken
with grief and despair, swam before my hallucinating eyes.
Utterly detached, I could feel the upheaval around me as I
fell from my seat a purple, swelling mess, smiling over what
I had achieved. She would know that I had done this because
of her. She had sent me to my grave with her infidelities and
my memory would haunt her for years to come. It was at this
moment a thought struck me that almost made me scream out
loud, had that not been physically impossible. She’d get it
all. I’d been such an idiot, I’d never switched the paperwork
over. She’d get my life insurance, the house and cars, what
little I had left in stocks. We were never extremely well off,
but after everything was settled she’d be rich. She could
probably even sue the restaurant for not saving her poor,
crazed husband in time. She’d spend everything I’d worked
for on her lover! With every ounce of strength I had in me I
wanted to live! I dug deep to pull my consciousness back to
the surface.
As if will power alone had the power to reverse

9
 death I seemed to be coming around. I took tiny, forced
breaths and eventually my eyes opened just a slit and I could
see a room full of people standing around me looking con-
cerned and appalled.
“The hell…?” I gurgled out of my throat. Rolling
my head to the side I realized my arm had multiple syringes
poking out of it standing straight up in the air. Sitting up
slowly I pulled them out, one by one, my movements left
trails and I felt drugged.
An angry manager loomed over me, he was yelling
but it sounded miles away, the only sound being my throb-
bing head. I laid back for a few minutes until my breathing
stabilized
“Sir! Were you aware of your allergy to shellfish
when you entered the restaurant? Thank God for Brian! ”
“The salad guy?” I mumbled, and with blurred vi-
sion, looked up at him.
“Salad chef, sir. He has a horrible allergy himself so
we keep an ample supply of Epinephrine on hand at all
times. We’ve called an ambulance, is there anyone you’d like
to be notified? A wife maybe?”
“My fucking wife, indeed.” I stood drunkenly, like
my legs didn’t want to work. As I headed for the door, using
tables and doorways to support myself, I was already formu-
lating a new plan. My outlook on the situation had drastically
changed in the last thirty minutes and I saw the truth. Obvi-
ously it wasn’t my fault that the marriage had failed, she had
committed those heinous acts.
“Sir, you shouldn’t be walking…” Someone called
out as I pushed through the front door and into a heavy, dark
night. I hailed a cab and prepared myself for what was to
come.

10
indian child

Sarah Koehler

she pulls at red earth with her feet,

wriggling her toes in clay
like lost earth worms turning sun baked.

clouds slip over her skin,

and a confetti autumn cascades
in oranges,
yellows,
and reds…

wind-runaway-robin feathers
turn into headdresses
and nursery rhymes
elevate into chants of mother moon.

spy the unfortunate beetle

caught in glass jars and forgotten.
she is mesmerized by the golden halo of the firefly,

she is
a wild child raised by stories
instead of wolves,
she falls asleep with dreams of savages
and a new world.

11
 The Mission That Took My Soul

Brandon Crider

I n war, there are only two ways out, you either leave in a
coffin or you live to see the destruction of your soul. I
learned this lesson first hand when I was twenty one and a
member of the U.S. Army Infantry serving in Iraq. I had been
tested many times in scores of bloody battles over that year
of heavy combat, most of which I can barely remember.
However, I do remember one mission that was so horrific
and dark I have never been able to forget it. Courtesy of my
twisted subconscious, I have to endure reliving this battle
every night I close my eyes. I awake in tears or screaming.
Either way it ends up, the beginning is always the same.
As a thunderous explosion erupted shaking me
down to my core, my eyes became lost within the depths of a
massive plume of smoke and fire. It was only after a few
seconds, which seemed as if hours, my eyes were struck by
the carnage laid out in front of me. For this rustic dirt road
had been transformed into a river of crimson red. Corpses
were scattered about in a contorted and erratic manner, while
limbs and flesh fell appallingly from the sky. The blood from
this battle truly conquered the scene of that day. It pounded
the streets, battering it like a devastating tidal wave crashing
against the shore. The aroma of the essence of life became
even more powerful and pungent with ever breath, as blood
intermingled with the air.
Shots rang out accompanied by a ballad of explo-
sions before I had time to take in all that had played out in
this horrifying scene. An ambush, a death trap we now found
ourselves centered in. With out hesitation my unit responded
back by unleashing hell in all her fury. Silhouettes that had
been moments ago standing in opposition now dropped blan-
keting the streets like volcanic ash. I threw myself behind a
collage of corpses and used them for cover as well as a make
shift shooting platform. While entrenched in battle I felt the
cold damp feeling of blood emerge and penetrate through my
uniforms fabric. I was horrified at the sight of my now crim-

12
son colored BDU’s. It was as if I had bathed in blood. The
revelation of this mere thought pinned a sickening feeling in
my stomach. As if emerging from a sea of blood, I instinc-
tively sprinted to a new position, leaving a ghastly crimson
trail along the way.
I attempted to ignore the carnage surrounding me, as
I focused on protecting my brothers in battle. My comrades
emerged in combat on my left and right were fighting not
only for their lives but also for mine. As adrenaline and fear
pumped through our veins, our emotions were replaced by
our instinct. Only through muscle memory were we able to
forge forward in our desperate fight for survival. Methodi-
cally we pulled our triggers sending the dead and dying in-
stantaneously to the ground. We silenced our enemies with
artistic precision, casting corpses to the ground like color on
a canvas. So gifted in the art of death, even the devil no
doubt had to revel in this day. We forged forward without
hesitation or thought. We felt as though nothing could de-
stroy us, that is until the devil finally played his hand.
My heart shattered when realizing that there were
children entrenched within the fight. I cringed after every
shot, as I reunited these confused children mixed up in man’s
conflict with their deity of choice. I tried to find some sense
of comfort in that their innocence had been stripped away
long before I stripped them of their life. That sense of com-
fort never came for I could never get past the hollowing and
heavy feeling in my heart.
I buried these feelings only momentarily as the bat-
tle raged on. Charging from position to position we fought
our death sentence back. I stumbled over limbs, no longer
attached to their host in an attempt to reach my platoon. It
was then the ground showed me it too was as frail as life
itself, braking away beneath my feet. My ankle almost
snapped in half as I hit the bottom of that newly formed fis-
sure. My momentum flung me face first into the remains of
a child swallowed by pools of blood. The pain emanating
from my boot and heart pleaded for me to stay down. I lay
there for a split second contemplating my predicament. My
injury caused me to be unintentionally left behind putting me
about a hundred feet away from my unit. Surveying my sur-

13
 roundings I spotted one of our abandoned vehicles. Gritting
my teeth I crawled towards the only hope of reaching the
safety of my platoon. With a surge of adrenaline I climbed
into an up armored. Driving over mounds of burning corpses
littering the street, I made my way over to my platoon’s posi-
tion.
Once in position, I again entrusted my life in the
hands of my blood brothers as they placed their lives in
mine. My attention only shifted as I became transfixed on
two men kneeling while engulfed in flames. No longer fo-
cused on my own pain, I ran over to attempt to smother the
flames that were entrapping these two men. However just as
I made it to them it hit me. They had crawled out of the sui-
cide bombers vehicle. My heart became numb and turned to
ice. I reflected on the fact that these two men had placed this
day’s mayhem and death at my feet. These men who lacked
the courage to face us on the battle field, instead brought
blood and the war it’s self onto those innocent streets. As I
deliberated on rendering aid the eerie image of a lifeless
young girl caught my eye. Frozen in hate I was left to make
one final decision. To show human compassion for a man
who showed none or play God and act without. While delib-
erating I again turned towards the body of the child. Only
this time I did not see just a child but my own daughter. With
this self projected image my compassion and humanity
drifted away. With that the notion, the thought of rendering
aid quickly faded away. I sought retribution in my decision
not to extend them the relief from their torture and pain. I
watched as they dripped away from their miserable exis-
tence. Their screams and pleads in another tongue merely
echoed in my now vacant heart. Showing no remorse I
looked at my brother to my right standing in utter awe.
“Flame on,” I exclaimed as we both chuckled at this ironic
twist of fate. Walking away we left behind our pity and si-
lenced forever our emotions. For on this day, it didn’t matter
who you were, the old, young, brave, coward, strong or weak
of man, woman and even a child. It all played out the same
for their lives were taken along with my soul here on this
day.

14
Listen

Frank Lambright

This poem was written for a class “first line” exercise. The
poem I was given was “Song” by Brigit Pegeen Kelly and
the line was “Listen: there was a goat's head hanging by
ropes in a tree.”

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

and I swear when I stared that it looked back at me
swinging in rhythm, marking the time,
guarding the fallen, bemoaning the crime
of innocence lost in a war none could win
by fighting for nothing in this world full of sin.

Their flight for survival, a grasp for the ring,

sacrificing their rivals with none left to sing
of victories won, villain's deceit,
heroes forgotten, narrow defeats,
And a last stark reminder hung low in a tree,
left hanging in memory for people to see.

What foibles in life can stand in that sight,

a backdrop of fire, fleeing shadows and strife,
building in tempo, squelching the song,
swirling in anger, apathy, wrong.
A battle imbalanced, a tide set to turn,
when daybreak arrives, the nightmares will burn.

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

at the elm on its summit resting quiet and still
wishing for vengeance, wounding my soul,
crying in earnest at the base of the knoll
with the goat's head hanging by ropes from that tree
and I swear when I stared that it looked back at me.

15
 Sad Clown

Navarre Simpson

The face of Pagliacci

brought to surface.
Oh what wondrous joys and smiles
you bring unto people
like a miracle worker working miracles
on the lives of others.
No one truly understood
nor their desire to do so.
You wear a mask
same as a human
Oh what a marvelous mask you wear
representing the true nature of thy being,
unlike the colorless ones worn by others.
The blue eyes complement the white blank
that is your heart
that is also red with anger
and black with sorrow
along with the blessed words
from your mouth that momentarily cures the minds.
Oh my how much sorrow you show.
It practically covers half of your face.
You poor pompous clown,
as shown by your exquisite hat
trying to give face to the world that won’t understand.
And as the clown you are, the anger is not shown but repressed,
and used with a honk honk.
So my friend do not threatened
thyself with a stoker.
For you are the same as the humans who laugh at you.
Liven up, tough it out
and he who laughs last, laughs best.

16
Lost in the Okefenokee

Andrew Potochnik

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

his dog's blue tattered collar clutched firmly in his hands.
He stepped over a patch of chain-ferns, their long stems tick-
ling his bare feet. He had abandoned his water-logged shoes
further back, they were impeding his progress. Night was
setting fast over the swamp, the prime time to catch the fiend
that ate his yellow lab, Gunther. The Native Americans
called the swamp the Okefenokee, "The Land of the Trem-
bling Earth," after deposits of decaying organic matter called
peat that covers the swamp floor. Gas boils up from beneath
the waters of the swamp and bursts under the peat, making it
seem as if the swamp itself is moving.
John found a patch of elevated ground where a large
pond-cypress stretched into the swamp canopy. Resting
against the tree he looked out into the swamp and shivered.
With the setting of the sun, came the rising of the swamp
denizens. Out before him was a large body of water that sat
nestled in the swamp; this was where the old reptile would
be. Only a monstrous alligator could inhabit such a place.
Only a monstrous alligator could take down Gunther.
John managed a weak smile, knowing his mother
was probably worrying herself into a fit over his absence.
Her tales of ghosts and monsters hadn't worked this time.
Tales that he figured she had concocted to prevent his ven-
turing into the swamp. There was no South Georgia Pig
Man, Skunk Ape, or Indian ghost; or, at least John hoped
there was not. At ten years old, he considered himself quite
brave. But as soon as he had reassured himself of the non
existence of monsters, the deep, bellowing, rumble of an
alligator destroyed his resolve.
John flattened himself against the cypress tree,
the rivets in the trunk digging into his back. The sun could
no longer be seen over the swamp. His courage was disap-
pearing with the light. He fingered the small, red Swiss
Army knife that he kept in his pocket. He realized then

17
 how inadequate of a weapon it would be against the alli-
gator.
"What am I doing out here?" he asked himself,
voice cracking.
He looked back from where he came through the
swamp. He had no real sense of direction, walking for
most of the day, taking no heed to where he was going.
John was lost in the Okefenokee. The thought settled over
him like the darkness of nighttime. He curled up, wrap-
ping his arms around his legs. He held Gunther's collar
tight between his hands. Overhead, the hoot of a barred
owl pierced the night. He glanced upward, the Spanish
moss hung low over the boughs of the cypress trees, look-
ing like claws in the dark. He grabbed his flashlight that
he had tucked in the side of his jeans and hurriedly flicked
the switch on. He shined the flashlight over the water.
Pairs of yellow eyes lit up in the beam of the light, like
tiny candles burning over the water's surface. There were
multiple monstrous alligators in this body of water.
The revenge that had so strongly consumed Johns
mind was chased away by his fear. He held the dog collar
close to his chest.
"I wish you were here, Gunther," he whispered.
John shuddered, reliving the moment when the
alligator took his dog. He had been napping on the back
porch of his house, when a loud thrashing in the nearby
creek awoke him.
He ran down to the creek to find Gunther's collar
on the bank and the alligator descending into the water. It
was a massive creature. Lunging into the creek, John dove
after the monster, tears streaming down his eyes as he
screamed for it to stop. The alligator was gone. Crawling
up the bank, he grabbed Gunther's shredded collar and
darted into the house. He knew what he had to do. Wast-
ing no time, he grabbed his Swiss Army knife and his
flashlight, and set off after the creature.
Now here he was in the thick of the Okefenokee,
lost and afraid. He had no doubts then, that there were
monsters and ghosts in the swamp. He could see in his
mind the Pig-man, walking hunched over from the weight

18
of its hairy back, lurking through the muck and mire of
the swamp. He could see its red eyes scanning the night
for human prey, licking its yellow tusks in anticipation.
Alligators would seem tame by comparison.
The splash of water resounded in the distance and
John jerked the flashlight in its direction. The beam
caught a flash of yellow, and then it disappeared behind
the cypress. It was the Pig-man, coming to take him to its
lair. John began to shiver uncontrollably, the flashlight
falling from his hand. He tried to pick it back up, but his
hand wouldn't stop shaking. It would take him, the Pig-
man would, and then it would slowly roast him over a fire
like a skewered pig. John was crying now and the tears
wouldn't stop. He was about to dart into the swamp,
screaming for his life, when something wet rolled across
his cheek. John screamed and fell back onto the ground.
Something wet, furry, and smelly, descended upon him.
He tried to fight off his assailant in the darkness, but soon
realized it wasn't eating him, but rather it was licking him.
He grabbed his flashlight and shined it on the creature.
His heart jumped in excitement. A familiar yellow face
was there to greet him. Gunther sat obediently before him,
covered in mud, tongue hanging happily from his mouth.
He embraced his dog, tears flowing from his eyes.
"I thought I lost you, boy," he cried, burying his
face in the dog's neck. "I can't believe you found me." He
could feel a patch of missing fur below Gunther's head. Shin-
ing the light on it, he saw a set of bite marks.
"You got in a fight with the neighbor's dog, that's
why your collar was off." John couldn't believe his stupidity.
"Why did you let me think that gator had got you?"
John held Gunther tight against his body, amazed at
his own stupidity, surprised that his dog had found him, but
safe none the less knowing he had his best friend to protect
him. The next morning a search party of friends and family
found John sleeping against the cypress tree. He was holding
Gunther tightly in his arms, protecting him from the alliga-
tors, ghosts, and pig-men that haunt the swamps of the Oke-
fenokee.

19
 The Bush

Heather Jarosz

There’s a gardenia bush outside my bedroom window.

It stands as tall as the broken-down fence that wraps
around our modest acre lot.
Sometimes it blooms
white flowers that shelter the stone rabbit that crouches
eternally under its low branches.
This is Grandma’s bush.
Silky white petals are not the masterpiece for the woman
who could once craft a beautiful dress,
the owl that once stared at us over the fireplace.
Even that is gone.
I can see the bush from my window,
and Mom can watch it while she sews.
Yet we never speak of the white gardenia flowers,
and we never pluck the purity from their branches.
These are Grandma’s flowers,
the last remaining glory for the woman who now teaches
the angels how to paint a proper sunset.
I wish I knew her better.

20
Road to Nowhere

Michael Neff

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

pepper, one for oregano, one for salt, and one for sugar.
The salt and sugar are indistinguishable from each other.
Neither jar has a label. Even if they had a label, it would
probably only be a useless ‘S’. How many meals have been
ruined because of these shakers? Salt added to iced tea.
Sugar poured on pepperoni pizza. So much misery caused by
deceptive appearances and worthless labels.
She finds her urge to pour salt in her own tea to be a
strange but a familiar desire. She reaches across the table for
a packet of artificial sweetener. Twenty-six and twenty
pounds heavier than she was in high school, and to many this
was a formula for sorrow and loneliness. She stirs in the fake
sugar and takes a few sips, and she begins to think why she
was waiting in this dull vinyl booth.
It was all because her friend wanted her to meet this
guy. Her friend said he was a perfect match and that she had
already given him her phone number, so she should expect a
call from him soon. The perfect guy called her later that day,
and he asked if she wanted to meet up for lunch tomorrow.
She knew the restaurant he suggested; it was a place where
all of the workers were covered in tattoos and wore shirts of
Che Guevara or local bands like Them! or Slight Prick.
Later that night she checked out his online profile.
Fortunately, his photos were public. The perfect guy wasn’t
half bad, she thought. He wasn’t unattractive. His status was
set as single, as was her profile. The interests, books, and
movies listed on his profile seemed in line with hers, or at
least what she told everyone she was interested in.
Something quickly unsettled her about his photos.
She soon realized it was because most of them were cropped
in some fashion. In each photo lingered the top of a redhead
or a bit of blond hair and half of a cheek. Another photo had
the top of a brunette’s head in the center of his chest, the face
strategically cut off. She wondered how many had come

21
 before her, and then thought about how many had come be-
fore him.
She then went through her profile, and she saw she
had plenty of photos with people who had been cropped out.
Good pictures were hard to come by she told herself, and she
wouldn’t let whoever she was with at the time make the
photo unusable forever. They were mistakes she could crop
out, but they were difficult to fully remove. Looking through
her photos she would often find a mysterious arm on her
shoulder or a guy’s chest and shoulders behind her, framing
her face. She tried to remember who these headless torsos
and mysterious hands belonged to. The first one she recog-
nized was Dan, the multiple growth hormone body-builder. It
was a purely physical relationship, painfully absent of any-
thing else. It lasted six months. Another was Scott, the one
who didn’t like to label their relationship, but had no trouble
labeling it as 'over' once he was done with her. Nine months.
Then Dave, who was in a band and was upfront with her
when he told her he would see other people while seeing her.
She was allowed to do the same and even mimicked his be-
havior. Fourteen months. Then Mark, he was nice but so
vanilla. Three months. Dale, the Conservative Christian who
only wanted sex, refused to buy birth control, but quickly
paid for the Plan B that one time. Five months. Greg. One
week. Derrick. Three weeks. Dave number two, and Doug,
and…
She paused and laughed thinking why so many of
the names began with ‘D’, but then she felt herself become
vaguely ill inside. She had given so much to them all. Every
time there was a piece left behind, like the lingering hands
and jaws in the photos. She couldn’t help but think of Lot’s
wife, and how she turned to salt when she looked back on
her past. She thought she needed to let the past go, or she
would become hard and petrified by it. Then she thought of
Eurydice, and how when her true love looked back, she
faded away forever. She wanted true love, but what if she
found it only to have it fade away. There had been too many
cruel distractions and wrong turns.
Starting immediately, she would no longer lower her
standards. The moment this perfect guy says something out

22
of line, is rude, or anything else, she would leave. Maybe not
leave, but she would definitely not go on a second date.

23
 The Argument of Reason

David Richardson

Characters:

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

ing a white cocktail dress with blue trimmings. Right is
young, and has a very matter-of-fact attitude. She is some-
what shorter than wrong, but not by much. Right is English,
and always uses correct grammar.
Wrong: Wrong is a middle-aged man, slightly devilish look-
ing sporting a goatee. He wears a black suit, with a red but-
ton up shirt underneath. His tie is black as well as his vest.
He is charismatic yet there is something that is almost creepy
about him. He is also English and his grammar is usually
correct.

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

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

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

Setting:

The dialogue takes place in a dark; possibly pitch black

room where Right and Wrong are arguing. This dark room
could represent The Undecided’s conscious.

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

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

Wrong: Strolling in nonchalantly from the opposite side of

the room. A light shines on him also. Wait! Wait! Wait just a
minute! What do you think you are doing?

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

telling what kind of trouble they’re going to get into! Espe-
cially if they make the wrong decision.

24
Wrong: Well then! (Sarcastically) Can you please inform as
to what is the wrong decision.

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

Wrong: Really?

Right: Really!

Wrong: Why?

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

goes. (Pointing to herself) I am right. (Pointing to Wrong)
and you are…

Wrong: Wrong?

Right: Exactly.

Wrong: Are you sure?

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

Wrong: Yes.

Right: Well of course I am!

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

Hmmm…

Right is staring at him expectantly with her arms crossed,

Wrong just keeps on stroking his chin.

Right: Well…

Wrong: Well I was just thinking.

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

Wrong: (Irritated) I was just thinking!

25
 Right: Yes…

Wrong: Let’s switch roles.

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

you be so foolish!? To think that you are capable of making a
right decision! Humph! (Crosses her arms a little tighter, her
nose tilts towards the air just a little bit.)

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

then her.) This would have anything to do with me being a
man and you being a woman would it?

Right: Of course not!

Wrong: Well then… Why?

Right: Because I’m right and you’re…

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

I know! But…

Right: But what!

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

decision.

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

actly what side of the shoulder you’re on?

Wrong: Exactly my point!

Right: What is?

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

ders right?

Right: Right.

Wrong: And they can’t see us right?

26
Right: Right…

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

surely be characters just like us on either of our shoulders
also?

Right: (Stops tapping her foot)

Wrong sees that he has caught her attention and displays a

devilish smile.

Wrong: Hmm…?

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

little.) Well even if there are little people on our shoulders.
You would most certainly have men on BOTH of yours!

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

mean that.

Right: (Realizes what she said stops, a very slight bit of sur-
prise creeps over her face.) Well of course not!

Wrong: Well then why did you say that?

Right: It was a joke!

Wrong: It didn’t sound like a joke when you said it. You
had passion! Why is that? You always have more passion
than I do when it comes to our little arguments.

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

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

the better of your “right” side. (Uses his fingers to put the
words into quotes.)

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

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

27
 Wrong: As I was saying before. If we’ve got little people
on our shoulders, one would be Right and one would be
Wrong.

Right: Okay….

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

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

Wrong: True, but suppose that I was the only one available
to make a decision.

Right: But that would never happen!

Wrong: Suppose it did.

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

wrong decisions.

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

wouldn’t that make it right?

Right: No.

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

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

Wrong: Sure my dear.

Right: Confused!

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

Right: Would you like to wear my dress also?

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

probably contributed to more ridiculous things than that of a
man in a dress with all of my… wrong decisions.

28
Right rolls her eyes.

Wrong: I’ll tell you what; I’ll give you another scenario.
Assume that one of our “flock” has to make a decision of
whether or not they must get into a little bit of a tussle with
another. The “right” decision would be to avoid this conflict.
The “wrong” decision would be to beat the other like a dirty
rug. However, what if by making this “right” decision, others
see that this person is a pushover, one that can be taken ad-
vantage of. In fact, what if, by not getting into this fight, this
man, or woman is seen as a weak and is therefore beaten up
just because of that fact. Where does the right decision lie in
that case?

Right: Your logic never ceases to amaze me.

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

Right: And what exactly would that point be?

Wrong: That sometimes our roles are somewhat switched.

Sometimes people are forced to be put into situations that
don’t have a right or a wrong answer. Sometimes there is
only a choice, nothing more, nothing less, just simply choice.
Could you agree to that?

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

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

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

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

way, or else all would be good. So, how about you stay on
your side, and I stay on my side, and you can play your little
mind games over there. Agreed?

Wrong: Agreed.

(Both exit.)

29
 The Hole

Amber Stone

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

the tall, wicked looking tree that would make faces at
me through my window at night. When all the lights were
out and my parents were sleeping in their bed upstairs, I
would see it. The tree liked to glare and while the wind
would howl through my creaky old house the long, gangly
branches would try to reach into my window and take me
away.
And yet I still loved the night.
My mother did not want me going near the hole.
Every time I would ask her, she would look up at me through
bloodshot eyes and out her bottle of poison down and say,
“Margaret, that hole leads to Hell. If you go to it, you will
burn for eternity.”
On the rare occasion my daddy was home and he
and Mother weren’t screaming about perfumes and lipsticks,
I would talk to him about the hole. Daddy never seemed all
that concerned with it, though, and simply told me I might
get hurt if I fall in. When I told him that Mother said it led to
Hell, he got angry and said Mother knew nothing of Hell
save for what her bottle of Whiskey taught her.
Daddy was home a lot less after that.
I remember when I turned nine that my greatest
wish was to finally go to the hole. I wanted to know if my
mother was right, if it truly did lead to Hell. But I couldn’t.
No matter which direction I would come from, the tree al-
ways watched me. Anytime I would get too close, the
branches would reach out and try to snatch me up and drag
me into the unknown. I began to realize that the tree was the
hole’s guardian. It made sure that no one went it, but if they
did, it made sure no one came out. It frightened me and I
went to my mother.
“Mother,” I said. “If the hole is Hell, then is that
wicked tree the Devil?”
My mother began to weep. I did not know why.

30
 Weeks passed by before I saw Daddy again. He
seemed overjoyed and relieved to see me, as though he ex-
pected not too. He came charging in the front door with this
expression of pure rage on his face that all but disappeared
when he saw me standing in the hallway. He scooped me up
into his arms and kept muttering my name over and over
again. It was bewildering and so I just hung there until he
put me down. He stared at me with this serious look and
asked me where Mother was.
I did not know; I hardly ever knew where she was.
I told that to Daddy.
He was angry again. Instead of yelling, he very
calmly told me to go upstairs to my room and gather my
things together, that we were going on a little vacation, just
me and him. When I asked him why, he just repeated that I
needed to get all my things, and quickly. I asked about
Mother, and he snapped at me to hurry and that she was not
coming. Baffled, I slowly started the climb up the stairs.
It took me a few minutes to pack my backpack with
the things I thought I would need. I grabbed my favorite
dresses and shirts and pants, my toothbrush, hairbrush, and
my favorite teddy and stuffed them all into my bag. As I was
leaving my room, Mother burst in and knocked me back-
wards onto the floor.
“Where are you going?” she screeched.
I looked up at her and saw her bottle was empty.
“Daddy is downstairs; he says we are going on a trip.”
Her ugly face contorted and she plundered down-
stairs. I followed more slowly and leaned against the railing
to watch as she stopped just in front of Daddy. Shouts and
screams began to fly from both of my parents. Daddy
shouted that my mother was unfit, that she could not just call
someone to say what she had said, to threaten to do that to
someone else’s child. He shouted that she was useless and
that I should not be forced to put up with it. Mother
screamed at him that it was all his fault she was the way she
was, that I was a perfectly content little girl, that she and I
were doing just fine without him. She screamed that she had
a plan for us that would make everything beautiful and easy
and it had nothing to do with Daddy.

31
 Daddy did not like that. He grabbed hold of
Mother’s shoulders and bellowed right into her face words
that I could not make out. His face was almost purple in
anger and he seemed oblivious to Mother’s nails that clawed
at his hands to let her go. They kept shouting and screaming
and swearing and I turned around and walked back to my
room. The last thing I heard before I shut my door was the
sound of Mother’s bottle shattering against the wall and the
front door slamming shut with a horrifying finality.
Darkness had settled onto the world like a heavy
blanket. I sat myself before my window and stared outside.
The tree was there, and as it always did, it stared at me
through the black. Its face glared and its hands reached to-
wards me and I shivered. The tree seemed amused by my
fear and it smirked with its evil, depthless eyes. I could see
the hole sitting just behind it, as though it was cowering be-
hind its protector, and I glared right back.
There was no moon this night.
Time disappeared while I sat, but the creak of my
door opening tore me away. Mother walked in and stood
against the door frame. Her eyes were gleaming in the dark-
ness in an almost demonic way and she reached a hand out.
“Margaret, my Margaret,” she murmured. It
sounded like the croak of a dying cat. “Come, we are going
to the hole.”
I did not get up. Something was wrong, I could feel
it. “Why? You said the hole is Hell.”
Mother laughed and I fought not to cover my ears.
“Oh child, don’t you worry about that. I didn’t mean it. Now,
come with me.”
I swallowed. The desire to go to the hole was rag-
ing in my veins and even though I had a horrible feeling, I
stood and walked to my mother. I had to go, I had to see, I
had to find out. We walked together to the backyard but I
stopped before we could get too close to the tree. I had not
noticed before, but Mother was holding something in her
hand. It was dark and it, like her wild eyes, gleamed in the
darkness.
“Mother, where is Daddy?”
“He’s gone home. Stand here, girl.” Her voice was

32
no longer soft but hard and sharp.
I slowly stepped up beside her, all the while not
taking my eyes off the trees limbs. They were moving in the
breeze, and I swear they were moving towards us, towards
me. I knew that at any moment, Mother and I were going to
disappear. I tried to step back but Mother’s hands were sud-
denly on me and holding me in place.
In one of her hands, Mother was holding a gun.
I stopped moving and stared at it for a long moment.
Suddenly, I understood. I understood what my parents were
always fighting about, I understood what the lipsticks and
perfumes meant, and I understood what they had been fight-
ing about today. I understood why Daddy had come barging
into the house and then been so relieved to see me…
Alive.
I understood that Mother had been telling the truth
about the hole. As we stood beside it, and as hot wind bil-
lowed out and blew our hair around our faces, I realized it
really was Hell. But the tree was not the Devil; the tree was
only a minion. My mother…my mother was the Devil. Her
hair morphed into horns upon her head and her mouth split
into a wide and evil grin. She held my wrist tightly in her
clawed hand and raised the other that held the gun. It
touched against my forehead lightly, almost as though it was
kissing me, and then it abruptly disappeared.
I tumbled violently down into the hole and I real-
ized that Mother was right. Hell truly did burn.

33
 Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam & Haberdashery

Frank Lambright

Wonderfully well-manicured blue-hued hands

hold tightly to a crystal rocks glass and matching decanter
adorned with gold filigree and filled
with an equally blue-hued sparkling liquid.

These same blue-hued and well-manicured hands

are connected to the bald blue man
in a white well-tailored Zoot Suit,
who himself is leaning
on the mahogany of a time-worn drink rail
in the jazz room of Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam & Haberdashery,
while drinking from his gold-filigreed crystal rocks glass.

Phil's Vintage Jazz Jam & Haberdashery

is a whirlwind of activity accentuated
by the tangy gray cigar smoke swirling
above the cacophony
of striking tenor saxophone music,
jubilant patrons,
and the constant ballet
of the fully competent wait staff
that works the jazz room of Phil's establishment.

Intrigued by the presence of the bald blue-hued man

in a white well-tailored Zoot Suit
standing so near to the normally secluded
corner table in Phil's jazz room,
I decided to slake my curiosity
and find out the nature
of the sparkling blue-hued concoction
that he is drinking from the gold-filigreed crystal decanter.

Seemingly surprised
to be interrupted from his enjoyment
of the striking saxophone solo,

34
the bald blue-hued man
in the white Zoot Suit
turns slowly in the direction
of my position
along the mahogany drink rail of Phil's jazz room
and with consternation simply answers,
“water.”

35
 The Dance

Shaun Hutchinson

There is a moment:

a white glow,
close to the ground, moving in
rings as it silences the room,
even as the music can be felt
in the teeth,

and his hand presses

across your shoulder,
hangs there, heavy,
supporting all of him
until fingers softly slide
to the nape of your neck.

And though no ice

falls below your collar,
an exhilarated chill
unifies the whole body
with its environment

as each of your vertebrae

begin to move.

36