1 20 11 https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/3eb1c605272742dc1b4cecf5ea7c0ea1.jpg 1eeff743a59fe81e784a4416750847f7 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context HE001 Title A name given to the resource Heritage Exhibits Description An account of the resource This is an artificial collection for the organization of images, videos, audio and other files for the <a href="https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/exhibits/show/heritagecove">Heritage Cove digital exhibit</a>, and is not intended to for casual browsing or to create relationships between items. Not all items in this collection are owned or stewarded by Utah Tech University Library, but are included in the exhibit with permission from their creator or repository. Some description information may be copied from the original repository. Metadata does not always conform to Utah Tech University Special Collections &amp; Archives standards. Audience A class of entity for whom the resource is intended or useful. <em>Please Note</em>: Some items contain historical use of words and images that may be offensive, insenstive, or harmful. See <a href="https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/about#disclaimer">"About"</a> for more info. Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data drawing Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Reb 2006 Title A name given to the resource Reb Mascot Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2006 Description An account of the resource Reb, the red hawk mascot for Dixie State College of Utah. The hawk wears a blue hat with red 'D' and a white jersey that says "Rebels 1." A big red 'D' is behind the hawk and various sports equipment are around it, including a soccer ball, volleyball, football, baseball bat, baseball, basketball, and golf clubs. Dixie State Athletics is written on the bottom portion of the image. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource image/jpg Type The nature or genre of the resource StillImage Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Dixie State College of Utah Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT</a> Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Utah Tech University Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Image downloaded from dixieathletics.com, February 18, 2006, using the Internet Archive Wayback Machine. <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20060218055302/http://www.dixieathletics.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://web.archive.org/web/20060218055302/http://www.dixieathletics.com/</a> Extent The size or duration of the resource. 25.5 KB Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived dixieathletics.com, February 18, 2006.<br /><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20060218055302/http://www.dixieathletics.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://web.archive.org/web/20060218055302/http://www.dixieathletics.com/</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Dixie State College of Utah https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/3f8de2589e60a847bc2e6392dd5251c8.pdf 38b12895f188a67dc81220b197a6212d PDF Text Text $5.00 The Southern Quill 2012 Benjamin Anderson • Stephen B. Armstrong Marilyn Ball • Zachary Bawden Prudence Bice • Nad Richard Brown Marleen Bussma • John Chavez D. Gary Christian • Danielle Christensen Hunter Cox • Curious Micki Ericksen • Lin Floyd Misty Frampton • Trisha Jo Haber Tiffani Hinton • Katie Patterson Hulett Amanda Jacobs • Troy Lynn Kami McArthur • Greg Murray Rachel Robins • Scott Sandberg Karla Seamons • Ward Symes Jon Thompson • Marie Tollstrup Betty J. Vickers • Colette Warner Madison Warnock The SOUTHERN QUILL �The Southern Quill Established 1951 Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice, and I’ll tell you a story. —F. Scott Fitzgerald Copyright © 2012, The Southern Quill Rights revert to creators upon publication. i �The Southern Quill Staff Managing Editor: Elaine Wilson-Sharp Creative Director: Trisha Jo Haber Layout Editor: Lichelle Christensen Poetry: Hunter Cox, Chief Editor Erika Larsen Amanda Jacobs Jasmine Day Fiction: Sean Scott, Chief Editor Garrett Faylor Visual Arts: Andrew Neff, Chief Editor Trisha Jo Haber Lichelle Christensen Non-fiction: Lacy Culpepper, Chief Editor Jenica Maxwell Micki Ericksen Promotions Director: Garrett Faylor Cover Photograph: Nevada by Greg Murray Advising Editor: Jim Haendiges ii �Table of Contents Poetry An Author’s Nightmare Prudence Bice April 29th Kami McArthur Finding Autumn Marilyn Ball A Stream Bed Lies Scott Sandberg Dia de Los Muertos Rachel Robins Signification, in Praxis Rends John Chavez Daguerreotype: A Scene for the Artist’s Pencil John Chavez In Praise Tiffani Hinton The Course of the Sun Come to Its End John Chavez Night of Four Moons John Chavez Forty Miles of Wind of Roses D. Gary Christian Desert Day Jon Thompson Mosaic Marie Tollstrup A Little Buckaroo Marleen Bussma Release. Amanda Jacobs Thurgood’s Last Words Nad Richard Brown Haikus Lin Floyd The Dream Boaters Betty J. Vickers Down Home Betty J. Vickers At Bryce Canyon Colette Warner Ruin Hunter Cox Schooled By An Old War Colette Warner iii 2 4 5 6 8 10 12 13 14 16 18 20 21 22 24 25 26 27 28 30 31 32 �Young Authors Death Curious, Dynamic Poets Crew Imagination With No Boundaries Misty Frampton Rebirth Zachary Bawden 36 38 39 Visual Arts New Wolf Benjamin Andersen So Close Benjamin Andersen Zion March Snow Last Greg Murray Nancy Katie Patterson Hulett Rukmani Katie Patterson Hulett Roundabout Seasons Madison Warnock Reflection on Still Waters Rachel Robins Pine Valley Butterfly Micki Ericksen The Lone Road Trisha Jo Haber Spring Sun Danielle Christensen 42 43 43 44 44 45 46 47 48 49 Fiction 52 For the Birds Karla Seamons 57 Yuyoku—The Fanatics Troy Lynn 62 Greg Murray His Place and Time Non-Fiction John Wayne, Producer: A History of Wayne-Fellows Productions Stephen B. Armstrong Tribute Ward Symes iv 68 81 �Editor’s Note F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “The reason one writes isn’t the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say.” Authors world-wide have proven this to be the case, none the least of which have come to The Southern Quill. As managing editor of The Southern Quill for 2011-12, I am remarkably impressed with the writings of my fellow students and residents of our beautiful southwest. We feature many unique stories, poems, essays, and photographs that reflect the beauty of our surroundings and the talent of those who observe them. I am also pleased to announce the addition of our Young Author section, showcasing the talents of three teen writers and paving the way for even more submissions in the future. As we welcome our new advising editor, Dr. Jim Haendiges, and embrace the transitions and new happenings at Dixie State College, the staff at The Southern Quill has worked tirelessly to bring our readers the best of Southern Utah’s creativity. However, we absolutely feel that all the work was worth it. As author Tapani Bagge ruminated, “Everything that doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. And later on, you can use it in some story.” Enjoy, v �vi �SQ The Southern Quill poetry Marilyn Ball Prudence Bice Nad Richard Brown Marleen Bussma John Chavez D. Gary Christian Hunter Cox Lin Floyd Tiffani Hinton Amanda Jacobs Kami McArthur Rachel Robins Scott Sandberg Jon Thompson Marie Tollstrup Betty J. Vickers Colette Warner 1 �The Southern Quill An Author’s Nightmare Prudence Bice blank page… I pierce my soul splintered words ravage against my skull but find no purchase virgin paper…untouched…undefiled an angry, hot breath escapes my crumbling lips, setting fire to the intricate, woven fibers flames race down my limbs, searing veins and sinews, blackening my skin, stopping wear shackles bind my wrists ….a chasm opens and I teeter at the edge desperate fingers squeeze my lifeline until blood that cannot be washed away stains the calloused flesh indigo a solitary drop falls from the tip of a bitten nail, splattering into the chasm below screams tear through me, ripping away pieces of my essence that catch the wind and drift away frantically I reach forth to gather them back into the gaping hole ripped through my bosom the air is empty 2 �The Southern Quill Prudence Bice I have lost a part of my deepest self I am dead before I have begun laid out before I have lived blank page… covering my coffin I am forgotten 3 �The Southern Quill April 29th Kami McArthur Droplets pound the window pane. They cling to the leaves of the fig tree, wash the tomatoes in the garden, run down the hill in the gutter, and reflect red, green, and briefly yellow, stretched like a kaleidoscope, across the asphalt, under the lights of the intersection. Cars splash. Windshield wipers swipe the water, and it streams down hoods, shimmering, like silver. 4 �The Southern Quill Marilyn Ball Finding Autumn Marilyn Ball By car we travel out of the Mojave to find autumn treasure; mountains come near, lose their cerulean blue, wrinkled with crevice and oak, landscape sings along; we climb past grazing cattle, barbed wire fencing, old pines. Once we rambled these high country trails, randomly picked the falling gold coins of aspen trees as they shed their beauty among pines eternally green. Higher a few maples, red and mauve toss their limbs, flirt; they are the focus of eyes searching the paint brush of fall. Walking in benevolent sun, we taste change in breezes that ruffle past us, shaking leaves in a whirlwind of dance to free dusty gold into autumn. Feel a post-summer breeze ruffle past us. Leaves shake in unexpected whirlwinds of dance freed to spend their gold in the dusty haze of autumn. 5 �The Southern Quill A Stream Bed Lies Scott Sandberg A stream bed lies, empty and dry weathered rocks show the water marks and the virility of yesterday The rocks speak, revealing the peak of the stream’s slow and eventual decline The plants decay, now too far away from the life giving gift of the waves A boy, downstream, forgets his dream of 6 �The Southern Quill Scott Sandberg sailing the ocean blue The Dam holds fast, performing its task A stream bed lies 7 �The Southern Quill Dia de Los Muertos Rachel Robins Finely ground marigolds pouring from her hand to the earth like falling rays of sunshine. She gazes at her orange-stained fingers hoping the fire-colored flakes will shine to underground caves, like torches, lighting his way back to her. Sickly sweet decay of the flowers seeping into her skin, causing her bones to ache. She walks softly as orange-yellow flecks crackle beneath her feet on the path leading home. The warm September sun beats upon her back, on her Dia de Los Muertos. It felt different now than the chill of traditional November. No shawl necessary as she kneels upon the mound encasing her love. Remembering the tales from her childhood, Abuela’s words whispering like ghosts in her ears. If you invite the spirits of the dead, if you cook their foods they will walk the path of the marigolds, returning to you… if you listen, you will hear them. El Pan de Muertos she made this morning had grown cold next to white sugar skulls as void of color as her life now. Growing marigolds all 8 �The Southern Quill Rachel Robins summer long, planning for this day, her house becoming a splash of blinding color, a mask covering her pain, silencing questioning glances. Today was a year since the tumbling bricks of the towers crushed the life out of her heart, driving a lifetime of dreams deeper underground than the buried steel of ground zero. Finding the time till November stretching out like the lengthening of her arms, grasping for what no longer was there, waiting for him in the stillness, marigolds piling at her feet, knowing if he cannot follow the path to her, she will walk the path alone, joining him in the darkness of tomorrow. 9 �The Southern Quill Signification, in Praxis Rends John Chavez 1 Syllable— Verb from Noun: & Every Plundered Yet the poet writes… —When we prepare ourselves for this ardor, we prepare ourselves as the eye does fixed to an alabaster of tree-needled stars; When we are Other in a tangle of Aspen, we are calm in the unharmul wind, yet in these words is nothing that will satisfy me; When we are led by our shamemachine, we write: Dear X: Forgive me, I’m no good at this; our lust has etched in me a crevice of silence; When we perceive life as Art, we create art in the human form: overture in presence & forfeiture in absence the very condition of solitude 10 �The Southern Quill John Chavez 2 Syntax— Noun from Verb: & Every Nocturne of Yet the poet writes… —When we prepare ourselves for this reeved evening, we prepare ourselves as feathers do fixed to the robin’s breast abstracting air in flight; When we are Sutures in the blondwood winter Sun, we are ourselves an interior expression: a bight & eyed landscape; When we perceive the pursuit of as life as Art as shameful, we reinscribe the prevalent image; When we write: Dear X: Void of writing is the poet’s social responsibility, we evidence a hole in the human voice: its tendons blackened now to charcoal the very order of misgiving 11 �The Southern Quill Daguerreotype: A Scene for the Artist’s Pencil John Chavez Crowds of women and boys flocked around to see the new-comers —Josiah Gregg, 1844 What do I know of purgatory? To answer this bodying loss is necessary. Of purgatory I know: Aragón family, unknown; San Miguel County, The settlement in the southwest, exact location: a carreta of cottonwood & peachleaf willow in the naked field of shadows, the tufts of Rustyellow grass, & like lovers, with their windswooning, bending to the wheels’ posture, the adobe in the distance burnt black As midnight, its mudlinteled windows empty as the only livedrecord existence ever lived here at all. These are the Unaccounted moments of purgatory, that where the ridge ends its going the rich once arrived in ox-carts Addicted to the inebriety of the Word of the Lord, to the dearness of the pistols’ ordained history. 12 �The Southern Quill Tiffani Hinton In Praise Tiffani Hinton Light from the blinds haloed the spider strolling across my knuckle. He was delicate, graceful as a dancer, and could be confused with a freckle if he stood still long enough. His legs were thinner than fur so my skin could barely sense him. I giggled with delight as he swung from the branches of my arm hair. 13 �The Southern Quill The Course of the Sun Come to Its End John Chavez —after Louis Aragon & for René Char In the mirror the lake makes of the sylvan of trees, the afternoon is saltwhite, & eventual is the dust evening fashions of day, where the landscape is a working clock. In the tessitura of dark the two of us weave ourselves & in no other bed but our arms The dawn grows grey here, & we arrive at our wakeful tombs, vowelthick and woefully lustful. Let us make arms of us, she pleads, pleating her throat, but her words are two doors— 14 �The Southern Quill John Chavez one; hinge-tight w/ dust; the other Emaciated as the blondwood sun. Remote you and I are yesterday, & our bodies On the horizon unstitch themselves from night’s carnage. Somewhere in the world where the calle Stitches its hem morning makes us a mural of shadows, & our presence praises the deaf Harvest, the season of silence in the San Luis Valley, the darkest of hell. 15 �The Southern Quill Night of Four Moons John Chavez —for Federico García Lorca Here is everywhere here where the dark’s arrhythmia is hemmed in blackberry, reed, and hawthorn & interred into its bed night peddles death again. Morning, the city bleeds its first light of spring & the river invites us in where a bohemian waxwing warming itself lends clothing to the cornea’s nakedness. In my bones I am left with the vision of flight & rot of air, the open wound of the ridge, the valley stretched out before me. If I die, leave the balcony open…I write my family, for I am more these days detached from the sky’s myriad of textiles which at midnight refuse to blanket me with sleep that when I recall the poet’s words— 16 �The Southern Quill John Chavez Let me perish in my bed dreaming of golden flowers where the dead wear mossy wings & the day is a wounded boy— I am left ill-repaired in the abating light. 17 �The Southern Quill Forty Miles of Wind of Roses D. Gary Christian It’s forty miles through fields of grain and prairie grasses blowing. The time for horses and buggies is past but Indians still travel from the Blood Reserve to Raymond for July the First. Horses hooves put dust to flight, drum on the ground in rhythmic pattern, measure the cadence of beating wings like birds that rise and whirl away. A raw-boned man with braided hair sits in the buggy tugging at the reins. His wife, whose body has born the brunt of child birth and years, sits beside him. 18 �The Southern Quill D. Gary Christian They speak sparingly in clucking sounds of the Blackfoot tongue. Standing in the back, their children watch and listen as miles meld with hours. They are one with wind and wild roses, the prairie sky and thunder that calls to them from far away among the clouds. 19 �The Southern Quill Desert Day Jon Thompson As day begins, night’s chill retreats into shadows to avoid sun’s censure. Daylight flows inexorably down from sky-piercing mountain peaks to valley floor. Night’s frosty coat is sluffed off from open spaces folded and stored in spots of shade then dissipates as sunlight claims dominion over shadows. Coyote and owl concealed, dove and cottontail emerge from hiding. The roadrunner fluffs its feathers to bask in the warming sun. Air and soil warm under the sun’s gentle caress as the desert begins its day. At end of day the sun retreats, night’s chill follows at the heels of sun’s receding rays like an unwanted stepchild. The desert sleeps, and dreams of starlit grays triumphant coyote howl bat wings in leathery pursuit, and the silent descent of owl. 20 �The Southern Quill Marie Tollstrup Mosaic Marie Tollstrup We are splintered shards of mankind’s composite photo. Our histories, our past wing out in windows. We are varied mosaics— each shard holding light reflecting joyful pinks of births, tearful violets of premature deaths, timid yellows of failed relationships, dedicated blues of won races, calm greens of healing auras, flaming reds of committed marriages. A mere swab of our inner cheek unearths trails to the genesis of our 150,000 year old DNA. We are splintered shards of mankind’s composite photo— vessels holding our mosaic past. 21 �The Southern Quill A Little Buckaroo Marleen Bussma His boots were scuffed with heels worn down. They scraped the ground as he walked by. Small puffs of dust rose as he passed. The powdered dirt was soft and dry. The fabric of his jeans was dark, suggesting they were fairly new. There was no belt to keep them tight upon this little buckaroo. He stood at half past three feet high, an impish look upon his face. The empty spaces in his smile said new teeth would soon take their place. He was a cowboy, I could tell. He wore his hat with attitude. The tin star pinned onto his shirt showed he was in a lawman mood. He now patrolled close to the street where people gathered in a crowd. The town’s parade would soon begin with longhorn cattle lowing loud. The discipline was now in hand. His job as sheriff was well done. If any scoundrel made a scene he would rely upon his gun. 22 �The Southern Quill Marleen Bussma It looked real shiny, like brand new with plastic sides along the grip. Its lethal make-believe spoke out as he held it beside his hip. He had no holster for his gun, a pocket in his jeans made do. It was not really deep enough for this town’s sheriff buckaroo. His gun was loose and not secure. It teetered as if soon to fall. He had to keep his vigilance with upright gun at duty’s call. Parade participants passed by. Some candy was tossed through the air. This sheriff sought retirement for now a boy was standing there. He scampered, dashed and ran around to pick up goodies from the street. He stuffed his pockets full of loot, while dodging many pairs of feet. He may work for the law again when boyish escapades are done. There always will be peace to keep if he can hang on to his gun. 23 �The Southern Quill Release. Amanda Jacobs Blood red, beautiful bloom. Flourishes—flowers beneath the body. 24 �The Southern Quill Nad Richard Brown Thurgood’s Last Words Nad Richard Brown Thurgood, warmed by morning sun sits staring out his upstairs window counting yesterdays. The furrows in his face are troughs for tears falling from eyes that mirror the clairvoyant gaze of age and sorrow. On his lap rests an empty yellow pad where he will list crowded hours of young and glorious obituary deeds, perhaps some worthy of inscription on his granite marker. At midday, the sun still shines upon an empty pad. In his mind, he plods through memories of 87 years of rising and setting suns, tries to squeeze them through his pen into one sentence. As the gondolier of evening sculls his way toward earth, Thurgood begins to write. Late afternoon the following day the cleaning lady finds him sitting stiff, pen still locked in his gouty hand. The yellow pad mourned just these lines. My life was spent jousting with windmills, praising fools and . . . 25 �The Southern Quill Haikus Lin Floyd #1 remembering joy pain wraps me like a cocoon I long to fly free #2 struggle to be free I remain quiet, afraid preparing for life #3 fog creeps quietly plays a game of hide and seek till sunshine appears #4 the rusty hay rake sits silently alone with a forgotten barn #5 spring blossoms await sun’s warm caress to open rebirth’s miracle 26 �The Southern Quill Betty J. Vickers The Dream Boaters Betty J. Vickers Leaning on their oars, their eyes hollow like the ends of crumbling burned-out logs, the boaters stand mute—yet call with wide voiceless lips messages heard only in the marrow, not in the ear. Too whoo too whoo, awake, awake. Silently they drift in ragged file toward an uncertain shoreline as though urged by an ancient, yet undiscovered polestar. Sheer, vaporous arms lift and sway in midnight’s pallor beckoning, chiding and sighing Too whoo too whoo, awake, awake. Then pale in the predawn rush-light they scull outward on the sluggish tide with heads bowed low in misty hoods until all that remains is the hint of a mournful owl call and the faint drone of tentative dirge benumbed in the halls of waking bones. 27 �The Southern Quill Down Home Betty J. Vickers We arrive, each from different places wearing different clothes and struggling with odd-sized luggage. We are suddenly overcome with the sharp weight of memory of common beginnings when there was no separateness and we were only her little girls—her babies—at a time when we teased and played and created griefs we couldn’t fathom until our own sons and daughters made the meanings all too clear. We talk and called it relating—secretly proud of who we have become, what we’ve managed to achieve before she brought us together again. The oppressive Southern heat stifles. Drains. Donning shorts and tank tops, we reach for fans, pour iced drinks and sit around the kitchen table with bare toes hooked over rungs made smooth by childhood toes. 28 �The Southern Quill Betty J. Vickers We look like a bunch of scrub women, we laugh, but the quip shrivels—fragments—then morphs into the deep wrenching sobs that had refused to burst their tight grown-up bonds: Dear God, did you have to take her so soon? 29 �The Southern Quill At Bryce Canyon Colette Warner Hoodoo’s glow, orange against white, hardened statues planted in sand. A hawk’s wide wingspan tilts into the thermal. Swallows dart and swoop like roller coasters on the breeze. Inquisitive prairie dogs pop up and pose, squatting on their haunches. Hard blue-green berries on Utah Juniper sway with the drifting aroma of pine and sage. Seeking refuge in this natural place, I’m released from reclusive rooms. Relishing time and space for quiet contemplation, I peer at new possibilities, shoving shadows back behind hoodoos. Becoming free to spiral into skies possessed by swallows and red tailed hawks, I soar. 30 �The Southern Quill Hunter Cox Ruin Hunter Cox Just an old empty house, on a dirt road rarely traveled. The tattered remnant stands, a ruined monument of time, come and gone, When once its wooden bones housed a heart of flowing, vibrant life. Its broken windows, like sad eyes no longer reflect the memories of nuptial embraces, and smiling lovers whispering promises in the dark. Its paint-less walls no longer able to hold the sweet melodies of musing mothers soothing crying babes on blue winter mornings, or the silent prayers of work-worn fathers bearing, like Atlas, the weight of their own worlds on strained shoulders. Faint echoes of existence still float through each retired room like phantoms too forgotten to be feared. But the light of life, like the extinguished candle left on the window pane, no longer illuminates the fibers of this crumbling cradle. Still, these breathless whispers of birth, and life, and death, manage to tickle the ears of our empathy. Just an old empty house, the sacred shadow of a home. A time stained window to a past only remembered— by ghosts. 31 �The Southern Quill Schooled By An Old War Colette Warner I study Dad, young, years before I was born. Emerging from his protected youth on Grandpa’s mountain ranch, he smiles, bright-eyed, beneath his Navy dress hat. He is super-imposed over two images, floating just below an American flag and just above the familiar view he loved of high desert juniper marching to meet craggy snow-dusted granite peaks. He learned to shoot a rifle while poaching deer for supper, never imagining he might shoot big deck guns at zig-zagging Kamikaze Japs. He learned to dance the Virginia Reel and two step with the farmer’s prim daughter in that one-room schoolhouse doing double duty as the church, never dreaming he would ogle grass-skirted Polynesian girls wiggling a wickedly seductive hula. 32 �The Southern Quill Colette Warner He harvested alfalfa, boosting bales onto a wagon, slowly prodding a team of horses across peaceful pastures, unaware he would soon traverse the Pacific on brimming, buckling whitecaps as the world’s stability eroded and bombs of war exploded youthful innocence. I never knew that gentle country boy. I was raised by the Veteran who was schooled in a wider world by an old war. 33 �The Southern Quill 34 �SQ The Southern Quill young authors Zachary Bawden Curious, Dynamic Poets Crew Misty Frampton 35 �The Southern Quill Death Curious, Dynamic Poets Crew Never had to deal with death before. I have to take a deep breath, my mind is sore. I’ve been thinking a lot about living, but even more about dying. The frustration this question is giving. Dismal silence as I commence crying. What happens when we die? Is there really something after this? God doesn’t ever answer me when I ask why. My mother reassures me, my forehead she gives a kiss. Confused at this anomaly of an after-world. Death comes to everybody, every boy, every girl. Why am I so confused with something that happens so much? I willingly abused the time in which I crushed. More focused then I have ever been. Does it really take the contemplation of death to find myself within? Trying to find some inspiration, life has left a welt. 36 �The Southern Quill Curious, Dynamic Poets Crew I want to change the station, and figure out the cards I’ve been dealt. I ponder upon the agnostic, is god real? It’s deserving to the optic, there is sadness I conceal. Trying to catch an already fallen star. I try so hard, to reach it, but it’s just too far. 37 �The Southern Quill Imagination With No Boundaries Misty Frampton Diversity is variety Like a snuff of spearmint Like a florid, moltey garden Like a creamy vegetable medley Like Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony Like all the vivid, radiant fish in the sea Diversity is imagination with no boundaries 38 �The Southern Quill Zachary Bawden Rebirth Zachary Bawden The clock rings out, for all to hear, Many souls arise and take despair A light shines out they follow in hope Nothing becomes of them they just disappear Dozens of ravens take flight in shock of the sight Then the darkness is gone and a Gong! again Light returns and floods the valley The cries are gone and all that’s left The grass glows greener The sun has frightened death and none shall perish At least until tonight . . . 39 �The Southern Quill 40 �SQ The Southern Quill visual art Benjamin Andersen Danielle Christensen Micki Ericksen Trisha Jo Haber Katie Patterson Hulett Greg Murray Rachel Robins Madison Warnock 41 �The Southern Quill New Wolf Benjamin Andersen 42 �The Southern Quill Visual Arts So Close Benjamin Andersen Zion March Snow Last Greg Murray 43 �The Southern Quill Nancy Katie Patterson Hulett Rukmani Katie Patterson Hulett 44 �The Southern Quill Visual Arts Roundabout Seasons Madison Warnock 45 �The Southern Quill Reflection on Still Waters Rachel Robins 46 �Visual Arts The Southern Quill Pine Valley Butterfly Micki Ericksen 47 �The Southern Quill The Lone Road Trisha Jo Haber 48 �The Southern Quill Visual Arts Spring Sun Danielle Christensen 49 �The Southern Quill 50 �SQ The Southern Quill fiction Greg Murray Troy Lynn Karla Seamons 51 �The Southern Quill For the Birds Karla Seamons The brakes squealed as Wayne’s truck rolled to a stop in front of the single-story clapboard house with a square “For Sale” sign stuck in the shaggy grass. Just as he cut the engine and pushed open the door, a red Mazda screeched to a halt behind him. Tanner slammed his car door and jogged toward his father. “I knew you’d be here!” Tanner panted, although he had only run a few steps. “Dad, what were you thinking? You don’t even have a license anymore! I was going to bring you over. Didn’t I say so?” Wayne couldn’t remember the last time Tanner had brought him here. It didn’t matter; the birds needed him, and he had come. As the two men rounded the corner of the house, they could hear the pigeons’ soft cooing. Tanner didn’t have the key to the old place on him, so they passed through the side yard. Slowing his gait to match the shuffling of the older man’s feet, Tanner noticed the homemade orange and brown curtains that still hung inside the laundry room window. The house, although emptied of furnishings and Eileen’s belongings weeks ago, still carried the scent of Gloria Vanderbilt perfume and fried chicken. It was just as well that they went around the outside. Wayne pushed open the wooden gate and it creaked on its rusty hinges. As much as Eileen filled the house, Wayne filled the back yard. His garden, which Eileen had helped him with until the day of her stroke, lay wilted in one corner. Beside it stood the tool shed, sturdy beneath several layers of peeling paint. The weatherbeaten pigeon loft came next, full of fluttering birds who were unaware of the changes around them. At the sight of the birds, Wayne’s step lightened. He made a beeline for the shed and retrieved a sack of birdseed. His thick fingers shook slightly as he undid the loft’s latch and entered the birds’ house with gentle anticipation. Tanner pushed the door closed behind his father and peered in through the chicken wire. The cage 52 �The Southern Quill Karla Seamons could have easily admitted both men, but Tanner cringed at the thought of stepping onto the black and white splattered floor in his Oxfords. The fluttering and strutting birds flocked around the treats in Wayne’s cupped hands. “Well, Dad, am I taking good enough care of them for you?” Tanner slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked from heel to toe. “They’re lonely. They need some excitement. They need to get out.” Tanner stopped rocking and stared at his watch for a moment. He looked up at his father, who had coaxed a bird onto his finger. Tanner walked to the shed and retrieved the pigeon baskets. The creases in Wayne’s forehead relaxed as he prodded the pigeons into the wicker cages. Tanner carried the two baskets to Wayne’s rust-speckled truck and gently placed them in the bed. Wayne had made his way around to the driver’s side, but relinquished his car keys when Tanner held out his hand. A drive of twenty miles never seemed to last so long. Tanner cleared his throat to break the silence. “The loft at my place is almost done, Dad. It’ll be great. Bigger, more space.” Wayne grunted. The birds were getting a new place, too. “New isn’t always better, Son.” “Think upgrades. Even pigeons benefit from upgrades. I’m putting in two doors for trapping, and the whole thing will be better insulated. The birds will love it, Dad. I just know it.” “I’ve heard that before,” Wayne retorted. Tanner decided he preferred the silence. Green, weedy landscapes replaced rows of houses with neatly trimmed yards, and black asphalt gave way to gravel. Tanner pulled to the side of the road and parked. They had eight birds with them; three sat on eggs back at the loft with the two young ones that hadn’t been trained yet. The tailgate screeched as Tanner lowered it. Wayne slid the rectangular baskets toward the edge of the bed and lifted the doors. One by one, the gray pigeons poked their heads through the 53 �The Southern Quill openings and eagerly took off in flight. Quickly they caught up to one another, forming a fluttering cloud that circled above the truck a few times as they got their bearings. The circumference of their flight widened until they became little more than specks against the blue sky. When Wayne could no longer see them, he turned back to the truck. The return drive didn’t seem as long; when they arrived at the house, they found the rooftop and yard barren of pigeons. “We beat ’em,” Tanner commented, scanning the horizon for any sign of the animals. “They’re slowing down.” “No.” Wayne pulled the legs of his coveralls up slightly as he sat down on the back porch swing. “They’re just enjoying the breeze more.” Tanner sat beside his father. The grind of the swing’s chains in the eyebolts as they gently rocked reminded Tanner of summer afternoons, much like this one, when he sat on the swing licking orange Push-Ups. His younger sister sometimes sat with him and they would peer anxiously above the rooftops to see who could spot Dad’s returning pigeons first. Tanner’s own little boy would have a little sister soon. “Amanda’s down to about seven weeks now,” Tanner said. Wayne nodded, keeping his eyes on the sky. “Seven weeks. Nothin’.” “She doesn’t think it’s nothin’.” “She will when the baby is here. Seven weeks will fly by like seven seconds.” “That’s what you said when we had the first one.” “Well?” “You’re right, he’s two already. Thinks he’s all grown up with his tricycle and big boy underpants.” Wayne shook his head. “Two years is nothin’.” The pigeons appeared like shadows beyond the trees, then grew clearer as they flew in closer to the yard. In a small flock, they landed on top of the coop and began to pace back and forth. One by one, the birds hopped down to the trap door and strutted inside 54 �The Southern Quill Karla Seamons the loft. When Wayne had counted eight birds, he stood slowly and hobbled over to the cage. The pigeons inside pecked at bird pellets, cooing as they brushed past each other. They seemed just as happy to be inside the cage as out. Wayne lowered the trap door and secured the birds inside. “I think we ought to get going,” Tanner said. “Go where?” Wayne responded, still watching the birds snap up their treats. “I’ll drive you home. Amanda and I will come back for the truck later.” “Just leave me here.” “You can’t drive yourself home, doctor’s orders. Come on, I’ll take you.” “I won’t drive. I’ll just stay here, at my house with my birds.” “Dad, you agreed.” Tanner’s voice rose. “You said the house was too much to take care of.” “I said it was too much to take care of alone.” “Well, the birds aren’t going to help you.” Instantly, Tanner regretted the harshness of his words. He began again in a softer tone. “Let me take you to your new place. For goodness’ sake, it’s got a game room, a spa, and dinners served right to your door. It’s a great place. What more could you need?” Wayne still faced the birds. “You really hate it there, don’t you?” “It’ll never feel like home. It’s too sterile, too quiet.” “What about the other residents?” “All those old folks? They all got health problems.” Tanner looked at his father. The shoulders that once gave him piggyback rides sloped downward, and the unruly cowlick Tanner inherited had given way to bare skin. Tremors shook Wayne’s hands constantly now. His muscles no longer yielded to his persuading, and his once-steady walk often faltered. Yet, he noted, his father’s form was generally the same, his movements 55 �The Southern Quill and gestures slower and more deliberate, but still the same. “I’ll take you to my place first. Amanda was probably planning on you for dinner anyway. Let’s look at the new loft again, it really is almost done.” “You sure Amanda won’t mind the birds?” Wayne finally turned his face toward Tanner. “Nah, she’s always kind of liked them. And the kids’ll love them. They’ll be begging to take the birds out and watch them trap. I’ll come and get you and we’ll take them out anytime you want. You’ll see. It’ll be just like when me and Sis were kids.” Tanner’s heart fell when Wayne shook his head. “Nah, it’ll never be the same. And some of the birds, they’ll be lost in the move. Not all of them will make the change, I just know it.” “Dad. Tanner wasn’t sure he should venture this far, but the beating in his chest and the deepening wrinkles on his father’s forehead prodded him on. “The baby will sleep in our room for a while, and then the kids could share a room. Why don’t you move in with Amanda and me? You won’t have as much privacy, but . . .” At last, Wayne began to chuckle. “Oh Tanner, that’s just what Amanda wants, a new baby, a backyard full of birds, and her father-in-law under foot.” He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and shook his head again. Tanner didn’t have a reply. His dad was right; it would be too many people in one small house. But then again, he thought as they walked past the for sale sign on the way to his car, somehow, there was hope for the idea. 56 �The Southern Quill Troy Lynn Yuyoku—The Fanatics Troy Lynn We were lost. The structures here were ancient and scattered, forming a maze. Telephone wires wept in procession along the crumbling street. Tattered clothes on rusty wires flapped in the wind like hands shooing us away. Piles of garbage and rotten food lay littered about, creating buffets for stray animals emerging from every crack and dark hole. The smells creeping around burned our noses with cigarette ash, wet fur, and mold. I knew tourists would never see this place in their dainty brochures—things were different here. Christian and I had no choice but to keep walking; finding our way back became impossible. “Let’s ask someone for directions,” said Christian. “Yeah,” I said, distracted by all the junk vomited out of an alleyway and spilling onto the narrow street in front of me. “Um, excuse me, ma’am. Could you tell us were to find the closest train station?” said my friend in broken Japanese. I turned to see an old lady draped in a faded blue night gown preparing to beat the dust out of a stained futon with a broken broom. She looked down from her apartment balcony and saw two Americans looking up at her. She waved a hand in front of her nose as if to say we smelled bad and said, “My hands can’t talk, go back to America.” She left the futon and went inside slamming her sliding door. “My hands can’t talk? What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Christian. “She’s too busy to trouble herself with us,” I said. “Yeah, but did she know that she could help us get back to America faster if she would’ve told us how to find the station?” I smiled. Christian and I walked on. People looked at us in a way I knew was not welcoming here in this labyrinth of dilapidated buildings. As we rounded the corner, it was not too long before I saw why. “Oh no,” I said to myself, but Christian heard. 57 �The Southern Quill “What?” Christian was a new English teacher; green enough not to understand there are some parts of a country that are hidden and secret from foreigners, tourists, and in this case—Americans. More people were beginning to look out of their windows. Eyes were popping out of cracked curtains and doors—surrounding us as we walked, they no doubt wondered why two Americans dare come to this forgotten city. “You see those white colored buildings there?” I said. “You mean the buildings that look like dominos toppled over one another?” He was right. The way they leaned on each other, the buildings looked like something out of a Tim Burton film. They were cookie-cutter houses—all made to look the same—and they went on for miles. “Those homes are for people forced to move from the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings; the unlucky few that avoided becoming a shadow or those dying from radiation poisoning the rest of their slow lives.” I said. “We gotta go unless we want trouble.” These people hated Americans for what they did generations earlier and they passed down that hate to the next generation. I grew nervous when a man wearing pink woman’s slippers that were adorned with big white daisies strolled out of the house and began making his way over to us. “Oh great, this looks bad,” said Christian. “Hello, are you in high spirits today?” I said in Japanese. “You shouldn’t be here,” said the man between clenched lips while trying to light his cigarette in the wind. “This place doesn’t like Americans if you know what I mean.” “Yeah,” I said, nervous as his neighbors’ eyes bored holes into my being, “We’re lost and we need to find a train station.” “There aren’t any trains here. Nothing here but broken people,” he said throwing his partly smoked cigarette down and strolling back to his home. He waved us off and said, “You’d better 58 �The Southern Quill Troy Lynn get out before the Yuyoku get here. The people who saw you come in will have called them by now.” “How do we get out?” I asked. He just pointed ahead of him, went inside and closed the door. I ran a hand through my hair while I thought. Gangs I could deal with in Japan. Gangs like the Bousuzouku revved their bike engines to annoy people at night—just punk kids looking for attention. Foreigners never have trouble with Japan’s mafia, the Yakuza, unless they are given a reason to act; however, these fanatics called the Yuyoku meant business when it came to “cleansing” the nation of all foreigners. I heard thunder and looked around only to see blades of rain stabbing the ground. Christian grabbed my arm. “You hear that?” I heard a megaphone afar screaming and ranting in an ancient Japanese dialect, and the rumble of a deep muffler modified to sound like a thunderous beast’s roar. The Yuyoku were hunting. “Come on, we have to hide,” I said. “What? Why?” “Because that sound is the Yuyoku’s black van coming up here. Ordinary citizens aren’t allowed to bear arms, so however they decide to kill us it’s going to hurt—a lot.” Christian’s eyes moved from side to side as I watched him panic. “Alright, come on, let’s get outta here!” he said, deciding I was serious. We ran as fast as we could in rain that grew into round dollops of water. After running for a time, we saw a bridge up ahead where part of an intersection crossed over a river. “There,” I said pointing to the bridge. “Let’s hide there.” The bridge was old, crumbling, and caked with rust from neglect. There were decaying turtles and frogs that did not survive the flooding season, and birds were circling above the bridge searching out another meal. The moistened, pecked-over bodies smelt horrible. My friend was shaking, but I could not tell if he was cold from the rain or scared thinking of what may happen to him. 59 �The Southern Quill I put my finger to my lips signing to keep quiet. The Yuyoku were right above us. I looked out of a crack where the bridge was anchored to the road and saw the black tattooed van that every Yuyoku member used on their quest for foreign flesh. Their vans, bodies, and weapons were marked with symbols, anime, and women. I watched them pile out with bats and knives onto the wet street. They were talking, and intently looking for the two Americans rumored to be in the area—I hoped to disappoint them. Their megaphone was still blaring in the rain. The noise peeled through the veil of water and stung my ears. Christian was huddled in the corner with his hands over his ears, rocking himself in the mud. The water would drown out the noise for him in a few minutes; the river was rising from the flooding and we were running out of time. Stay and drown, or climb and die. I saw a turtle come out of hiding to enjoy the rain. I watched the armored creature march up the slope to the road where the Yuyoku were waiting. I lost sight of the turtle and went back to watching the Yuyoku through the crack of the bridge. Christian would look at me every once in a while, but I could only give him a smile that told him we were still in danger. The Yuyoku began to yell at one another, and an argument broke out. They were speaking regular Japanese now, and too angry to bother with traditional sensibilities. One man was livid, realizing we may get away. There was a thumping noise like a drum. The Yuyoku’s morale rose as they laughed and jumped around. My eyes widened when I saw one of the Yuyoku pounding on the shell of the turtle with a baseball bat. I heard the shell buckle and break with an egglike crunch. All of that aggression was meant for two Americans, but a turtle took it from the Yuyoku. He kicked the soupy bowl of blood and guts off the bridge. The shell landed a few feet from Christian, splashing crimson mud on our clothes. He gripped his mouth until his hand turned white. Christian looked as if he was going to scream as the reality of our condition began to wash over 60 �The Southern Quill Troy Lynn him. I gave him a tense look. Shaking my head, I signed once more to keep quiet. After a few seconds of meandering in the rain and no more animals to torture, they climbed in and drove off with their mega phone blaring, “Close Japan to all foreigners! We must embrace the ancient ways!” We crawled out of the muddy pit we hid in with dead animals, garbage, and flood water. Walking for miles, we were ready to hide at the slightest noise until we found the train station. Christian mumbled on the train, but I was only able to make out one repeated phrase, “How can someone hate us for no reason? I didn’t do anything to these people.” I watched as Christian looked in fear at the people on the train. Christian found the price too high and left the country. I stayed. My contract was for three years, and tomorrow, the Yuyoku would get another chance. 61 �The Southern Quill His Place and Time Greg Murray He leaned on his garden hoe as the sun warmed his weathered, bare skin and his silver-haired head. The afternoon was peaceful around his simple hilltop house with its spacious garden. As usual, he thought of the past and his path to here . . . As he walked down the ship’s gangplank he thought: at least I can walk. Some of the others had not been so lucky; he had seen casualties of body and casualties of mind. Now what? There was no one to greet him, no running out-stretched arms, no proudly beaming Dad with a relieved Mom, no teary-eyed looks of joy. Unnervingly, several times someone rushed towards him only to stop when they got close, “No, that’s not him.” He never was him. Was I too reluctant to serve? How could I defy myself? Soldiers are good at following orders, so the debarkation in Oakland and the new arrangements went smoothly enough. After the initial rush of happiness and relief, the tiredness set in. Because they were back on solid ground and again in the presence of those who had kept their hopes alive, away from the war in the Pacific, they began to relax. Everyone was exhausted and could finally let go of the somethings that kept that exhaustion at bay. They were not consciously aware that their fears had slipped subterranean. In their separate trances, the men did, again, their dutiful best. Sign this. Return that. Issued this. Sign that. He heard “Welcome back, soldier,” many times. One of the men who were issuing clean uniforms appeared to be nearly as old as he. How did he end up here? Has he always been stateside? What is his story? There were barracks on Tynan Avenue with a mess hall in the back and when offered a ride there on the back of a flatbed, he took it. Hot shower, clean uniform, hot meal. He found himself crying in the shower and unobtrusively crying again during his lunch. Why? 62 �The Southern Quill Greg Murray Am I weak? Is it because I am so relieved to be back alive? Or is it because these physical perfections are so sweet? He could talk with the others about the food and the perfect fall weather and joke about the demurely smiling girls casually moving on the other side of Jackson Street. Maybe that is why I cry. Not the girls. The perfect fall weather. When one is cold and damp for months, dry and warm is bliss; it settles in the heart, soul and pores. When the men spoke, the exchanges were not about back there. Perhaps it should have been. Perhaps right then should have been the time to share the stories of burnt flesh and death in one’s lap. Fear so thick it was breathed and became part of your skin. Part of your cells. Because much later these unspokens became blank stares across the park while the wife and kids laughed and played; they became silent smoking in the garage under the guise of working on a project; they became wives wondering if that sudden and then disappearing look would ever go away; they became hours of parking lot truth-telling after an AA meeting; became bolt up-rights in the middle of the night. Mostly what they talked about, besides girls, was what would be next. Little did they then know of their great fortune to have just arrived in the land of milk and honey. There was much talk of staying here or going back home. Idaho. Illinois. Tennessee. Michigan. He was not eager to talk about a there. He had no there. No idea of what would be next. Feinted impatience by the men was customary during the days that followed. They expressed anxiousness to be “out of here,” “finished with it;” but they did linger. Going back to their families and getting on with life meant leaving behind those who had saved their lives, shared their fears, and provided, perhaps, the closest thing to unity they would ever have. So in the days before their discharges were issued, they still stayed in barracks and ate in the mess hall. In the afternoons they would leave the base in Alameda together and travel over the Harrison Street Bridge to the 63 �The Southern Quill Embarcadero in Oakland. Bars and those kinds of girls were there. The fist-fights were only between different branches of the service, never too serious, and the police just assisted the MPs in returning the restrained soldiers back across the bridge to Alameda. He went with the other guys to Oakland, he drank with the other guys, and he spent the same kind of time with those girls. Other diversions and readjustments were available. Local welcome homes, churches, and USO all provided a buffer between there and here. The girls at these functions were not like the kind of girls in the bars. He went with the other guys to these functions as well. He was careful about the way his uniform looked and how he spoke to others. He was a good conversationalist with a surprisingly broad vocabulary; he was very well read but did not let on. Most of the soldiers at these events were not interested (too much) in the bars and girls on Jackson Street. These men were perceived, by the girls, as eligible. When the girls, with a glass of punch in one hand, talked with him they were charmed. He was quick to agree that “Thank God it was over” and blushed slightly—did not brag— if they said the whole country owed them a debt. But gradually the girls realized: he seemed too comfortable, relaxed, nonchalant and not dreaming the same dreams as they. He was not too eager, like the most of the others, anxious for quick drinks and frantic clutches. He had that small, happy grin. Tall, thin, handsome but, nearly imperceptibly, indifferent to them. His soft eyes focused on their eyes but nothing in the periphery was ever missed. His hilltop home still had open sky and creeks below. The increases in the local population meant that occasionally others would head down the trail to the fields and creeks. At times, he noticed a group of boys, apparently brothers, hurrying down the trail. Hours later they would trudge up the hill past his place with mud on their clothes and wild eyes. Today these boys were passing as he was leaning on his hoe and letting the sun warm his skin; one of them yelled, “Hey, nature boy!” He assumed that the comment was a just a youthful outburst. 64 �The Southern Quill Greg Murray One of the younger boys stayed behind and looked at him; looked with wondering eyes, not at all afraid, of the tall man with brown skin and a mane of silver. He wanted to approach the boy to say: Do you know how warm the sun can be? How healing? Do you know that tiny, tiny seeds grow to be giants? That tide pools change daily? That a women’s skin is softer than thistle down? When you look—really look—into her eyes you know love. That the beach is always a friend? Look. As he took one step forward, the boy turned and joyfully ran down the trail toward the creeks. 65 �The Southern Quill 66 �SQ The Southern Quill non-fiction Stephen B. Armstrong Ward Symes 67 �The Southern Quill John Wayne, Producer: A History Of Wayne-Fellows Productions Stephen B. Armstrong Over the course of World War II, John Wayne emerged as one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, thanks to his appearances in hit pictures like The Flying Tigers (1942), The Fighting Seabees (1944), and Tall in the Saddle (1944). Despite his fame and popularity, Wayne did not become rich during this period, in part because the federal tax code that was then in place imposed steep taxes on individuals whose earnings, like Wayne’s, exceeded $200,000 a year (Roberts and Olson 337, 372; Welch and Welch 181). To supplement his income, Wayne decided after the war to become a motion picture producer, a position that would enable him to share in a greater percentage of the profits generated by the properties on which he worked; as a producer, he could exert increased creative control over these films, too (The Making of The High and The Mighty; Roberts and Olson 372). The first feature Wayne produced was a western called Angel and the Badman (1947), in which he also had the lead role, playing an outlaw who falls in love with a Quaker woman (Gail Russell). Wayne not only supervised the film’s budget, but also made decisions about casting, giving roles to his friends Bruce Cabot, Hank Worden, and Paul Fix. Released by Republic Pictures in 1947, Angel and the Badman generally received favorable notices. The review that appeared in Variety, for example, declared: “Big-time western drama has resulted from John Wayne’s first production effort….It’s loaded with sharp performances, honest writing and direction” (Variety’s Film Reviews February 12, 1947). The film nevertheless failed to yield much of a return at the box office (Fagen 68). The second picture for which Wayne received a producer’s credit, The Fighting Kentuckian (1949), similarly struggled to 68 �The Southern Quill Stephen B. Armstrong find an audience. Also released by Republic, the movie featured Wayne again in the lead, this time playing an American soldier who protects a French woman from crooked land speculators. As he had on Angel and the Badman, Wayne gave roles in this picture to his friends Hank Worden and Paul Fix, as well as Grant Withers and Chuck Roberson, with whom he would work frequently over subsequent decades (Fagen 142). The choice for the film’s female lead, Vera Hruba Ralston, however, was imposed upon Wayne by Herbert J. Yates, Republic’s president. A notoriously mediocre actress, Ralston was Yates’s girlfriend. Film historian Dan Ford explains that Ralston “was stiff, awkward, and spoke with a heavy, almost unintelligible [Czech] accent. But Yates thought she was the greatest thing ever to hit Hollywood, and he was determined to make her a star. He made picture after picture with her, and they were all financial disasters” (231). Frustrated by what he perceived as Yates’s detrimental influence on The Fighting Kentuckian, Wayne nevertheless produced one more picture for Republic, Bullfighter and the Lady (1951), which chronicles an American’s efforts to become a matador in Mexico. Wayne chose not to give himself a part in the movie, though, instead having Robert Stack play the lead (Munn 128, 136). For the script, Wayne recruited James Edward Grant, who had written and directed Angel and the Badman four years earlier (Boetticher 80-81). Bullfighter and the Lady was directed by Oscar “Budd” Boetticher and photographed by Jack Draper, an American cinematographer who lived and worked in Mexico City (Werner 504). Although now largely forgotten, the film was a commercial and critical success; it also received an Academy Award nomination for Best Original Story (Elley 186.) During the productions of Angel and the Badman and Bullfighter and the Lady, Wayne sought advice from Robert Fellows, an experienced producer he had first become acquainted with in 1938 on the set of a picture called Seven Sinners (1940) and with whom he later worked on Back to Bataan (1945) and Tall in the Saddle (“Hollywood Report” 12; Roberts and Olson 373). 69 �The Southern Quill Following the completion of Bullfighter and the Lady, Wayne approached Fellows about creating an independent motion picture production company with him. Fellows accepted the offer, and in early 1952 the pair announced the formation of Wayne-Fellows Productions (“New Warner Deal” 27). Wayne’s biographers Randy Roberts and James S. Olson explain that the “plan for WayneFellows was for Duke to make the creative decisions and Bob Fellows to take care of the financial details.” Wayne, incidentally, was one of many stars who launched production companies in the decade following World War II. Among others were Kirk Douglas, Humphrey Bogart, and Burt Lancaster, who, like Wayne, saw independent production as a means to higher earnings for themselves and creative control over their film projects (224, 372). In April 1952, Fellows negotiated a multi-picture contract with Warner Brothers (Wayne 14) for Wayne-Fellows. In return for ten films, the studio would provide the partners with partial financing for their operating costs, as well as access to equipment and facilities. Wayne and Fellows, in turn, would oversee the actual creation of the films, which entailed purchasing and developing scripts, signing talent, finding locations, building sets, shooting, and editing. Wayne explained the nature of the arrangement to reporter Bob Thomas in 1953: “We agree to bring in a picture for a certain cost, and they put up the money.” Profits generated by the films at the box office would then be divided between the studio and the production company (“New Life into Movies” 6). The first completed picture that Wayne-Fellows delivered to Warner was Big Jim McLain (1952), a thriller about a pair of federal investigators who search for a Soviet spy ring in Hawaii. Big Jim McLain was again scripted by James Edward Grant, with Edward Ludwig directing. Adapted from a Saturday Evening Post article titled “We Almost Lost Hawaii to the Reds,” the film provided Wayne with the opportunity to voice his own concerns about the threat that he felt communism posed to American security (Roberts and Olson 376). (Wayne, at the time, was president of the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals, 70 �The Southern Quill Stephen B. Armstrong an organization of actors, writers, producers, and directors that sought to find and expose communists who were working in the entertainment industry (“Reds in Hollywood” A6). The picture was shot on location in and around Honolulu in the spring of 1952, with Wayne and James Arness as the principals (Landesman 3335). Though many critics dismissed Big Jim McLain as a jingoistic melodrama upon its release in September that year, it nevertheless earned a profit for its investors (“New Life into Movies” 6; Roberts and Olson 378). Wayne and Fellows followed up on Big Jim McLain with another thriller, Plunder of the Sun (1953). Directed by John Farrow and filmed on location in Mexico, this film stars Glenn Ford and Sean McClory as a pair of rogues who look for treasure in ancient Aztec ruins. For their next production, Island in the Sky (1953), Wayne and Fellows secured veteran director William A. Wellman. An action-adventure picture with Wayne in the lead, Island in the Sky follows a group of airmen who crash their plane in a snowy stretch of northern Canada. The film was helmed by veteran director William A. Wellman (A Star is Born, Buffalo Bill). Filmed in the Sierra Nevada in the late winter of 1953, Island in the Sky features Wayne as a pilot who becomes stranded with his flight crew during a brutal winter storm (Thompson 243). Among the other members of the film’s cast were again James Arness and Sean McClory, who were now under contract with Wayne-Fellows (Arness 129; Hopper A4). For their next picture, a western called Hondo (1954), Wayne and Fellows intended to have Glenn Ford play the eponymous lead, with John Farrow scheduled to direct. But Ford and Farrow had bickered with one another during the filming of Plunder of the Sun, and it was decided that Wayne would take the part himself (Andreychuk 26). Hondo’s other cast members included Wayne’s close friend Ward Bond (another member of the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals (“Ward Bond” 3A) and Geraldine Page in one of her earliest screen appearances. Page would in fact garner an Academy Award nomination for her 71 �The Southern Quill performance in the film as a rancher’s abandoned wife (Davis 172, 174). James Arness also had a small role. An adaptation of a short story by Louis L’Amour, Hondo featured another script by Wayne’s friend James Edward Grant. The film was shot in the summer of 1953 in Camargo, Mexico, the first color picture Wayne-Fellows produced (Roberts and Olson 398). Hondo also bears the distinction, with William Castle’s Fort Ti (1953) and Raoul Walsh’s Gun Fury (1953), of being one of the only westerns ever filmed in 3-D (King E3). Roberts and Olson note, though, that when Hondo opened, the appetite for 3-D had begun to fade. “[A]ngry theater owners were threatening to boycott 3-D films, and ticket buyers had already tired of the cumbersome novelty. Only a week into Hondo’s release, Wayne-Fellows replaced it with a regular, flat-projection version” (406). Though Hondo received good reviews and turned a profit at the box office, it was not a runaway hit (Andreychuk 27). WayneFellows’s next production, The High and The Mighty (1954), on the other hand, would become one of the most successful films released that decade. Again directed by William A. Wellman and featuring Wayne in the lead, The High and The Mighty, like the earlier Island in the Sky, follows the efforts of an aircrew as it faces disaster. Among the film’s cast members were Robert Stack, the star of Bullfighter and the Lady, and Claire Trevor, who had shared the screen with Wayne 15 years earlier in Stagecoach (1939). Roberts and Olson report that The High and The Mighty “earned more than $8.5 million in domestic and foreign rentals, and Wayne-Fellows… put only $1.456 million into the production” (409). The movie also received several Academy Award nominations and its musical score won an Oscar for composer Dimitri Tiomkin (Wellman, Jr. 177). The next two films produced by Wayne-Fellows were much less successful. The first of these was a thriller set in a circus called Ring of Fear (1954), with Sean McClory playing a psychopathic ringmaster. James Edward Grant was given credit for co-writing and directing the picture, but William A. Wellman replaced him midway through the production. In his autobiography A Short Time 72 �The Southern Quill Stephen B. Armstrong for Insanity, Wellman explains that Grant’s work “was not good so Duke [John Wayne] and his then-partner, Bob Fellows, asked me to help them out and do a little doctoring on it. I didn’t get paid and didn’t get credit. That was agreeable to all, so I got me a couple of writers and went to work” (96). Ring of Fear is notable, perhaps, because it features a cameo appearance by the crime novelist Mickey Spillane, who had been hired by Wayne and Fellows to rewrite the film’s script without credit (Gale 206). The famous circus man Clyde Beatty also has a cameo role in the picture. Ring of Fear nevertheless received little attention from critics and audiences when it was released in the late summer of 1954. Wellman helmed Wayne and Fellows’s next picture, as well, Track of the Cat (1954). An adaptation of a Walter van Tilburg Clark novel, Track of the Cat chronicles the efforts of three brothers— played in the film by Robert Mitchum, William Hopper, and Tab Hunter—as they try to find and kill a mountain lion that has been preying on their cattle. In 1943, Wellman had brought another Clark novel, The Ox-Bow Incident, to the screen with success—the film had received an Academy Award nomination in the Best Picture category (Wood 225). But Track of the Cat proved to be a dud at the box office, despite interesting performances and cinematographer William H. Clothier’s exceptional footage of snow-covered Mt. Rainier, where the film’s exteriors were shot during the summer of 1954 (Server 258-259). Track of the Cat fell victim primarily to a sluggish script that devotes a great deal of attention to the anguished personalities of its protagonists, in lieu of action and suspense. In his review of the picture, for instance, The New York Times’s Bosley Crowther described the film as “a sort of Eugene O’Neillized Western drama” and “a heavy and clumsy travesty” (38). Track of the Cat would be the last production released under the Wayne-Fellows banner (“Wayne-Fellows Becomes Batjac” B8). Several months before shooting began on the picture, Fellows revealed to Wayne that he needed to sell off his shares in their company. Wellman recalled what happened in an interview he gave 73 �The Southern Quill to Michael Munn: “Robert Fellows got involved with one of his secretaries and he told his wife Eleanor that he wanted to leave her….Fellows decided he needed to liquidate his assets because of the impending divorce, and he asked Duke to buy him out, and Duke obliged” (56). Once Wayne bought out Fellows, he changed the name of Wayne-Fellows Productions to Batjac Productions. “Batjac,” by the way, is a reference to a trading company that figures in the plot of Wake of the Red Witch, a 1948 action film in which Wayne had starred (Clark and Anderson 16). Although their relationship and the company they had created had fundamentally changed, Wayne and Fellows were still obligated to fulfill the terms of their contract with Warner, which entailed the completion of three more pictures. The first of these films for the newly christened Batjac Productions would be Blood Alley, yet another picture that William A. Wellman had been signed to direct. Shot in the spring of 1955 in and around San Francisco Bay, Blood Alley follows an American sailor as he attempts to deliver a band of refugees from Red China to Hong Kong (Thompson 255; Landesman 42; Royce 67). Originally, Robert Mitchum was cast to play the lead, but Wellman fired his star shortly after production for Blood Alley got underway, annoyed by Mitchum’s obnoxious (and drunken) behavior. Wayne was subsequently persuaded to play the film’s lead. Aissa Wayne in her memoir John Wayne, My Father recalls: The third day of shooting, Wellman called my dad in a snit. He said Mitchum was drinking all night, sleeping through morning wakeup calls, making location life miserable for cast and crew. As producer, my father urged conciliation, but one day Mitchum stormed off the set and said he could not work for Wellman. Wellman insisted my father move into the starring role. Although my dad had once passed on the script, feeling the role needed Mitchum’s devil-may-care, he finally relented and took over the part. (33-34) 74 �The Southern Quill Stephen B. Armstrong The final pictures Wayne and Fellows made together were Good-bye, My Lady (1956) and Seven Men from Now (1956). A sentimental story about a boy who befriends a lost dog, Good-Bye, My Lady was directed once again by Wellman. For the picture, the producers cast Brandon De Wilde in the lead and gave supporting roles to Sydney Poitier and Walter Brennan. Seven Men from Now, a western, was directed by Budd Boetticher, who had previously worked with Wayne and Fellows on Bullfighter and the Lady. Shot in the fall of 1955 in Lone Pine, California, this film features Randolph Scott as a former lawman who hunts down a band of robbers who have murdered his wife (Linet 198; Joyner 68). Scott’s co-star Gail Russell had shared the screen with Wayne in Angel and The Badman. Neither Wayne nor Fellows were as deeply involved with this picture as they had been on their earlier collaborations, however. Wayne, in fact, was on location in Monument Valley making The Searchers (1956) with John Ford while Seven Men from Now was shooting (Jameson 137). And the film’s production duties were primarily handled by Andrew V. McLaglen, who had served as a first assistant director on Big Jim McLain and The High and The Mighty, and Wayne’s younger brother Robert Morrison (Joyner 131). Since its release, incidentally, Seven Men from Now has been regarded by critics as an exceptional film. Writing in Cahiers du Cinema in 1957, for example, French critic André Bazin described the picture as “perhaps the best Western I have seen since the war” (169). Wayne and Fellows separated permanently in later 1955, once Good-Bye My Lady and Seven Men from Now were finished and delivered to Warner (“Batjac Group Suspends”). By and large, the ten pictures the pair had made together had been profitable and this success helped Wayne secure a distribution deal for Batjac with United Artists in October 1956, less than a year after Fellows’s departure (Pryor 34). Over the next four years, Batjac would produce four pictures, Legend of the Lost (1957), Escort West (1958), China Doll (1958), and, most memorably, The Alamo (1960), which Wayne also directed and in which he had a starring 75 �The Southern Quill role. The failure of these movies to yield significant receipts at the box office, however, prompted Wayne to hand over the reins of Batjac to his oldest son, Michael, and he never produced another picture (Clark and Andersen 150). As chief of Batjac, Michael Wayne would go on to supervise the production of several of his father’s best remembered later films, including McLintock! (1963), The War Wagon (1967), Chisum (1970), and Big Jake (1971). Robert Fellows never again approached the professional heights that he enjoyed during his years as John Wayne’s partner. After leaving Wayne, he worked for a short time in live television, producing several episodes for the shows Alcoa Theatre and Goodyear Theatre (Scheuer C7). He eventually returned to motion picture production, but received a producer’s credit on just two more films, Screaming Mimi (1958) and The Girl Hunters (1963). The Girl Hunters, by the way, was an adaptation of a Mickey Spillane novel, and the author, who had become a friend of Fellows during the making of Ring of Fear ten years earlier, actually played the part of Mike Hammer, the film’s lead role (Hildebrand C12). Spillane and Fellows went on to form their own production company in 1965, which they named Spillane-Fellows Productions (“Palmetto Briefs” 12). But the arrangement came to little. Though the partners proceeded to develop a feature together, an adaptation of another Spillane novel titled The Delta Factor, Fellows died of a heart attack in May 1969—a month before shooting on the film was scheduled to start (“Mickey Spillane Novel to be Filmed” G27; “Obituary” A4). From early-1952 to late-1955, John Wayne and Robert Fellows supervised the production of ten films that varied considerably in terms of quality and commercial performance. But among these movies are three releases that stand out today as classics—Hondo, The High and The Mighty, and Seven Men from Now. And though Wayne and Fellows were also responsible for disappointments like Ring of Fear and Track of the Cat, on the whole, their attempt to create a viable independent motion picture company succeeded. We can only wonder what other films the two 76 �The Southern Quill Stephen B. Armstrong might have made together if their partnership had lasted longer than it did. Works Cited Andreychuk, Ed. Louis L’Amour on Film and Television. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010. Print. Gale, Robert L. A Mickey Spillane Companion. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2003. Print. “Angel and the Badman.” Variety’s Film Reviews, 1943-1948. Vol. 7. New York: R.R. Bowler, 1983. Print. Arness, James. James Arness: An Autobiography. With James E. Wise, Jr. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2001. Print. “Batjac Group Suspends.” New York Times 1 Dec. 1955. Bazin, André. “‘An Exemplary Western.’” Cahiers du Cinema: The 1950s, Neo-realism, Hollywood, New Wave. Ed. Jim Hillier. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1985. Print. Boetticher, Budd. When in Disgrace. Santa Barbara, CA: Neville, 1985. Print. Clark, Donald, and Christopher P. Anderson. John Wayne’s The Alamo: The Making of the Epic Film. Secaucus, NJ: Carol, 1995. Print. Crowther, Bosley. “The Screen in Review; ‘Track of the Cat’ is Seen at Paramount.” New York Times 2 Dec. 1954: 38. Print. Davis, Ronald L. Duke: The Life and Image of John Wayne. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2003. Print. Fagen, Herb. Duke, We’re Glad We Knew You. New York: Citadel, 1996. Print. Ford, Dan. Pappy: The Life of John Ford. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1979. Print. Elley, Derek. Variety Portable Movie Guide. New York: Berkley Boulevard Books, 2000. Print. 77 �The Southern Quill “Full ‘Delousing’ Asked for Red in Hollywood.” Los Angeles Times 16 May 1950: A6. Print. Hildebrand, Harold. “The Girl Hunters.” Los Angeles Times 14 June 1963: C12. Print. Hopper, Hedda. “Looking at Hollywood.” Associated Press. Chicago Tribune 7 Apr. 1953: A4. Print. “John Wayne Makes New Warner Deal.” New York Times 6 Mar. 1952: 27. Print. Joyner, C. Courtney. The Westerners: Interviews with Actors, Writers and Directors. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009. Print. Jameson, Richard T. “Seven Men from Now.” The B-List. Ed. David Sterritt and John Anderson. Cambridge: Da Capo, 2008. Print. Linet, Beverly. Susan Hayward: Portrait of a Survivor. New York: Atheneum, 1980. Print. King, Susan. “The Shortest Dimension.” Los Angeles Times. 10 Sep. 2003: E3. Print. Landesman, Fred. The John Wayne Filmography. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2004. Print. “Mickey Spillane Novel to be Filmed.” Los Angeles Times. 21 Apr. 1969: G27. Print. Munn, Michael. John Wayne: The Man Behind the Myth. New York: New American Library, 2004. Print. “Obituary: Robert Fellows.” Los Angeles Times 13 May 1969: A4. Print. “Palmetto Briefs.” Associated Press. Daily Item [Sumter S.C.] 20 Feb. 1965: 12. Print. Pryor, Thomas M. “New Movie Deal for John Wayne.” New York Times 11 Oct. 1956: 34. Print. Roberts, Randy, and James Stuart Olson. John Wayne: American. New York: Free Press, 1995. Print. Royce, Brenda Scott. Lauren Bacall, A Bio-Bibliography (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1992), 67. Print. 78 �The Southern Quill Stephen B. Armstrong Scheuer, Philip K. “Joanne Woodward Out of ‘Young Lions.’” Los Angeles Times 2 Sep. 1957: C7. Print. Scott, Vernon. “Hollywood Report.” United Press. Oxnard [CA] Press Courier 1 Sep. 1953. Print. Server, Lee. Robert Mitchum: ‘Baby, I Don’t Care.’ New York: St. Martin’s, 2001. Print. The Making of The High and The Mighty. In The High and The Mighty, DVD, Special Collector’s Edition. Dir. William A. Wellman. 1954; Hollywood: Paramount, 2005. Thompson, Frank T. William A. Wellman. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow, 1983. Print. “Ward Bond, TV, Film Star, Dies.” Daytona Beach Sunday NewsJournal 6 Nov. 1963: 3A. Print. Wayne, John. “It Happened Like This.” The American Weekly 28 Nov. 1954: 12, 14. Print. Wayne, Aissa. John Wayne, My Father. New York: Random House, 1991. Print. Thomas, Bob. “Thomas in Hollywood: Wayne-Fellows Breathe New Life into Movies.” Associated Press. Times Daily [Florence, AL] 14 Dec 1953: 6. Print. Welch, Patrick J., and Gerry F. Welch. Economics: Theory and Practice. 9th ed. Hoboken: Wiley, 2009. Print. Wellman, Jr., William. The Man and His Wings. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2006. Print. Wellman, William A. A Short Time for Insanity. New York: Hawthorn, 1974. Print. Werner, Michael S. Concise Encyclopedia of Mexico: History, Society & Culture. Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn Publishers, 1997. Print. Wood, Amy Louise. Lynching and Spectacle: Witnessing Racial Violence in America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009. Print. 79 �The Southern Quill Tribute Ward Symes Firemen are going to get killed. When they join the department they face that fact. When a man becomes a fireman his greatest act of bravery has been accomplished. What he does after that is all in the line of work. They were not thinking of getting killed when they went where danger lurked. They went there to put out the fire, and got killed. Firefighters do not regard themselves as heroes because they do what the business requires. Chief Edward F. Croker Fire Chief FDNY 1899-1911 The Las Vegas sky broke clear, blue, and bright on September 11, 2011. Clark County Fire Department Ladder 11 took its place among the dozen fire trucks parked on downtown Las Vegas Boulevard. Standing with hundreds of other firefighters from around the Las Vegas valley who milled in front the Stratosphere Tower, including my fellow crewmembers from Station 11, we waited our turn to ascend to the top. Station 11’s tribute to our New York brothers would be to climb 108 flights of stairs in their honor. The ten-year anniversary of 9/11 brought back many painful memories to each person in their own individual way: where they were when they first heard about it; what they were doing; and what they saw when they found a TV and stared at it. Maybe they were at a restaurant or a bar or a store; strangers who, the day before, might have been standing a little too close. On that day, no one could get close enough. A decade past that dark day, firefighters remember their brothers doing their duty, come what may. September 11, 2001 found Dr. Michael Brown, a former FDNY firefighter, treating patients at a Las Vegas hospital emergency room, trying to catch a glimpse of his brother on TV. Knowing Captain Patrick “Paddy” Brown and the crew of Ladder 3 were on duty that day and stationed only minutes from the World Trade Center, Mike worried about his big brother. 80 �The Southern Quill Ward Symes Paddy Brown had become a celebrity in New York City, gaining notoriety for leading his crew in daring rescues, as well as his outspoken style. However confident Mike was of Paddy’s ability to take care of himself, he felt uneasy watching the coverage on TV. Unable to determine his brother’s fate, Mike and three friends drove 45 hours from Las Vegas to New York City, stopping only for food and fuel. Mike found his brother’s firehouse and met with the temporary Captain of Ladder Company 3 and his crew. Twelve of the 25 firemen assigned to the station were missing. As Mike talked with the New York firemen and their Captain, he learned that hundreds of firefighters were missing, including Paddy and his crew. Mike learned that the last radio traffic from Paddy came from the 40th floor, helping burned civilians down the stairwell, despite being told to evacuate the building. They weren’t leaving anyone behind. Six firefighters, who had been searching all day, returned to the station. They were dirty and tired but hopeful that their firefighters would yet be found. Fresh firefighters from Ladder 3 prepared to return and search for their brothers. Despite being exhausted from the drive across the country, Mike asked to go along. Wearing a borrowed FDNY shirt and sitting in the back of the van, Mike hoped to get through the security check points without anyone asking for his identification. The crew arrived after dark in lower Manhattan and stared at the site where the towers once stood. Hundreds of floodlights illuminated the mountain of twisted steel and concrete, acrid smoke leaking from deep inside. Rescue crews scrambling over the debris looked like ants at a picnic, dwarfed by the sheer size of two one-hundred-and-ten story buildings reduced to ruins. Mike’s brother lay somewhere under the rubble pile covering eight blocks of Manhattan real estate. After spending all night digging up buckets and buckets of debris from atop the huge mountain of wreckage, Mike began to wonder if he would ever see his brother again. 81 �The Southern Quill *** Mike Brown had left the FDNY for medical school a dozen years before 9/11. After becoming an emergency room physician, he moved to Las Vegas. Mike still had some adventure in him and joined the FEMA Urban Search and Rescue Team, Nevada Task Force One. The FEMA team is mostly made up of firefighters trained to perform rescues in disaster areas along with doctors, crane riggers and structural engineers. Captain Clark from Clark County Fire Department, a rescue specialist on the FEMA team, deployed with Mike to Hurricane Katrina in 2005 as part of the FEMA rescue operation and they became fast friends. A month before the 9/11 memorial, Mike asked Captain Clark to carry his brothers’ badge to the top of the Stratosphere Tower in his honor. On the day of the 9/11 anniversary, event organizers attached laminated photos to lanyards of all 343 firefighters who died ten years ago. Captain Clark took all of the photos from Ladder 3 for his crew, calling out each name: “Brown. Carroll. Coyle. Dewan. Donnelly. Giordano. Maloney. McAvoy. McSweeney. Ogren. Olsen. Williamson.” Each of our crew took the photo of each of the twelve Ladder 3 firemen. Our turn came and we quietly began the climb to the top, every man alone with his thoughts. As I walked up flight after flight of stairs, bag pipe music drifted down from above. Lt. Kevin Donnelly’s picture swung from a lanyard around my neck, his stoic face looked up at mine and said, “Take me to the top. We have a job to do.” We few, we mighty few, we band of brothers, for he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother. William Shakespeare Henry V 1598 82 �The Southern Quill The Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Scholarship Fund All poems submitted to The Southern Quill by DSC students receive consideration for Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Scholarship prizes. The Tanner fund was established in November 1972 by Dr. Vasco M. Tanner, upon the death of his wife Annie. Throughout their married life, Mrs. Tanner accompanied her husband on field trips to collect specimens for Brigham Young University’s Department of Zoology and Entomology, which Dr. Tanner established and chaired for over 33 years. Annie, a prolific writer, would spend her time “out in the field” writing poetry and stories. As a member of the Pen Women of Utah, her poems and stories were published in the Relief Society Magazine, the Deseret News, and various literary journals. Many of her poems reflect her love for the physical beauty of St. George, where she was born and spent the early years of her life. For several years the Tanner children have continued to contribute to the fund, which awards three scholarship prizes each year. To determine scholarship winners, our editorial staff reviews and evaluates every poem submitted to the Quill by students. The editors then rank and select the 10 strongest pieces from this pool and forward them to members of the Tanner family, who determine the first, second, and third place winners. Though community members are published in the journal, only student poets can win the scholarship money. On occasion, the student editors of The Southern Quill place poems in the journal; these student poets are not excluded from competing in the Tanner prize competition. But to remain objective and fair, staff members cannot score or rank their own poems. Award Winners listed on page 85 83 �The Southern Quill Call for Contributors Published annually, The Southern Quill is Dixie State College of Utah’s student-edited literary magazine. In circulation since 1951, the journal features poetry, short stories, and artwork produced by Dixie State College students; it also welcomes material from writers and artists who live in Washington and Kane counties, Utah, and Clark County, Nevada. Submission Guidelines Contributors may submit up to 5 poems, 3 works of visual art, and 1 short story (2500 word limit). Materials should be emailed to: submissions@thesouthernquill.com The subject line should read SUBMISSION followed by your name. Also include your phone number, mailing address, and email. Please indicate if you are a Dixie State College student. No hardcopy submissions. All materials accepted for publication may be edited for content and style. All rights revert to creators upon publication. For more information visit www.thesouthernquill.com or find us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/thesouthernquill. Submission Deadline is January 11, 2013 84 �The Southern Quill Considering a Four-Year Degree? A degree in English is extremely versatile. English majors develop writing skills prized by numerous professions, including business, law, marketing, advertising, journalism, film production, public relations, public affairs, and teaching. Students in our program also broaden their understanding of the complex relationship between the aesthetic and intellectual aspects of literature and the cultural milieu in which important literary works were produced. English majors at Dixie State College of Utah can choose from three emphasis options: Literature, Professional & Technical Writing, and English Education. For more information, check out: www.dixie.edu/english/ or contact Dr. Randy Jasmine (Department Chair) at 435-652-7815. Annie Atkin Tanner Poetry Award Winners 2012 1st: “Dia de Los Muertos” Rachel Robins 2nd: “Ruin” Hunter Cox 3rd: “At Bryce Canyon” Collette Warner 85 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. 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Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>Table of Contents</th></tr><tr><th>Poetry</th></tr><tr><td><i>An Authors Nightmare </i></td><td>Prudence Bice </td><td>2</td></tr><tr><td><i>April 29th </i></td><td>Kami McArthur </td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td><i>Finding Autumn </i></td><td>Marilyn Ball </td><td>5</td></tr><tr><td><i>A Stream Bed Lies </i></td><td>Scott Sandberg </td><td>6</td></tr><tr><td><i>Dia de Los Muertos </i></td><td>Rachel Robins </td><td>8</td></tr><tr><td><i>Signification, in Praxis Rends </i></td><td>John Chavez </td><td>10</td></tr><tr><td><i>Daguerreotype: A Scene for the Artists Pencil </i></td><td>John Chavez </td><td>12</td></tr><tr><td><i>In Praise </i></td><td>Tiffani Hinton </td><td>13</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Course of the Sun Come to Its End </i></td><td>John Chavez </td><td>14</td></tr><tr><td><i>Night of Four Moons </i></td><td>John Chavez </td><td>16</td></tr><tr><td><i>Forty Miles of Wind of Roses </i></td><td>D. Gary Christian </td><td>18</td></tr><tr><td><i>Desert Day </i></td><td>Jon Thompson </td><td>20</td></tr><tr><td><i>Mosaic </i></td><td>Marie Tollstrup </td><td>21</td></tr><tr><td><i>A Little Buckaroo </i></td><td>Marleen Bussma </td><td>22</td></tr><tr><td><i>Release. </i></td><td>Amanda Jacobs </td><td>24</td></tr><tr><td><i>Thurgoods Last Words </i></td><td>Nad Richard Brown </td><td>25</td></tr><tr><td><i>Haikus </i></td><td>Lin Floyd </td><td>26</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Dream Boaters </i></td><td>Betty J. Vickers </td><td>27</td></tr><tr><td><i>Down Home </i></td><td>Betty J. Vickers </td><td>28</td></tr><tr><td><i>At Bryce Canyon </i></td><td>Colette Warner </td><td>30</td></tr><tr><td><i>Ruin </i></td><td>Hunter Cox </td><td>31</td></tr><tr><td><i>Schooled By An Old War </i></td><td>Colette Warner </td><td>32</td></tr><tr><th>Young Authors</th></tr><tr><td><i>Death </i></td><td>Curious, Dynamic Poets Crew </td><td>36</td></tr><tr><td><i>Imagination With No Boundaries </i></td><td>Misty Frampton </td><td>38</td></tr><tr><td><i>Rebirth </i></td><td>Zachary Bawden </td><td>39</td></tr><tr><th>Visual Arts</th></tr><tr><td><i>New Wolf </i></td><td>Benjamin Andersen </td><td>42</td></tr><tr><td><i>So Close </i></td><td>Benjamin Andersen </td><td>43</td></tr><tr><td><i>Zion March Snow Last </i></td><td>Greg Murray </td><td>43</td></tr><tr><td><i>Nancy </i></td><td>Katie Patterson Hulett </td><td>44</td></tr><tr><td><i>Rukmani </i></td><td>Katie Patterson Hulett </td><td>44</td></tr><tr><td><i>Roundabout Seasons </i></td><td>Madison Warnock </td><td>45</td></tr><tr><td><i>Reflection on Still Waters </i></td><td>Rachel Robins </td><td>46</td></tr><tr><td><i>Pine Valley Butterfly </i></td><td>Micki Ericksen </td><td>47</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Lone Road </i></td><td>Trisha Jo Haber </td><td>48</td></tr><tr><td><i>Spring Sun </i></td><td>Danielle Christensen </td><td>49</td></tr><tr><th>Fiction</th></tr><tr><td><i>For the Birds </i></td><td>Karla Seamons </td><td>52</td></tr><tr><td><i>YuyokuThe Fanatics </i></td><td>Troy Lynn </td><td>57</td></tr><tr><td><i>His Place and Time </i></td><td>Greg Murray </td><td>62</td></tr><tr><th>Non-Fiction</th></tr><tr><td><i>John Wayne, Producer: A History of Wayne-Fellows Productions </i></td><td>Stephen B. Armstrong</td><td>68</td></tr><tr><td><i>Tribute </i></td><td>Ward Symes </td><td>81</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/9764eb914e3ef0361fbcc2595839db96.pdf 8ccd5582bb3504b70d22844a2ab07a55 PDF Text Text THE MARKAY BROWN / ARIEL CHAMBERLAIN / GARY CHRISTIAN KEITH CLIVER / HUNTER COX / MARJORIE ENO LIN VERNON FLOYD / SAM A. JACKSON / MYRIANNE JONES CHELSI SUTTON-LINDERMAN / TRAVIS MARKER JENICA MAXWELL / KAMI MCARTHUR / STEPHEN D. NADAULD MARIE TOLLSTRUP / NOVA WAHL / MICKI ERICKSEN ELAINE WILSON-SHARP/ SEAN SCOTT / JEFF AMES PETER WIARDA / ARLETH LUJAN-PONCE / JAMIE LEAVITT KEENAN SCHWALGER / KRISHEL SMITH / ROBERT CURL STEPHEN B. ARMSTRONG / RANDY JASMINE / LIBBY BOOTH JORDAN GOODRICH / ASHLEE MILLETT / DAVID CORDERO THE SOUTHERN QUILL 2011 BACK CELEBRATING 60 YEARS THE SOUTHERN QUILL �The Southern Quill ESTABLISHED 1951 The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. —Anaïs Nin Copyright © 2011, The Southern Quill. Rights revert to creators upon publication. �THE SOUTHERN QUILL STAFF Managing Editor: Kami McArthur Creative Director: Micki Ericksen Poetry Section: Trisha Haber (Chief), Hunter Cox, Jenica Maxwell, Amanda Jacobs Fiction Section: Lindsay Ferrin (Chief), Ashley White, Tim Williamson, Micki Ericksen, Kami McArthur Visual Arts Section: Jeff Ames (Chief), Arleth Lujan-Ponce, Kathi-Ann Busha, Benjamin Muir, Lichelle Christensen Nonfiction Section: Sean Scott (Chief), Elaine Wilson-Sharp, Marjorie Eno Layout Editor: Jenica Maxwell Cover Photograph: Jamie Leavitt Assistant Advising Editor: Jim Haendiges Advising Editor: Stephen B. Armstrong ii �TABLE OF CONTENTS POETRY 3 Markay Brown Dylan Thomas’ Writing Room, South Wales 4 Ariel Chamberlain 5 Gary Christian Remember Summer Interlude 6 Keith Cliver The Girl in Art Class 7 8 Hunter Cox Eden The Shrine 10 Marjorie Eno 11 Lin Vernon Floyd 12 14 16 Sam A. Jackson Buckskin Mountain Mornin’ Songs Old Barns and Men 19 Myrianne Jones Early Morning 20 22 Chelsi Sutton-Linderman 24 Travis Marker 26 Jenica Maxwell The Last Stanza 28 30 Kami McArthur In the Corner of the Library Colonel Miller’s Mansion Crayon Drawn Letters Traditions Dishes Considering the Mojave Binghamton Heat iii �31 Stephen D. Nadauld 32 33 Marie Tollstrup 34 Nova Wahl Death’s Door Kachina Loom Glass Music Box FICTION 37 Micki Ericksen Scraps 43 Elaine Wilson-Sharp Clank 47 Sean Scott Pitch Black Attic VISUAL ARTS 2 Libby Booth Stupid Cat in the City 36 Jeff Ames 54 Peter Wiarda 55 Arleth Lujan-Ponce 55 Jamie Leavitt InnerSanctum 56 Jeff Ames 56 Keenan Schwalger Zulu-Zero & The Kids Iron to Iron, Dust to Dust Blue Spirit Addi Samoan Tattoo 57 Krishel Smith iv Baby Snake �58 Micki Ericksen Open Wide 58 Jamie Leavitt 59 Robert Curl 60 Jordan Goodrich 61 Micki Ericksen 61 Jordan Goodrich 62 Arleth Lujan-Ponce 62 Ashlee Millett 63 Micki Ericksen 64 Peter Wiarda 65 Ashlee Millett 66 67 Libby Booth 68 Nova Wahl 70 Micki Ericksen Color Perspective Man’s Dearest Creation, the Absolute Pocket Spot Prickles Sands Motel Not Just Snow Twin Falls, Idaho Desert Snow Sunflower Soliloquy Special Look What I Found! Untitled (Happy Kids) Cactus Remember When NONFICTION 71 Marjorie Eno 75 David Cordero Ultimatum The Longest Hit v �81 Kami McArthur Sam A. Jackson, Cowboy Poet 85 Stephen B. Armstrong In Love with the Movies: Joseph McBride 93 Randy Jasmine The Ramones and Rock ‘n’ Roll High School 101 Jeff Ames 110 Elaine Wilson-Sharp Utah’s Cinematic History: A Conversation with James D’Arc Book Review: When Hollywood Came to Town vi �EDITOR’S NOTE Since 1951, The Southern Quill has provided a place for writers and artists to share their work and has supplied the public with opportunities to read and view creative material. The publication started as a modest, black-and-white journal with poems, short stories, and personal essays from Dixie contributors. Embellished with hand-crafted drawings, the sheer, faded pages from these early volumes tell of western trappings, homesickness, football, and college tests. Sixty years later, the journal still seeks exceptional art, written or visual, and accepts submissions from residents of Washington and Kane counties in Utah, and Clark County, Nevada. This year, our staff received dozens of short stories and art works and more than 100 poems. We’ve worked diligently to produce a high-quality magazine both in content and presentation. With an emphasis on western landscape and cowboy poetry, this edition acknowledges the roots of our area, also branching out to include everything from Samoan tattoos and tree houses to baseball and the Ramones. The selections explore concepts as complex as the fragility of the human mind, and accentuate the simple beauty of everyday life, such as the shapes and shades of stained glass. In the years to come, The Southern Quill will continue to move forward, carving its place in the creative world and bringing attention to the talent in our community. I’m grateful for the opportunity to be a part of this publication’s legacy. Kami McArthur, Managing Editor vii �A FAREWELL NOTE Since 2007, I have served as faculty editor for The Southern Quill. The experience has been one of the highlights of my career, providing me with the opportunity to work closely with several local writers and visual artists, to say nothing of the publication’s outstanding team of student editors. This will mark my last year in this position, however. I’m about to start a family and I need a bit more time in my schedule. With each issue, The Southern Quill strives to bring attention to the works of talented people who live in our corner of the desert southwest. This year’s edition, I’m proud to say, is probably the strongest in the publication’s long history. In the following pages, you’ll find a spate of gorgeous poems and stories, several charismatic paintings and photographs, and some fine personal essays. Our nonfiction section this year also features interviews with a pair of world-class film historians, as well as a scholarly examination of a legendary rock ‘n’ roll band. It saddens me to leave the Quill. I’ve invested a great deal of time and energy into the volumes we’ve put together, and I’ve enjoyed myself tremendously. But as George Harrison once pointed out, “all things must pass.” Thanks to everyone for your support and generosity over the years. Stephen B. Armstrong, Ph.D. Department of English Dixie State College of Utah viii �1 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Libby Booth Stupid Cat in the City 2 �MARKAY BROWN MARKAY BROWN DYLAN THOMAS’ WRITING ROOM, SOUTH WALES Weathered garage turned still-life draws me in. Hands cupped around eyes, nose pressed, a child’s to a candy case, I peer through the glass door. Lured to break the window, kneel on the wooden floor, gather crumpled balls of paper cast from his mind— I could smooth the wrinkled messages, snatch a phrase to spur my own. Seated in his black Windsor chair, staring at his tusked sea might clear my head; horned breakers could crash a barrier, pierce my blindness. I conjure him secluded, his mind, a rocketing gull above the waves or burrowed into Druid shadows, riding his barley corn to the dark side of the moon. Ah, Dylan, you left us early, green and in your chains, carrying in a satchel the blaze of your October blood, the depth of your winter-shawled snow. 3 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL ARIEL CHAMBERLAIN REMEMBER Forget not the men and leaves of truth For memory’s eye holds ghastly proof Of deeds that rightly bleed from pens Shan’t be forgot nor made amends Ye break the mold and shatter souls To tempt an ugly fate Ye blind and daft and boisterous fools That rally putrid hate Erase the sin and odor foul Know not that stringent price The days and lives of brothers’ souls Again would sacrifice Let loose the demon from the pen Thus send him on the prowl And make your mark in empty pages A smear that’s read as foul Remember! Remember! The grief, the pain, a world distraught Remember! Remember! And say this evil came again But we know his heavy knock 4 �GARY CHRISTIAN GARY CHRISTIAN SUMMER INTERLUDE I crowded with the wind in narrow places, dallied in the groves with light and shadows. It was summer and the birds were following the grass and leaves beyond the sunset where the days are long, but love is short and shallow. 5 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL KEITH CLIVER THE GIRL IN ART CLASS With her long black hair, she looks like night. She spoke of art as one might speak of love. For her, the two are united; Her art comes from her love. She spoke of herself as I might speak of myself. Perhaps we have a kinship of souls. That would be nice. We’re not seeking the same meanings. But we might grow together And perhaps in time, Learn to love each other As she loves her art And I, my dreams. 6 �HUNTER COX HUNTER COX EDEN for Rachel A Man seeing truth for the first time. I stare in wonder, speechless, standing at the edge of you— The cause of my exile. But the garden did not fade, did it? It only transformed, Instilled itself into the likeness of Innocence, Compassion, Fragility, Sacred Beauty. I feel it when you rise; I see it When you reach. I left the garden, alone— Always searching for what stood next to me. You are the feeling I remember, the sacred sanctuary, the catalyst of my perfection. You have been, and always will be— My Eden. 7 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL HUNTER COX THE SHRINE Like a forlorn child, small bodied and still, the Shetland stands by the fence, confined to the corner of a wasted plot. Muscles once sanguine and animate, now stagnant, atrophied, forgotten. His granite visage cold, frozen in hopeless sorrow. A solitary shrine to forgotten innocents. Eyes catching in the corner of mine, dark, fathomless, like cold oceans. Pulling me, piercing me, making me feel, scorned sorrows that are not my own. I walk on feeling helpless, guilty, trying to ignore, to forget, to swim against the tide within me, but the current is too heavy. Like the waves to the moon, I let the tide begin to carry me. I stare, my mind still fighting, like a wounded soldier defending a falling fortress. I stumble, pulled soul forward deeper into the chilling waters of empathy. 8 �HUNTER COX My conscience pricked with invisible needles, like a blood starved limb writhing back to life. Tears swell, an uncontrollable reaction to an indefinable moment. Slowly, I extend my hand; such a meager offering. Naturally confused, he steps away. I pull some grass from the greener side, and extend over the fence, the barrier between lives. He steps forward, large eyes shallowing, muscles twitching, ripples of remembering. Signs of life resurfacing. Stroking the sides of his neglected face, I warm to the waters. Gathering great handfuls of green, I drop them over the divide, oblations on behalf of those who walk past, an unfinished atonement for my own apathy. One last gentle stroke, and I depart in peace, no longer fighting the tide, but riding it home. 9 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MARJORIE ENO CRAYON DRAWN LETTERS Chalk on the sidewalk, tiny scraped knees, When did your playing become memories? Small sticky kisses are nowhere to be found. I’m wishing for swing sets and merry-go-rounds. And pretend tea parties with penguins and snakes, Dolls that keep secrets and gooey mud cakes. I’m wishing for ketchup, smeared on my walls. I’m wishing for the messes, the tears, and the falls. I miss cleaning it up, I miss making it better, I miss the crooked crayon drawn letters. A picture of you, a picture of me, A sweet purple house with our family That said I love you.... 10 �LIN VERNON FLOYD LIN VERNON FLOYD TRADITIONS Gazing at mesa top ruins blanketed with deserted dwellings, a rich history speaks to us. Carefully inscribed petroglyphs, and primitive pictographs painted eons ago decorate crimson canyon walls. Revealing a story of an ancient way of life preserved for future generations. We remember the silent past not forgotten but gently recorded in primitive symbols. Secrets etched on weathered surfaces are buffeted by wind and rain, as the years unfold to our day. Mysteries lost to understanding, quiet voices from the kiva waiting and whispering sacred truths to our spirits, reminding us of ageless Anasazi traditions. 11 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SAM A. JACKSON BUCKSKIN MOUNTAIN There’s a place on Buckskin mountain where the granite meets the sky, where the lynx cat prowls the tundra, and the Eagle learns to fly. If you stop and carefully listen, and stay hidden from the fray, you might hear what sounds like thunder, though it’s been a cloudless day. If you’ve time and inclination to hold steady ’til it comes, you might see some souls a dancin’ to the beat of rawhide drums. Round the pile of seasoned quakies, flaming red against the sky, heads are bowed in total reverence as they cry their ancient cry. They are calling on the Spirits for the gift of needed rain that will cause the corn to blossom and appease their hunger pain, make their sacred mountain greener so the buckskin herds will thrive, giving food to last the winter that the young and old survive. 12 �SAM A. JACKSON One by one the drums grow quiet, eyes all turn toward the butte. In the eerie hush of silence comes a ghost of great repute— Kokopelli? Just a fable! Then a shadow dims the trail. Eerie notes float through the darkness as a flute begins to wail. All the sights that were to follow, by my hand can n’er be told, but t’was early in the morning ’fore I left that grassy fold. And the last that I remember as the sun announced the day— all the dancers and the music seemed to slowly drift away. Was it just imagination? Was I privy to a scene— still enacted on that mountain, so’s to keep the tundra green? Did I see the Spirits dancing? Did I see that magic elf? I ain’t askin’ ya believe me— cause I ain’t dead sure myself? 13 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SAM A. JACKSON MORNIN’ SONGS In the stillness of the mornin’, just before the break of day, as the sky begins to lighten and the stars are put away. I ride easy in the saddle as my pony moves along, set to listen as the Desert sings its early mornin’ song. Hear that den of pup coyot-ees, that’er whelped out every spring, with their mama beltin’ out the lead, them puppies sure can sing. ’Cross the canyon, now the neighbors wake and join the lonesome cry, silhouetted, pointy noses raised to greet the ashen sky. Starts my Aussie pup ta singin’ right along with their chorale she’s a howlin’, yippin’, yappin’ as we skirt the chaparral. When the broomtail that I’m ridin’ adds his equine baritone, “Now hold on a minute hossy— let’s leave well enough alone!” 14 �SAM A. JACKSON Ain’t no singer, so I’ll whistle, as we bid adieu the moon. Hooves a drummin’ on the trail, (sorta) keeps us all in tune. Mournin’ doves join in the chorus with their quiet mournful coo, as they gather in the hedges set to guzzle mornin’ dew. Now some chuckers start ta chuckin’ out their seven noted song seems they’s in the best of spirits just as daylight comes along. Sweepin’ down the rocky canyon comes the early mornin’ breeze bringin’ cool and dapper tidings as it strums the pinion trees. If I was a man of letters, there’s a song I’d surely write, of those sounds that greet the mornin’ as the Desert sheds the night. Oh, the music would sound noble as it mocks those wild throngs— that’er howlin’, chippin’, chirpin’, singin’ Desert mornin’ songs. 15 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SAM A. JACKSON OLD BARNS AND MEN Its boards are loose, and warped, and weathered. Shingles flyin’ in the wind. Timbers leanin’, ridge pole sags. A hundred seasons done it in. Settin’ lonesome, sad, neglected, seems to sense its end is near. Recollections long forgot—of friends with hammers workin’ here. Status once was never questioned, vital structure in its day. Uses that this shelter rendered— far beyond just “storin’ hay.” Stood majestic, stately, noble. Stout design, yet gentle charm. Served as banner to the world; message was: “Successful Farm!” Answered all whose glance might query lineage of the builder’s clan, who tilled surrounding fertile fields to earn their living off this land. Proudly served each generation, guarding them in work and play, thirsting not for acclamation, “care” was more than ample pay. 16 �SAM A. JACKSON Hidden back in every shadow, clues and scars of past events; “Jackson fork,” its tines a rustin’, lies beneath the fallen fence. Inside, hangs the fraying fibers, once a hay rope dangled there. Listen closely, hear the laughter? Children swingin’ through the air. Climb the loft, there in a corner, boards once blackened by a fire. Boys a smokin’ pipes of corn silk, dealt with sternly by their sire! Reckon sounds of men at work as tons of hay are hoisted in. Ropes ’er creakin’, pulleys squeakin’, horses neigh above the din. Soon winters cloak of frozen whiteness covers fields and pasture land. The barn’s importance more apparent, inside doors now seems more grand. Amply storing food and fiber, walls to break the winter’s gale, “haven” seems well to describe ’er, guests within stay hearty, hale. Time moves on and progress quickens, new techniques come into play. Less reliant on the farmstead, children grow, then move away. 17 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Oldsters now are those remaining, seeing things once only dreams; tractor chuggin’ up the furrows now outworks a dozen teams. With time required for its nurture crowded out by other chores, the barn’s demise is now beginning— “modern times” the predators. This reminisce makes quite apparent; “Old barns and men, are much the same,” When young and useful—both have value— When old, the world forgets their name! 18 �MYRIANNE JONES MYRIANNE JONES EARLY MORNING October’s chill is almost here; it’s waiting patiently just over the mountain. The cement is now slightly cooler on bare feet than bathroom tiles in early morning. Dew still rests on car windows, skewed painting. Rain drops fall precisely, slowly, from a barren and barely blue sky fringed in orange— at the window their scent is gathering. But the grass is still glowing green, not yet crisp with the crunching of fresh ice, and the birds are still busy singing as if awakening a spring’s sunrise. But October’s chill is nearing, it’s waiting just beyond the mountains. 19 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CHELSI SUTTON-LINDERMAN DISHES We bought them for a dime a piece at the local secondhand on Fifth, delicate scalloped edges gold and silver rimmed, some with prints of flowers or leaves, and a plate I can still see was bordered by western cattle brands. Lennox, Blue Danube, Fine-Bone, Churchill or Waechtersbach, we didn’t check the label and didn’t care. Cheap or priceless, chipped or cracked. None of it mattered where we were going. We never thought about some long-ago bride who carefully picked a pattern. Never considered the holiday dinners some sets must have seen, or the way others’ hands had gently washed the metal rimmed plates. We didn’t ask if their donation was result of death or divorce or divergent taste. You don’t think about much at sixteen. We took a box of ten for a buck and drove up to the old dam’s spillaway, 20 �CHELSI SUTTON-LINDERMAN just before dusk when all the water-skiers and fishermen were already towing their rigs home. I’ll never forget the sound a dish makes as it slices through clean country air, sharper then a breath drawn in the backseat of someone’s beater car, the collected crowd inhalation before the first punch, or the disappointed exhale of our parents waiting up. You can make them spin, you know, if you twist your wrist just right, they sail out of control and free, not unlike us. And you almost think that if you were there, at the bottom of the hill, where the lake licks the rock smooth, that you could catch a plate, a bowl or one of those tiny teacups again, cradle it in your hands, save it, just before it crashes. 21 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CHELSI SUTTON-LINDERMAN CONSIDERING THE MOJAVE Sadly, it’s much easier to create a desert than a forest. —James Lovelock Maybe—but I question the assumption, finding it difficult to look at the desert and believe that a slot canyon, an endorheic basin, or a free-standing, wind-warped arch rising like a sentinel in the bright Mojave were anything easy for any God to formulate. Perhaps it is pugnacious to ask, but couldn’t Lovelock formulate a more accurate reflection finding the same exactness in the ecosystem bright with Joshua Trees, and believe it a historic wonder, the creation of an eon that arches into the early Proterozoic and extends throughout the Great Basin. Surely, such geologic preciseness overshadows a basin of trees that can burst again and again in flame and still formulate itself in green rebirth, a leafy winged phoenix rising in an arch every hundred years or so. While in the Mojave they are finding metamorphic minerals and textures in rocks they believe to be 1.4 billion years old—a bright spot in my argument. Though I grant that Lovelock is bright, much brighter than I—whose bathroom basin served as breeding ground for salt crystals and sea monkeys, the extent, I believe that I went to when asked to formulate anything that ever resembled a scientific finding. Opposed to the man who harnessed a radioactive arch 22 �CHELSI SUTTON-LINDERMAN and invented the microwave. Nothing to arch an eyebrow at. And surely, such a bright man was being philosophical not literal and I am only finding offense in a comment as shallow as an apple’s basin because the desert helped formulate my being, brought me into myself, made me believe again in things I didn’t even know I once believed. When I lay curled beneath the hot sun, the arch of my back against the cracked mud trying to formulate my thoughts, for the first time seeing all my emptiness bright before me, reflected in the full-up emptiness of the Mojave basin and for the first time seeing what was really there finding I could believe in a rebirth and bright resurrection all at once, arms arched to sky, my soul a basin waiting to be filled and formulated. Looking for sanctuary, finding it. 23 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL TRAVIS MARKER BINGHAMTON HEAT Two of us, Walking through the thick sultry air; The dense humidity pressing us to the pavement. The heat draining the life from our bodies As the sun pounds down. The Susquehanna River Running along the borders of the City, No longer flowing within its banks, Lingers down Tompkins Street where we live And the other streets of Binghamton, Swallowing the residents in moisture. Damp ties dangle from our necks, White shirts melt to our backs, Dark slacks dripping down our legs, We press ourselves against the sweltering door —it gives way. We drag ourselves up the simmering stairs To our apartment, and Flop down lifeless upon our beds. We can’t eat; We skip lunch. Our eyes shut against their will. Unable to free ourselves from stifling lethargy, We drown in slumber. 24 �TRAVIS MARKER A clap of thunder and Rain dancing on our window pains Awakens us from our imprisonment. The shower ends; the day cools. Moisture is wrung from the air. The river returns to its boundaries We exit our apartment. Two of us. 25 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL JENICA MAXWELL THE LAST STANZA She stood alone in the setting sun To face the rising horde A tide of trite to be turned back The pen, her mighty sword She slashed at sloppy meter And dodged the slick cliché But when she tangled with that devil Rhyme Things stopped going her way An army of zombie ninjas (These eat young writers’ brains) Emerged from the Plains of Writer’s Block And swiftly grabbed the reigns Not literal reigns, you nincompoop This poem don’t deal with horses The reigns of the Battle, our girl was lost What happened in due course is Alliteration hammered her head Ole Couplet kicked her kidneys twice Rhyme got in a few good blows Well, none of this was very nice Just when all seemed mostly lost Our hero’s fingers clasped her sword She scratched on the face of her blank white foe One single battle-winning word 26 �JENICA MAXWELL So what to do if you find yourself In the Plains of Block for a zombie fight Remember the simple magic words All the writer does is write 27 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL KAMI MCARTHUR IN THE CORNER OF THE LIBRARY I sit among strangers and stare at the gray stretch of canvas —placed there to block out distractions, placed there so I can focus on my final project. But I listen to the clock ticking, the leafing through paper, the pop of a pen cap, the buzz of zippers. Someone leans back in his chair, and someone scoots her seat in. I listen to someone walking, the rustling fabric, the falling footsteps. I listen to him shaking his mechanical pencil, the lead rattling inside. They punch buttons on their calculators. She slams her book on the table, heaving a sigh. I listen to erasers rubbing, pencils scratching. I sit there, still, wishing I could stand on my desk and tell them, tell them all, that I am here that we are all one, with pumping hearts, 28 �KAMI MCARTHUR expanding lungs, one, with our desires, our fears, our goals. But I remain where I am, and stare at a gray stretch of canvas. 29 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL KAMI MCARTHUR COLONEL MILLER’S MANSION The busted shingles bristle up like dog hair. The rain pipe teeters in the breeze. Glass teeth frame a gaping hole in his window. The porch, splintered, lies lopsided. And the once majestic door flaps on its hinges. 30 �STEPHEN D. NADAULD STEPHEN D. NADAULD DEATH’S DOOR Death’s door, so long ignored, Now stands ajar. It bids me strain to see and hear That I might glimpse beyond the bar. I see no sign, no sound Comes forth. Death’s shadow lurks And I am left to count my worth. But wait, could that not be A hand I see, Whose form and shape are known to me; That through the years held Tight to mine And blessed my life Time after time? That self-same hand now beckons me; I pause, then reach And pass in peace into eternity. 31 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MARIE TOLLSTRUP KACHINA Eagle Kachina, teach me How to sing my stories, Honoring who I am. I’ve been a gourd, Never back scratched Below the surface. I’m like an apple With a hidden core. Dancing Eagle Kachina, Teach me how to fly As your freed companion. Set me on a silver tray Like an ornamental vase For all the world to see. Kachina, free my stories Buried like a layered gourd. 32 �MARIE TOLLSTRUP LOOM Dust off time. The bowed headed weaver passes her shuttle, gliding the woof thread to and fro between warp threads. Her woven memories twist in the wind like an unraveling scarf. Rock back through time on the front porch, reminiscing sepia toned, tear-stained memories. Caress satin, fuzzy threads, heart-embedded for years. Rock forward through space, grasping remnants of forsaken dreams never attempted— unanchored strands. Design one last memory that needs weaving. 33 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL NOVA WAHL GLASS MUSIC BOX My fingers ran over the smooth, clear glass of my piano music box. Turning it over and twisting the knob, I placed it on my dresser and watched it spin and play at last. The needle pricked off notes as the revolving cylinder ran. And I sighed, as the world got lost inside that crystal glass. 34 �35 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL 36 �MICKI ERICKSEN MICKI ERICKSEN SCRAPS Jake sprinted across the hot desert sand to a patch of grass in his neighbor’s front yard. He paused, allowing his bare feet a moment of relief from the blistering heat, then raced farther down the street to the shade of a cottonwood tree. The soles of his feet, still soft from wearing shoes to school every day, hadn’t yet formed calluses to guard against the rocks, sticker burs, and sun-scorched earth since summer break had begun. He leaned against the trunk of the tree and pulled a thorn from his big toe, then looked across the long stretch of shadeless dirt road that led to his best friend Timmy Walker’s house. Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of his face onto his bare shoulders. He wore patched denim overalls with no shirt and carried a canvas sack filled with an old hammer and a box of nails he’d taken from his father’s shed. He and Timmy had planned to finish their tree house today and Jake couldn’t wait to get started. The boys had barely started nailing together a platform, but were already out of lumber with no pocket money left to buy more. He hoped Timmy had an idea of how to get more wood. Jake hesitated a moment longer, curled his toes through the warm sand, then pushed off with all the strength his legs could muster. The sun beat down on his sandy-colored hair and the heat from the dirt road pulsed into his feet with every step. Halfway down the street, his feet could take the searing no longer, and he sat down on the edge of the road, waving his legs in the air. He heard laughter and saw Timmy sitting in the shade of his front porch about fifty yards away. “You try running across this frying pan!” Jake yelled at him. The sting of the hot, hard earth seeped into his bottom and he was 37 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL up on his feet again, this time just making it to the porch before his soles completely scorched. Timmy stood up, took a swig from a canteen of water, and grinned at Jake. His dark brown hair was slightly damp with sweat and he wore faded overalls almost identical to Jake’s. “Hot, ain’t it?” Timmy said, then doused his friend with the remains of his canteen and raced off the porch. Jake dropped his bag and ran after Timmy, whooping and hollering threats after him, even though the water felt cool running down his face. They ran around to the side of the house where Timmy’s mom was hosing off the wall, attempting to cool the inside of their red brick home a few degrees. “What are you boys up to, today?” Mrs. Walker asked. She wore a flowery, calf-length dress and had her brown hair pulled back in a blue bandana. “We’re gonna work on our tree house,” Timmy said, elbowing Jake in the gut as he came up alongside him, slightly panting from the chase. “Sounds like fun. Try to keep cool,” Mrs. Walker replied, then took a drink from the hose. The boys headed to the backyard, and Mrs. Walker sprayed the hose at them as they trotted around the corner. They hollered as the cool water splashed against their backs. Timmy’s backyard shared a fence with Peterson Lumber, the only lumberyard in town. Jake followed Timmy as he shimmied up the tree next to the fence, straddled the branch that hung over the wood lot, and dropped down onto a pile of ten-foot-long two-byfour’s laid out next to the fence. The boys scanned the yard for any workers, but all was quiet. “Looks like they’re still at lunch,” Timmy said. He glanced at the two-by-fours beneath their feet. “These have been here for a while. I don’t reckon Mr. Peterson will mind if we use a few. They’re probably scraps, anyway.” “Yeah, probably scraps,” Jake agreed. This could work, as long 38 �MICKI ERICKSEN as no one noticed them. The boards had been there for a while, after all. Timmy climbed back into the tree, and Jake grabbed a twoby-four off the pile, leaned it against the fence, then pushed it up toward Timmy. Timmy took hold of the board, pulled it up, then let the wood drop onto the grass in his yard below. The boys worked fast, glancing furtively around the yard for signs of workers. When the pile of boards in Timmy’s yard had grown into a small mound, Jake climbed from the diminished stack of wood in the lumberyard back into the tree. The boys each straddled a branch, breathing hard in the heat. Even the fruitless mulberry tree seemed to be wilting in the desert sun, protesting the added warmth and weight of the two boys as its branches and leaves sagged. “You as thirsty as I am?” Jake asked, wiping his forearm across his forehead. Timmy nodded and led the way into the house, where his mom had glasses of ice-cold lemonade waiting. The boys stood at the kitchen counter, gulping down the refreshing drinks. “That’s a big pile of boards you got out there. Did Mr. Peterson give you all that?” Mrs. Walker asked, wetting a rag in the kitchen sink and placing it around her neck, then grabbing a glass of lemonade. “Yeah, we got a bunch,” Timmy said. He and Jake drained their glasses, then raced back to the yard. “Thanks for the lemonade, Mrs. Walker!” Jake shouted over his shoulder as the screen door banged shut. Jake and Timmy worked the rest of the afternoon, sawing and nailing the lengths of wood to finish the platform in the tree. Their initial plan was to build a full-scale tree house with walls, windows, and a roof; but after the long afternoon of measuring, cutting, and nailing while the sun beat down on them, they decided that a simple platform was good enough for now. They could finish the rest later—if they wanted. The boys played marbles in the shade of the mulberry tree until 39 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL supper time. Just as Jake’s shooter knocked one of Timmy’s commies out of the circle, Mrs. Walker came out to the backyard holding a quart jar of apricot jam tied with a green ribbon and a card attached. “I want you boys to sign this card and come with me over to Mr. Peterson’s to tell him thank you for the wood he let you have.” Jake froze in the act of scooping up the marbles. “Aw, Mom,” Timmy said, rubbing the back of his neck, and looking down at the grass. “We’re just gettin’ into this marble game. Can’t we tell Mr. Peterson thanks another time?” Mrs. Walker set the jam jar in the middle of the circle and handed Timmy a pen. “Sign the card please, boys, while I finish supper. Then we’ll take the jam to Mr. Peterson after we eat. That’ll give you time to finish up your game.” She went back inside the house. Timmy stared at the pen in his hand. “What are we supposed to write?” “Just sign our names, I guess,” said Jake, uneasily. A deep voice behind them made them both jump. “That’s a nice tree house you got started there, boys.” Mr. Peterson stood on the other side of Timmy’s fence. His chin rested just above the tallest fence post and his weathered face was shaded beneath the brim of a tan-colored cowboy hat. Timmy seemed immobilized with surprise—and guilt, perhaps—so Jake stammered a “Th-Thanks.” “Mighty fine lumber ya got there, too.” Mr. Peterson said again, nodding toward the tree. “Yeah,” Timmy mumbled, finally speaking but keeping his gaze down. “Well, you boys have a good summer.” Mr. Peterson turned from the fence and walked back into his lumberyard. “Uh, Mr. Peterson, wait!” Timmy called. He grabbed the jar of jam and went to the fence, leaving the card behind on the grass. Mr. Peterson’s head appeared again. “Mom wanted you to have this jam. We were gonna bring it over after supper, but you might as well take it now.” He handed the jar up to Mr. Peterson. Mr. Pe40 �MICKI ERICKSEN terson looked at the jar a moment, looked at Timmy, then reached over and took the jam, without taking his eyes from Timmy’s face. “Nice of your mama to think of me. Make sure you tell her I appreciate it.” He turned once again and strode away. Mrs. Walker came out the back door of the house, wiping her hands on a pink-checkered apron she had tied around her waist. “Was that Mr. Peterson’s voice I heard?” “Yeah, I gave him the jam,” Timmy replied innocently. “He said to tell you ‘thanks.’” “Oh, good. He’s such a nice man,” Mrs. Walker said as she returned to the kitchen. Jake and Timmy stared at each other for a moment, then Timmy cracked a smile. Jake grinned back and knelt at the edge of the circle, aiming his shooter at one of Timmy’s prize plasters. The sweltering afternoon slowly turned into a warm evening. After supper and another game of marbles, the boys decided to sleep in their tree house. They hauled two sleeping bags outside and spread them over the platform. Stars twinkled between the leaves of the tree as a breeze cooled the night. The boys made plans to head down to the river the next day for some stone-skipping and fishing; then they drifted off to sleep. The sun woke them early the next morning, and they wandered groggily into the house for breakfast. Mrs. Walker had toast, peaches, and milk already laid out on the kitchen table. “Morning, boys,” she called out. “Ready for your big work day?” “Huh?” Timmy asked, still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. “Mr. Peterson stopped by just a little while ago and told me how you boys had worked out a trade with him for the wood you used. He said he’d be expecting you at the lumberyard first thing this morning.” Jake and Timmy looked at each other, panic-stricken. What exactly had Mr. Peterson said? Were they in trouble? They watched Timmy’s mom for signs of disappointment or anger. But she just 41 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL busied herself with kitchen chores. “You boys better finish up and get going,” she said, tousling Timmy’s hair and looking down at his barely touched breakfast plate. The boys ate as much as their uneasy stomachs would allow. They put on t-shirts under their overalls, tied on some sneakers— Jake borrowed a pair of Timmy’s old ones—and trudged over to Peterson Lumber. They didn’t jump the fence this time, but walked around the corner and onto the wood lot. Mr. Peterson spotted them from across the yard and sauntered over. “You boys ready to work?” he asked. No reprimands, no speeches, just a simple question. The boys knew all that he implied. “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison. And work they did. 42 �ELAINE WILSON-SHARP ELAINE WILSON-SHARP CLANK I was lying on the edge of sleep, the last hint of dawn leaving my room. Work on the farm started early, but last night I had heard my father whisper to my mother that he would let me sleep in my first morning home. Although two years had passed since I had last been home, I knew from experience that my brother was just finishing milking the cows while my two sisters had just set a plate of eggs on the large wooden table. The smell of bacon drifted up the stairs. I considered joining them and seeing the scenes I had dreamed about for months: my mother’s soft, smiling face, my grandmother humming quietly in time to the old grandfather clock that hung in the parlor, my father talking of things needing to be done while my sisters hurried to eat and primp before heading into town for school. My brother would make two plates of breakfast quickly disappear before heading out to the fields to begin the day’s work. But this morning, I knew, wouldn’t feel the same as the ones before I’d gone to war, and would be exactly like the supper I’d endured the previous night: silent stares from my sisters, worried looks from my mother, endless talking from my father of things that no longer mattered, all competing with the silent questions from my brother’s eyes, questions I could never face, let alone answer. I buried my head beneath the quilt and tried to drown out the sounds of a family life I no longer belonged to. I closed my eyes again and, at first, slept peacefully. But soon, a noise tugged at the edge of my consciousness. Clank. I knew the noise was coming from down the stairs. I knew, logically, that there was no reason for it to be getting louder, closer, crawling inside my head and starting a stream of images that I had managed to avoid since being home. 43 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Clank. I was on the fields of Germany again, my throat aching for water, my soul aching for the humanity that seemed forever lost to this place. Clank. The noise of the artillery, the bang of guns, the sound of the weapons being loaded and shot over and over again. Clank. I was falling to the ground again as something powerful smashed into the side of my skull and the hard thump of my body sent vibrations of pain and fear all through me. I saw the pale face leering over me and felt the claws of several hands clutching me as they dragged me to a truck filled with other unconscious or screaming men. Bewegen! I heard the voices shout. My first instinct was to cry out as the searing pain battled with my overwhelming terror. But another blow to my head and the bang of a door stopped me cold, and I spent the rest of the journey in blessed darkness. Clank was the sound that woke me again that cold night, but here, in my own bed, I heard clank and I twisted feverishly, wondering what it was, wondering how to wake up. I had wondered then, too, how to leave the nightmare, but the clank was the closing of a cell door and I knew that there would be little chance to escape. I could never flee the horrifying sounds. Screaming, hissing, wailing, swearing, shooting, the ringing of cell doors being opened and shut, the sickening thud of another body falling lifeless to the floor outside our cells. The worst sound of all was my own cell door being opened, the rattling chains of the guards who came to take me and the clank of the door shutting on what had now become my sanctuary. I laid on the cold floor of the cell after one of my frequent torture sessions, shivering. Praying. Barely feeling tears that had come no matter how hard I’d tried to hold them back. I heard the ping of guns shooting again and the screams of men, but this time they were German men screaming their fear and American voices screaming for our release. I crawled across the floor, and now the metal ringing of the doors came from me as I shook them with all my might, shouting for help. A man I’d never seen before came rushing toward my cell and 44 �ELAINE WILSON-SHARP shouted, “Move back!” before shooting the lock that held me in. I tried to hold myself up as he helped me out, yelling over his shoulder at his comrades to run faster. The boards squeaked in the truck as I was thrown against the bodies of other rescued men. Then I heard the choppy motor of the truck, the clinking of the gears as they shifted and prepared to run. I saw the man who’d saved me running back to the prison, screaming at the driver to wait as he tried to help another who had fallen behind. Suddenly, the clank of a metal chain against a human skull and my rescuer fell. “No!” I screamed, but I couldn’t rise up. Clank, clank, went the chains against men who were suddenly caught, but I couldn’t stop them, and the truck moved forward. “Stop!” I begged, crying to the truck driver, the evil guards, and the world for its vile appetites. The clank, clank filled the air around me and I screamed and cried against it until the blackness came over me once more. But the noise wouldn’t stop this time as it echoed up the stairs into my bedroom, and I blindly threw off the blankets and ran to my door. “Stop!” I sobbed and hurled myself down the stairs. “For the love of God, stop!” The great front room was silent and empty and I was fully awake now. The late morning sun lit up the house but I shivered. Clank! The sound jumped out at me and I whirled toward it. My mother’s steel pots, hanging from their rack above the sink, banged together as the breeze came through the open window. I moved slowly toward the shelf and saw the note laid on it, kept still from the breeze by a paper weight. Gone into town. Didn’t want to disturb you. Be back by noon. A gust of wind came through the window, clanging the pots together in a frenzy and edging the note from under the weight. It flew across the floor and I sank down onto it, burying my face in my arms. 45 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Clank, clank, clank. The wind was a rage now and crashed the pans together, loud and angry. I rocked back and forth, hearing the clank all around me and felt the furious beating of my heart, spilling tears over the images of my life that would never cease. 46 �SEAN SCOTT SEAN SCOTT PITCH BLACK ATTIC Passing by the vaguely familiar man holding the door open, I size him up—just in case. Stocky, built like a wrestler, one of my least favorite types. They usually take too long to deal with discreetly. His outfit looks medical, teal scrubs and running shoes. I walk across the grass. Standing in the designated spot, above a deep storm drain, I hold a small package in my hand, poised to make the drop. The warm sun works its way into my chalky skin. The implant in my ear crackles faintly before a distinct voice says, “Drop canceled. Code 6, green outfit, at your nine o’clock.” I turn to my left and see Scrubs, about 40 feet away, leaning against a wall and digging under his nails with the edge of a key. I must have jinxed myself. I press my finger against my temple before speaking softly. “Engage?” “Negative. Evasion pattern zulu-zero.” Not good; I haven’t eaten lunch yet, and already the day appears almost ruined. I push on my temple again. “Which safe house?” “Not yet determined. Lose your shadow and we’ll reassess.” I glance at Scrubs before responding. “Take your sweet time—” My complaint cuts off as I realize Scrubs has stopped digging at his nails; instead, his attention is focused on me. Pushing himself away from the wall, he has already taken a few steps in my direction. His gaze dances from my face to my hand. Rather than waiting to talk things over, I drop the package into the drain and sprint to my right, losing my slippers as I run. The sound of his rapid footfalls tells me he is in pursuit. I can’t help but acknowledge just how rapid those footfalls sound. For such a short guy, he can really move. I see the wall looming ahead of me—about 15 feet to the top—too high for a quick jump. I slow 47 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL my pace so that my pursuer will reach me just as I get to the wall. Perfect. As my feet plant against the wall, time slows for the jump. For a split second it looks as if I’ll spring up and grab the top edge of bricks. Instead, I arch my back like a high diver going into a back flip. My head connects with Scrub’s face. My vision blurs. I hear the sick pop of his nose breaking as I lay back, letting his limp body cushion my fall. Regaining my feet, I hear Scrubs rattle out a wet breath to send me off. Much easier than I had predicted; a bump on the head is a fair trade for shattering a nose. Without sufficient time to gloat, I look up at the wall. My vision goes momentarily white again, and I elbow the second man out of pure instinct. But instinct lacks precision; the blow glances off his ear. We grapple briefly until a third man grabs my robe, bringing me down onto the damp lawn. I kick back, my heel biting an unguarded shin. The hobbled attacker falls against me, twisting my wrist. A crackled voice in my ear, insanely calm, says, “Stand by, support team is inbound.” Hope they don’t feel rushed. One of the men grunts something like “Relax.” A small stinging pressure on my left shoulder—a hypodermic? Yep. I feel a tingling warmth radiate from the sting as my vision clouds once more to white; I hate redundancy. *** Lying on a bumpy cot in a small, cell-like room, I feel like I have eaten a whole bottle of horseradish and washed it down with vinegar. Having regained consciousness on the rancid mattress about two hours earlier, I survey my quarters again. The room seems too run-down for an official government holding cell; this is more like a grimy spot, off the grid, where unofficial methods can be employed. It has a permanent dirty look and smells like a daily battle between urine and cheap bleach cleanser. A lone piece of furniture, 48 �SEAN SCOTT the once-white cot, stretches from the cold, stained, stainless steel toilet to the doorway. The floor’s corners look like cockroach reenactments of famous massacres. Yet the most revolting feature of the cell stands propped against the wall in a tweed coat and corduroy pants—no belt. He has been timidly interrogating me for an hour already. “Who were you talking to on the lawn?” he asks in a nasally voice. I stare at a large, brown splotch on the ceiling, probably rainwater leaking in from the roof. Workable. “Why did you try to run away?” Rainwater means top floor, means a possible way out. “I’m on your side here, you know? I want to help.” At first glance I had pegged this guy as an amateur; so far he has done nothing to change my opinion. My gaze shifts from the water spot on the ceiling to his pale eyes. I lean back on the stiff cot, resting my head in my hand so my palm pushes at my temple, hoping to transmit whatever I can. The time has come to acknowledge his presence. “Why would you want to drop your—” I cut him off, “Top floor?” His eyebrows flinch together for a split second. Bingo. “Why do you ask, Mr. Matthews?” Judging from the overall disrepair of the room, I assume they have taken me to a temporary undercover field location. I keep my gaze locked with his. He matches my stare for five seconds, tops, before scratching his head as a diversion while his eyes flicker away. His discomfort amuses me. Where do they find these guys; some online interrogation school? In the past hour he has bounced every tired, cliché script off me. I respect torture, but trying to play the old buddy-buddy goes beyond embarrassing. I lay back and return my attention to the water stain. The inept interrogator lets out a frustrated breath and pounds on the steel door for the external guard to let him out. To think, as a kid I used to 49 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL dream about working for Washington. Luckily, after that mess with the army, other recruiters had approached me. To think, I could have turned out like this guy: sloppy surveillance, T.V. cop interrogation, scared of being strangled with my own belt. I rub my bruised wrist. Maybe they should let the thugs who brought me in ask the questions. They handle business in a much more professional manner. The heavy door swings open and I get one more exasperated look from the interrogator before he finally leaves me alone. I sweep the room for bugs. Nothing. Have they hidden them beyond my skills, or do I really sit unsupervised? I look over the room again and again until the lights go off for the night. The windowless room makes for complete blackness. The kind you feel in your skin; the kind that detaches mind and body—that makes you feel inside-out. I know they hope to break me through sensory deprivation. It comes right after timid questioning in Interrogation Made Easy. Screams of panic echo in the darkness; apparently, I’m not the only captive here. Feeling my way back to the cot, I sit down and press my temple. “Update me.” Silence. “Echo one-eight-eight.” Still no response. Captured and isolated. Not a great combo. I have no idea if my team knows where these jokers have taken me. Many field experiences have taught me that assuming the worst usually works best. This isn’t my first escape, but it has been a while. The screams escalate into shrieks. Time to go. My hands guide me along the cold metal frame of the cot, toward the bottom end. I search the memories of the room, memories established through hours searching for surveillance equipment. Climbing onto the end of my bed, I reach up and push against the ceiling. My fingers scrape through the water-damaged plaster. Finally, Lady Luck has thrown me a bone. Ignoring the bitter smell of the moldy brown paste I dig through, I spend the next few hours 50 �SEAN SCOTT making a hole in the ceiling big enough to crawl into. Finally, I hoist myself into the wiring and insulation. The shrieks now shift to laughter, and it sounds like my new cohort is just getting warmed up. I make sure to keep my weight on the wooden studs to avoid crashing down through another soft spot. An ominous ticking begins in my head. Cursing the tedious digging process for using up so much precious time, I move as quickly as stealth allows. Creeping through fiberglass insulation may sound cool, but I don’t recommend it. About five feet of crawling has filled my eyes, nose, mouth, and other choice orifices with hundreds of itchy fibers. What do you do when your whole body itches? Add to that a complete lack of visibility, and you get a delicious recipe for frustration, if not utter madness. Still, it’s always nice to be away from my room. I must be close to the laughter. It rings clearer now as it dissolves into a mixture of sobbing and retching. My shoulder snags on a large cluster of cables. They offer a better option than aimlessly crawling, so I follow them for what feels like hours as the cramped, humid air transforms the itching into throbbing, sticky burning. Every movement rubs sweaty skin against tiny fibers, threatening to completely replace my sanity with a frantic seizure of scratching. Just as I consider stomping through the ceiling and trying a blaze of glory escape plan, a silver square shimmers, catching my eye. It takes a moment to discern its origin. When my eyes adjust, I know Ms. Luck has returned. Nearer the vent, the cool air soothes my tortured flesh. I peer through the slats—about five stories to the moonlit lawn below. The screws, fortunately enough, face in, but I must have forgotten to pack a screwdriver. After hashing my thumb nail in a futile attempt to twist them off by hand, I go back into the itchy darkness to find a more suitable tool. Right above the deranged prisoner (who has gone into a laughter reprise now), I find a wing nut anchoring a cable to a stud. I’m not crazy about it, but anything beats re-shredding my thumb. With the grate removed, I stick my head out and get a better 51 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL look at my situation. Sixth floor. Great. The good news: I find a ledge just above me which might get me to the roof. As I slither out of the grate, I hear my old friend screaming his terrified, wordless goodbyes. A brief, insane scramble gets me onto the ledge. As I shimmy along over various shapes and sizes of bird droppings, I finally reach an access ladder to the roof. I hear a panicked scream and briefly think my laughing buddy has somehow followed me out. No such luck. A man in a white coat stands down on the lawn, waving around like a lunatic. I quickly ascend the ladder to the roof. The screams echo in my head. So much excitement in one night can drive you nuts. I reach an access door and, naturally, find it locked. I know when I’m caught, and this feels an awful lot like it. I run back to the ladder. Now a group of people stand with the man in the white coat—all looking up. One of them has a radio to his mouth. The access door slams open and three men in scrubs come out. Upon the sight of me, one of them spreads his hands out in a textbook harmless gesture. “Mr. Matthews, come away from the ledge.” Confused and exhausted, I lean back against an air conditioning unit. “Who are you people?” My larynx burns like I’ve spent the night screaming. I hope I never see fiberglass insulation again. One guard takes the lead, gesturing toward the others who fan out away from the door. “We’re here to help you.” I push on my temple, desperately hoping a transmission will get through. “Where am I?” “This is still the River Grove Hospital. We moved you to a different room is all.” “That’s a lie.” “Mr. Matthews, I have no reason to lie to you.” My weakened body is finally giving in. I haven’t exerted this 52 �SEAN SCOTT much energy in months. As I slump down against the air conditioner, I hear their hurried footsteps crunch toward me. I feel firm hands on my shoulders. The leader of the group whispers a warning to the others. “Keep on your toes, boys. This is the one who smashed Ronny’s face out in the yard.” The hands grip tighter, but I’ve resigned. I can’t afford to risk an injury in another outnumbered fight. I keep my hand on my temple, but say nothing, content to observe and listen. “This guy?” “Yeah, he tried to make a run for the wall after Ronny caught him dumping his meds down a storm drain.” “Geez, Ronny’s like twice his size.” “No kidding. Okay, bring him in.” One of them roughly snatches my hand from my temple, ending the transmission. 53 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Peter Wiarda Iron to Iron, Dust to Dust 54 �VISUAL ARTS Arleth Lujan-Ponce Blue Spirit InnerSanctum Jamie Leavitt 55 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Jeff Ames Samoan Tattoo Addi Keenan Schwalger 56 �VISUAL ARTS Baby Krishel Smith Snake Krishel Smith 57 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Micki Ericksen Open Wide Jamie Leavitt Color Perspective 58 �VISUAL ARTS Robert Curl Man’s Dearest Creation, the Absolute 59 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Jordan Goodrich Pocket Spot 60 �VISUAL ARTS Prickles Micki Ericksen Jordan Goodrich Sands Motel 61 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Arleth Lujan-Ponce Not Just Snow Ashlee Millett Twin Falls, Idaho 62 �VISUAL ARTS Micki Ericksen Desert Snow 63 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Peter Wiarda Sunflower Soliloquy 64 �VISUAL ARTS Ashlee Millett Special 65 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Libby Booth Look What I Found! 66 �VISUAL ARTS Libby Booth Untitled (Happy Kids) 67 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Nova Wahl Cactus 68 �69 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Micki Ericksen Remember When 70 �MARJORIE ENO MARJORIE ENO ULTIMATUM Dreary clouds blanketed the sky, casting a dull shadow over town and teasing the air with the scent of rain. I pulled my brown hoodie tighter around me and scanned the scattered park benches for my mother, shivering as I caught sight of her navy windbreaker and plain blue scrubs. Taking a deep breath, I hiked up the mottled grass to where she sat, small and foreboding. An old tree stretched its bare branches over the bench as if guarding her, and I felt a lump grow in my throat. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers entwined, and as I stepped closer, I realized how much she resembled my grandmother. An immigrant from Pangasinan, my mother had beautiful olive skin, large dark eyes, and silky black hair. Yet now she appeared so much older, weary, as if the burdens of her life had etched themselves onto her face since we’d last met. I took a seat on the bench next to her, tucking my hands under my thighs to keep them from shaking, the soft wind carrying distant laughter from the nearby playground. Facing my mother now, I grasped at thoughts like falling rain, the words trickling through my fingers. “How are you doing?” Mom asked. Thoughts flickered in my mind, the struggles my fiancé and I had endured the last five months flashed like lightning in the clouds. I felt so discouraged, so angry—so helpless. But as always, I couldn’t bring myself to open up to her. “Um, not so good, Mom.” I tried to keep my voice casual. I felt a catch in my throat as tears crowded the edges of my eyes. Instinctively my jaw clenched, forcing the tears to stay put. I braced myself, clamping my fingers around the holes in the bench and rooting 71 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL my feet into the ground. If I stayed strong, everything would be all right. “We need help,” I blurted out, my throat constricting almost instantly after my confession. I shut my eyes and gathered the courage to tell her the results of Paul’s medical tests from the past few months. “We…we found out that Paul has multiple sclerosis.” She nodded, recognizing the name of the disease and shifted her jacket over the front of her scrubs as if to protect herself from a growing wind. No doubt she knew more about MS than I did. “He hasn’t been able to work and we’re having a really hard time right now…financially.” Her lips pursed downward into a slight frown. I had disappointed her. I waited for her response, the moment pulling me away like a strong tide. “Don’t marry Paul. You shouldn’t marry a sick man.” My heart clenched, the chill of uncertainty jolting into a bolt of anger. I shot up to my feet, hurt and furious. Paul and I had been together for over a year-and-a-half. In that time he’d supported me, cared for me, liked me for myself, and loved me despite all I had suffered. He was more than my best friend; he was everything to me now. “Mom, how can you say that? Just because he’s sick I should drop him and move on?” She sat up straighter, seeming larger than her tiny stature should make her. Turning her head to look up at me, her eyes narrowed sternly as if to say just that: leave him and move on. For a second, it occurred to me that perhaps she’d never had the chance to truly fall in love, and I wondered how I could make her understand. “I can’t, Mom. I am so at home with Paul and I’ve never felt at home anywhere. I’m happy with him. How can I give that up?” “I cannot help you if you stay with him,” her accent began to surface, much like it did whenever she became upset. “If you go to school—” “Mom, I’m not coming back home. I’m never coming home as 72 �MARJORIE ENO long as he is there.” I didn’t want to call him my father. I hadn’t called him that in years. “No, no. Not home. You will go to stay with your Aunt Norma in San Diego, mm? She wants you to come to stay with her, to go to school. She and I, we will take care of it. You will not have to worry if you are living with her.” Her speech became halted, her English less clear. With the mention of my aunt I paused. Two years ago, I would have loved nothing more than to go to college far and free from my father, to not have to worry about money, to live so close to the beach! But even as my skin tingled with this new opportunity, my stomach remained tense. The offer came with a catch. Her eyes, cold and insistent, told me that the easy path to my dream of earning a degree came with a price. And I could guess what that offer would cost. “What about Paul?” Her expression remained firm. The tears I had been holding curved down my chin before I knew I’d shed them. I shook my head at her silent answer. “I can’t just leave him.” “If you stay with him, we will not help. No one in the family will help. You don’t marry sick man.” Her eyes shifted from mine and looked off into the distance. She was giving me an ultimatum: choose your dream or choose your love. “How can you make me choose between Paul and my education?” The unfairness seared at my chest. “I can’t,” I said. I can’t have both. “I can’t leave him, Mom. I love him. And he loves me for me. I can’t…I just can’t leave that. I want to go to back to school. I will go back to school. But I won’t leave him in order to do it.” My mother remained quiet. Her dark eyes gazed past me and I turned to leave, the clouds rumbling overhead threatening rain. I glanced back over my shoulder, hoping…wishing she’d change her mind and call after me. I silently plead with her: don’t abandon me. Laughter echoed through the park despite the weather and life carried on all around us, reminding me that I needed to carry on as 73 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL well. Paul had another doctor’s appointment soon and I would be there for him. That moment I knew. Out of everything else in life, I would always choose him. I would always choose love. 74 �DAVID CORDERO DAVID CORDERO THE LONGEST HIT As we waited for the particulars to be sorted out—you know, when the teams’ managers with their hands in their back pockets and mouths chewing on gum that’s already lost its taste lay out all the mundane rules of the particular ballpark with the umpires—I saw a bunch of my high school baseball teammates gather around our catcher. Butterfield was our backstop and did he ever look the part. He was 6-foot-1, weighed about 215 pounds and was only a sophomore. His family wasn’t poor, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he arrived with a new bat at the halfway point of the season. Boy, was this piece of aluminum a beaut. It was 34 inches long, but weighed only 29 ounces. Consider it an alloy weapon, which it was—it had a five-count discrepancy in length vs. width, which would be outlawed three years later. But this was 1996 and we might as well have been in the wild, wild west. It was like Frank Sinatra once crooned, “Anything Goes.” And on that overcast afternoon, I came to believe that anything could happen when I was at the plate. All the guys were gaga over this stick. When my turn came, I lined my knuckles up accordingly and gave it a few thrusts out. I could tell with just a few flicks of the wrists whether or not I could swing it. I had my doubts, considering my previous piece of faux lumber was a 30/27, but I had exhausted all the hits on that bat and, quite frankly, I needed to break out of a slump. I had gone 1-for-7 during spring break in the Lions Tournament, striking out twice and popping out a few times. I looked terrible. And now my hindquarters were planted firmly on the splintering wood bench, hoping to get a chance for redemption. In the bottom of the fourth, Coach sent me to the on-deck circle. 75 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL La Jolla’s starter was faltering, and with runners on base Coach probably thought it was a good chance for me to break out of my slump and drive in some runs. Alas, Bilderback couldn’t bring the two runners in scoring position around, so I had a whole inning to wait. It’s a shame, I told myself. Here’s a guy who obviously didn’t have his best stuff, and he was let off the hook. He didn’t have to face me. That’s when I realized my confidence was back. Bailey retired the side in the fifth. As I slapped the helmet on the side of my thigh, evicting the pile of dirt that had collected from guys who hadn’t learned how to pick up their feet, I heard an alltoo-familiar refrain: “New pitcher!” This had had some effect on me in the past, but today I was ambivalent over the change. I strode to the side of the plate, well in front and to the right as to avoid a wayward pitch. I’ve never been sure how effective this so-called “timing” exercise is. It’s not like the guy is going all out with his warmup pitches. He’s getting a feel for the mound, throwing each pitch in his repertoire—it’s really not an indication of what’s ahead. But I sensed something this day. The kid didn’t look self-assured. I didn’t know his history. I’d never seen him before in my life. But nothing about him intimidated me. I didn’t say anything to anybody—those days I talked only slightly more than a Benedictine monk—but my stride must have said it all: I’m going to hit this ball. After the first two pitches, I didn’t know if I’d get the bat off my shoulder. The first pitch was way outside, the second in the dirt. Leading off an inning, your responsibility is to get on base; had I swung at a bad pitch on 2-0, Coach would find a new spot for this bat. So I knew what was next. I took strike one, right down Broadway. You never knew when you’d see a beauty like that again. It was belt-high, on the inside third of the plate, the kind of pitch I usually turn on for a double down the left-field line. I bit my lip as the pitch crossed the plate, fuming silently to myself for no other reason than the bad luck. Why couldn’t this offering have come on the opening pitch? But I couldn’t dwell on it. 76 �DAVID CORDERO Baseball is a funny game. Perhaps more than any other sport, you can’t dwell on past failures or bad breaks. There’s more bad than good on the offensive end, when hitting .300 means enshrinement into Baseball’s Hall of Fame. I refocused and waited for his offering. As was my ritual, my bat tapped the far end of the plate, knees bent slightly, and I arched my back. I waved the stick high in what I hoped was a menacing manner. I had adopted my batting stance after Mike Piazza, who at that point in his career was in his fourth year of terrorizing National League pitchers. This was incongruous for me because I hated the Dodgers. A lifelong Padres fan, I never could figure out how to replicate Tony Gwynn’s stance as a right-handed hitter. So Piazza it was. My vision was terrific back then. Before it was demolished by virulent computer screens, I could see how the seams rotated during the pitch and sometimes—I swear this is true—could tell if the writing on the baseball was right-side up or upside down. I had no problems locating the pitch as it left his hand. He had a no-frills delivery—just a kid, trying to throw strikes. If I had time to really think—we’re talking half-a-second from the moment it leaves his hand to when I have to decide whether not to swing—I would have said to myself, “this pitch is perfect.” But I didn’t. Instead I sent his ill-conceived offering high to left field. Too high, I thought at first, almost scolding myself as I busted out of the batter’s box. The noise that erupted from my bench soon overruled my thinking. “OHHHHH… YEAHHHH…GO, GO… RUNNNN!!” I was puzzled because the sound reverberating off the bat was something I had never heard—at least coming off my bat. I had found the most succulent portion of the sweet spot, a place where you barely feel a thing when the ball meets the bat. That piece of Rawlings horsehide felt all the pain on this exchange. Halfway to first I took a peek to left-center and saw La Jolla’s centerfielder with his head down, making a beeline for the gap. The 77 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL ball stayed in the air for what seemed an ice age, but the higher it went, the farther it traveled. How could this be? I never hit for power, never came close to an over-the-fence dinger. It all seemed to happen too slowly. There’s an easy explanation for this. When you’re in that special athletic place called “the zone,” things don’t seem as fast. You’ve reached a point in your endeavor when you have met and, in most cases, exceeded the expectations of the game. You have slowed things down because of your technical aptitude. Before the ball came down, I turned on the burners. Once I was convinced this ball was not landing in some outfielder’s glove, I began to think triple. But to my surprise, I noticed the center fielder picking up the ball just as I was nearing second base. Now if you know anything about baseball, it’s that you don’t make the first or last out at third base. It’s a cardinal sin, akin to trying to steal home with no outs. Could I have made it to third? I’d like to think so. Then again, their shortstop could have been the next coming of Ozzie Smith and thrown me out on the relay. So I opted to be safe. I pulled up at second. I could hear my dad hollering approval from the stands. My teammates were at the same time astonished and giddy, equally stunned by this revelation. But they weren’t as shocked as I was. As intense and as serious a ballplayer I was, I couldn’t help but want to smile. Not only had I smacked the spit out of that horsehide, but I’d killed my slump. I was back to being a hitter again. La Jolla’s pitcher was clearly rattled. He threw two straight balls at a time when a strike was desperately needed. Heath, not exactly the next coming of Albert Belle, was trying to sacrifice me over to third. Ahead in the count 2-0, he tried twice to lay down bunts and fouled them off. The next pitch was a ball. Full count—but still no outs—so I couldn’t get careless on the base-paths. Yet I also couldn’t get tentative out there. But I did. And it ruined my day. The bunt sign was taken off for Heath and he drilled a low grounder toward the pitcher. Instead of freezing where I was— 78 �DAVID CORDERO about 25 to 30 feet off second base—I made two steps toward third, then started back toward second. The ball kicked off the pitcher, but before I could get my momentum going back toward third, he pounced on the ball and held it at the ready, waiting for my next move. I darted back toward second, completing this innovative and idiotic dance move. Coach howled from the third base coaching box. “C’mon, Dave, you need to be here right now!” The bench, elated just minutes ago, was disapproving now, saying things only ballplayers with nothing else to say can say. “D.C., keep your head in the game! Stay alive out there!” I was disgusted. Yet I didn’t make an out and we still had runners on first and second and none gone. I looked at the bright side; my job was a lot more straightforward. If the ball is on the ground, I have to run. No judgment calls there. Coach brought in a pinch hitter, well, pinch bunter, a kid named Alex. If there ever were a time to get one down, it was at that moment. You see, we’d started the league season off on fire, upsetting Uni High, then topping University City in the bottom of the final inning. But we’d fallen off the pace, losing our next six in a row, including three in league play. This was the final opponent in the first round of Western League action. We were looking to improve to 3-3 in league play and keep our playoff hopes alive. Now it was up to Alex. Seldom used, Alex possessed a terrific attitude, always hustling and forever positive. But this meant absolutely nothing in the bottom of the sixth of a crucial league game when he had to get a bunt down. Unlike Heath, though, Alex put the ball into fair territory. It was a one-hopper back to the pitcher. The hurler tossed to a regrouping third baseman—a wonderfully gifted athlete with the name Rizzo—who beat me to the bag for the out. I ran back to the dugout, fit to be tied over my ridiculous blunder. Our bench was deflated. Had I scored, it would have been nothing but high-fives, helmet smacks, and fist bumps. I didn’t, so I got the 79 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL leper treatment. We failed to push a run across that inning, the next two hitters unable to bail me out. La Jolla scored in the seventh and we were unable to match them. Another defeat. What should have been a glorious aftermath bordered on devastation. Nearly 15 years have passed and I can’t help but think of the lesson I learned from my mistake: glory is fleeting. We did end up making the playoffs, though, and I did have a successful rest of the season. We won some, we lost some. I hit some, I missed some. I even went 3-for-3 against the Saints and their allcounty pitcher. But the next we played La Jolla, I got a good view of the ocean, striking out each of the three times I came to the plate. I guess they’d found someone who could actually pitch. 80 �KAMI MCARTHUR SAM A. JACKSON, COWBOY POET INTERVIEW BY KAMI MCARTHUR Sam A. Jackson grew up on a family farm in Idaho and began writing poetry to record his memories of his early ranching experiences. He later broadened his creative work to include everything from Indians and wire fences to mustangs and the Rockies. Now an author of two volumes of poetry, Jackson has had his work featured in several national magazines, as well as the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s annual Poetica Program. He has performed at cowboy poetry gatherings throughout North America and he once made an appearance on an Idaho Public television production called Vanishing Idaho. In Idaho, he also organized the Dogie Wranglers, a group of cowboy poets that visits schools to promote poetry. Today, Jackson devotes his spare time to producing the National Cowboy Poetry Rodeo (NCPR), a cowboy poetry performance competition now in its fifteenth season. In August 2011, the Rodeo will be hosted in Kanab, Utah. 81 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SOUTHERN QUILL: What do you enjoy about performing your work? SJ: Not admitting that it soothes the ego would be a lie of omission. Of course it does. But aside from that, it is a pleasant way of passing on bits and pieces of history that would otherwise be lost, as well as the camaraderie afforded from the “gatherings”—what we call our performances. SQ: What got you interested in writing poetry? SAM A. JACKSON: I have always enjoyed dabbling with rhymes of one sort or another. After retiring from my 8-to-5 job, I attended a cowboy poetry gathering in St. Anthony, Idaho, and, liking what I saw and heard, I decided to try writing about my own cowboy-type experiences. SQ: Where do you get your ideas for your poems? SJ: For the most part, from my life. Many of my first poems were simply stories of my early days working on the ranch and herding sheep. SQ: Tell us about your two books. How did you come to write and publish them? SJ: The first book, Wild and Western Woolly Verse, was published in the late-nineties, and contains approximately 60 poems, mostly about the livestock industry. The second book, Wild and Woolly Western Verse, was published in 2004. Although made up primarily of cowboy poetry, it goes into a number of other fields. There is a poem called “Kate the Iron Mare,” for instance, about a story of the Alaskan Gold Rush and another one, “Reflections,” tells a story about my grandfather rolling a Bull Durham smoke. There’s also a Jules Vern-inspired piece titled “Cowboys on the Moon.” Both 82 �KAMI MCARTHUR books were self-published, never intended for sale, written solely to remind the world, and my posterity, that someone by the name of Sam A. Jackson had passed this way. SQ: What do you enjoy most about writing? SJ: I find it very relaxing and derive a certain pleasure from accomplishing something that I feel is done well. Quoting the last lines from my poem “Self Portrait,” which tells a story about building a fence: “For the man knows he just painted a portrait of himself through efforts that he put into that fence!” SQ: What is the most challenging aspect of your writing career? SJ: Finding new subjects to write about, and then attempting to best my last effort. SQ: Tell us about the National Cowboy Poetry Rodeo? What is the NCPR and how did you get involved in it? SJ: After attending several gatherings and listening to some quite painful entertainment, I felt the concept was good, but began to speculate on how the level of expertise could be raised. Competition immediately came to mind, as I can think of very little that it does not improve—but how, I wondered, could it be integrated into a cowboy poetry gathering? Then it came to me: use stock rodeo as a model. Let me read you something from the NCPR’s rules: “The Cowboy Poetry Rodeo is an event, fashioned after a stock rodeo, designed to pit the skills of one cowboy poet against those of another in such a manner as to further develop the talents of both, with an overriding goal of advancing the genre of cowboy poetry to a degree benefiting both performer and audience.” SQ: We hear the term “cowboy poetry” all the time out here in 83 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Southern Utah. What does it mean? SJ: There is no definitive answer. Over the years I’ve been in many discussions on this elusive label and have arrived at the conclusion that any attempt to tightly define “cowboy poetry” is as frivolous as trying to firm up a definition of “pretty girl,” for both mean different things to different people. Any explanation beyond just saying “It’s an informal way of telling stories, usually in rhyme” becomes garbled and quite controversial. Nor is cowboy poetry just about cowboys. Any subject about country living, ranch life, farm animals, or associated activities is fair game. It doesn’t have to be written and recited by cowboys, either. It can come from anyone who feels they can, either through experience or research, realistically address a pastoral subject. It doesn’t have to have rhyming verse, either. It can be written in many different ways, such as prose, ballads, stories, or songs. Perhaps a more fitting title might be “Western Verse” or “Country Prose.” Certainly a title not quite so restrictive would be less confusing. But it’s too late to shut the gate now, whether we like it or not. The term “cowboy poetry” is here to stay. 84 �STEPHEN B. ARMSTRONG Photo by Ann Weiser Cornell IN LOVE WITH THE MOVIES: JOSEPH MCBRIDE INTERVIEW BY STEPHEN B. ARMSTRONG Joseph McBride has published a string of well-received books on motion picture history, including the biographies Frank Capra: The Catastrophe of Success (1992), Searching for John Ford (2001), and What Ever Happened to Orson Welles?: A Portrait of an Independent Career (2006). His newest title is an updated, expanded edition of his 1997 book Steven Spielberg: A Biography, which the University Press of Mississippi published in February 2011. McBride is currently working on a screenwriting textbook, which is set for publication in 2012. McBride began his career as journalist writing for the Wisconsin State Journal and later Daily Variety, for which he covered the film industry in Los Angeles. In the 1970s, McBride landed small parts in several motion pictures, including Paul Bartel’s Cannonball (1976) and Allan Arkush and Joe Dante’s Hollywood Boulevard 85 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL (1976). He also played one of the principal characters in Orson Welles’s unfinished The Other Side of the Wind. McBride has been a successful screenwriter, too. Among his credits is Rock ‘n’ Roll High School (1979), a musical comedy featuring the punk rock band the Ramones. McBride also co-wrote five American Film Institute Life Achievement Award specials for CBS-TV and received a Writers Guild of America Award for the AFI’s 1983 salute to John Huston, as well as four other WGA nominations and two Emmy nominations for the shows. Currently, McBride is an associate professor in the Cinema Department at San Francisco State University, where he teaches courses on screenwriting and film history. He is also the subject of a new documentary film, Behind the Curtain: Joseph McBride on Writing Film History (directed by Hart Perez), which premiered in April 2011 at the Tiburon International Film Festival in Marin County, California. SOUTHERN QUILL: Tell us about your career as a writer. When did you start to write professionally? What drew you to this work? JOSEPH MCBRIDE: I grew up in Milwaukee and published my first professional article, for which I received $40, in May 1960, when I was twelve. It was a profile of my friend Greg Spahn, the son of my idol, Warren Spahn, the greatest left-handed pitcher in baseball history. Greg and I were Little League baseball teammates, and one night his father came to see a game and play pepper with us. With my mother’s encouragement and help, I sold this father-son piece to a national school magazine called The Young Catholic Messenger. Getting it published was such a thrill and gave me such confidence as a writer that for the next seven years, as I sent out articles on baseball to magazines and had them systematically rejected, I never gave up. But it was only when I discovered film scholarship at the University of Wisconsin in Madison that I started publish86 �STEPHEN B. ARMSTRONG ing again—for magazines such as Film Heritage, Film Quarterly, Sight & Sound, and Film Comment. I had been lured away from my goal of becoming a novelist by seeing Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane [1941] for the first time in a film class at Madison in 1966. From that point on, I was writing a book about Welles, which was finally published in 1972 by the British Film Institute. But I’d written a book before that, on baseball slang. I started writing it in 1963 and finished in 1966, but didn’t know how to publish it, so I set it aside. I was working as a vendor at Milwaukee County Stadium back then, selling hot dogs and Cokes for the Milwaukee Braves and the Green Bay Packers—this was the era of Vince Lombardi. It’s no exaggeration to say that my whole life revolved around baseball. My father, a former sportswriter, kept prodding me to get the book out, so I updated it and did some rewriting and finally got it published in 1980 as High and Inside: The Complete Guide to the Language of Baseball. [Editor’s note: The book has since been re-issued under a new title, High and Inside: An A-To-Z Guide to the Language of Baseball.] I knew nothing about how to write a book until I started that one during my summers as a high school student. I taught myself how to write a book just by doing it. It kept me out of trouble during my high school years. My parents had no idea what I was doing up in my room for three years. They never asked. I could have been doing anything up there. But then we had seven kids, so they were busy. Why was I drawn to professional writing? My parents were both journalists. My father, Raymond E. McBride, wrote for the Milwaukee Journal and my mother, Marian McBride, for the Journal and later the Milwaukee Sentinel. Hearing journalistic shoptalk every night at the table, usually revolving around politics, and having about a dozen magazines come into the house every week were enough to set me on my course as a reporter. I still consider myself essentially an investigative reporter at heart. That’s what motivates me as a book writer. 87 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SQ: What prompted you to take up screenwriting? JM: When I was a film student, enamored of Citizen Kane and Welles, I wanted to be like him and make my first feature by the time I was 25. It was a grand and somewhat absurdly naive goal, since Kane is unique, but it motivated me to start making films. Madison was a film-obsessed campus, with 35 film societies and about 25 other students who would go on to make films professionally, most notably Errol Morris, who was a member of the Wisconsin Film Society, which I headed. [Editor’s note: Morris won an Academy Award for his 2003 documentary The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara.] But I was almost the only person making films on campus in the late-sixties. I cranked out six Super 8 films, making one whenever I could rustle up a few hundred bucks, which wasn’t easy, since I was living on virtually nothing, making my living washing dishes as I wrote my first book on Welles and sold an occasional magazine article. I would watch movies all day and into the evening and then go home and write my book. I wrote about 60 short scripts in the process of teaching myself how to be a screenwriter. There were no textbooks I could find, so I used as my guides a 16mm print of Kane I had somehow obtained and a copy of the screenplay by Welles and Herman J. Mankiewicz. I had found the script in the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, deposited by Welles’s lawyer, L. Arnold Weissberger. Since I couldn’t afford to Xerox it, I spent a month typing an exact copy. That proved to be a great exercise in learning to know a script intimately. I later learned that David Mamet typed a copy of Tennessee Williams’s play A Streetcar Named Desire when he was learning to be a playwright. I’d recommend that method to anyone wanting to learn to write dramatic work. I set myself a course of moving gradually from short film adaptations—including one of Jack London’s great short story “To Build a Fire,” which I didn’t film because the extreme cold in the story 88 �STEPHEN B. ARMSTRONG was too daunting. And then I moved on to adapting books, and finally writing my own original scripts. It wasn’t until I wrote my fifth feature-length script that I thought I’d written a good one—it was called Man Bites Dog—a black comedy about a mailman who, on his last day before retirement, goes berserk and attacks the dog that has been bedeviling him for years. I wanted Redd Foxx, in his pre-Sanford and Son days as a blue nightclub comic, to play the role and eventually got it to him, but he didn’t read it. It taught me a lesson—never write a script that only one actor can play. Then I went to Hollywood and kept writing scripts until I finally sold one to Roger Corman and Jon Davison in 1976. [Editor’s note: In the 1970s, Jon Davison worked as a producer for New World Pictures, an independent motion picture production company owned by Roger Corman.] The first script I’d sold to Corman and Davison was a roman à clef about Dick Clark and his American Bandstand TV show called Rock City. It was somewhat satirical about the way show business co-opts and corrupts young people’s dreams and ambitions. Roger made the mistake of showing the script to Clark, and that was the end of the project. Too bad. We would have been well ahead of The Idolmaker [1980] and the various iterations of Hairspray [1988, 2007]. Joe Dante was to have directed the story sequences of Rock City and Allan Arkush the musical sequences. They were working in the New World trailer department and they had been looking for a project to make together as their joint directorial debut. When the project was killed, they made Hollywood Boulevard instead, with me playing a small part. I sold two more screenplays to Corman, one of which was made, Rock ‘n’ Roll High School. That became a “cult classic,” one that many people tell me is their favorite film, but my most satisfying experiences as a scriptwriter came when I wrote five American Film Institute Life Achievement Award tributes on CBS-TV, to James Stewart, Fred Astaire, Frank Capra, John Huston, and Lillian Gish. Those shows gave me the opportunity to work with many legendary figures in the film world, and I 89 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL was writing what I considered “film history for the masses.” SQ: In addition to screenwriting, you’ve devoted a great deal of your attention to nonfiction, publishing books on movie directors like John Ford and Steven Spielberg. What is it about the lives of these figures, and film history in general, that interests you? JM: I have always been a student of American history. That’s still one of my major interests, if not my main interest. So studying film history, particularly of American film, is a natural adjunct for me. I love research, particularly primary research, such as finding documents and doing interviews. I like to go beyond the official stories, which are usually myths or lies, to find out the real facts behind them. I try to pick subjects that have been under-researched and under-reported, or falsely reported, such as the lives and careers of Frank Capra, John Ford, and Steven Spielberg. Even though they are some of our leading directors, it’s amazing how little substantial research had been done on them before I did my biographies. On the Capra book [Frank Capra: The Catastrophe of Success, 1971], I felt I was inventing the wheel on Capra research. Much that had been printed about him over the years was false, including his autobiography [The Name Above the Title], which is mostly fiction. Spielberg’s life had barely been studied. I kept running into childhood friends of his who said they’d been waiting 30 years for someone to call them, and there hadn’t even been an adequate critical study of his work. Most recently, I updated my Spielberg biography, from 1997 to the present, which entailed covering a vast amount of work by Spielberg as both a director and a mogul for his production company, DreamWorks. I found that his work as a producer and production executive has not only not been a major distraction from his personal artistic work, but has seemed to enhance it by encouraging him to be bold and gutsy in his commentaries on our repressive post-9/11 environment in films as diverse as Minority Report 90 �STEPHEN B. ARMSTRONG [2002], The Terminal [2004], War of the Worlds [2005], and Munich [2005]. My biographies are critical biographies, meaning that they are both biographical and analytical studies of the subjects’ work. I think an artist should be studied in the context of his work. With Ford, about whom there were many myths, I tried to clear away the fog to get to the real man behind it and also tried to connect the man and the work, which hadn’t been adequately done before. I think I succeeded in showing where the work came from him in his complex personality. Elements of Ford remain enigmatic and contradictory, but that’s part of the biographer’s job—to admit contradictions and not try to force coherence where none exists. It took me a long time to realize that about Ford, and when I did I found I could write the book most clearly and truthfully. He rarely gave a straight answer to interviewers, including me, and I came to respect his unwillingness to explain his work or himself. He left it to us to do so, and he wanted his films to speak for themselves. The older I get, the more I respect that. Directors today overexplain their films. It’s better to let viewers figure out the films themselves. But with the surfeit of media today, we seldom get the chance to do so. When I was younger, I was confused in thinking that screenplays were more “creative” than biographies, but I eventually learned that biography is one of the most creative and challenging of all forms of writing. It calls on all one’s strengths as a writer, researcher, critic, and storyteller. So I don’t draw a distinction between creative projects or scholarly ones. I’m always scholarly and always try to be creative. Biographies should be both. As should critical studies. Someone once said it’s as hard to write a good life as it is to lead one. SQ: Any advice for people who want to become writers? JM: First, get a job. You need to support yourself while you establish yourself as a writer. And it doesn’t hurt to have a day job after 91 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL you establish yourself, either. Being a freelance writer is somewhat terrifying. I succeeded at it, but having a teaching job is not only rewarding in itself, but also gives me more security as a writer and as a human being. Aside from that, write every day. Try your hand at every kind of writing. Read incessantly. Be endlessly curious about your fellow human beings. Pump people for stories and listen carefully to what they tell you. Keep pushing your own boundaries as a writer. And never give up, no matter what setbacks you may encounter. Writing is a tough business, but none is more satisfying. 92 �RANDY JASMINE RANDY JASMINE “REBELLION WITH A SMILE ON YOUR FACE”: THE RAMONES AND ROCK ‘N’ ROLL HIGH SCHOOL Coming from a literature background, it is my intention to discuss the relationship between the punk rock band the Ramones and some particulars of postmodern theory. I plan to explore what can loosely be defined as texts: song lyrics and the plot of the movie Rock ‘n’ Roll High School, a musical comedy directed by Allan Arkush, which Roger Corman’s New World Pictures released in 1979. Determining and attributing the authorship of a movie is a nearly impossible task, so I will not try to delve into that area. Instead, I am primarily interested in what I see as the persistent and intriguing connection between the comic plot of the movie and the public image of the Ramones. The first temptation to make theoretical connections between the band and the ubiquitous concept of postmodernism comes from the Ramones’s self-admitted attempts to “deconstruct” rock ‘n’ roll music in the mid-seventies, when the band formed. As the group’s late lead singer Joey Ramone said of the state of rock in the 1970s: [It] was a hodge podge of Pink Floyd and ELP and all this [art rock stuff], so basically what we did was we stripped it right down to the bone and we disassembled it and reassembled it and put all the excitement and fun and spirit, raw energy and raw emotion and guts and attitude back into it. (qtd. in Heylin 166) Whatever the motivations behind or even the validity of this artistic statement, it seems to be an apt description for what the band was doing in its early years. The “stripped down” music and the remarkably fast pace at which the band’s members played most of their songs helped the Ramones to establish the unique sound and minimalist aesthetic they seemed to be seeking. The second reason for linking the band with postmodernist 93 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Allan Arkush, director of Rock ‘n’ Roll High School, with cast members P. J. Soles and Joey Ramone (New World Pictures, 1979). The Ramones: Dee Dee, Johnny, Marky, Joey. 94 �RANDY JASMINE thought emerges as a result of the band’s attempt to transform its identity, starting in 1979 with their collaboration with musical producer Phil Spector. The members of the Ramones, at this point, were still interested in challenging the conventions of traditional rock ‘n’ roll, but now they tried to position themselves as a band whose music represented an end to what had come before. Of course, at the same time, they were also trying to appeal to a younger generation of rock fans. Their album End of the Century, which was produced by Spector and released in 1980, contained plenty of hints as to what the band was up to. For example, the song “Do you Remember Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio?” includes the sounds of a listener turning a radio dial to find the Ramones. The words “We need change, we need it fast” are repeated throughout the song. There are also several refrains about “the end of the seventies” and the “the end of the century.” Clearly the band was pushing an agenda of change both in style and in musical content. To this point in their career, the Ramones could not be accused of putting overly complex lyrics or ideas into their songs. It was also during this period of transition that the band participated in the movie Rock ‘n’ Roll High School. Over the years, this movie has become as much associated with the Ramones as with anyone else who played a part in its realization. I have already mentioned the concept of postmodernism several times, and it might be useful here to list a few of the main concepts and attitudes that often underpin this eclectic strain of literary and cultural theory. I would like to quote literary critics Seldon, Widdowson, and Brooker at length from their text A Reader’s Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory, as it lists several components of postmodern criticism that are important for our consideration. The authors explain: postmodern critics reject the elitism, sophisticated formal experimentation and tragic sense of alienation to be found in [modernism]. Ihab Hassan, for example, contrasts modernist ‘dehumanization of Art’ with the postmodernist 95 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL sense of the ‘dehumanisation of the Planet, and the End of Man’....[P]ostmodernists express exhaustion and ‘display the resources of the void’....[Hassan also] provides suggestive lists of postmodernist footnotes [that] include the following: ‘Anti-elitism, anti-authoritarianism. Diffusion of the ego. Participation. Art becomes communal, optional, anarchic....At the same time, irony becomes radical, selfconsuming play, entropy of meaning’....[P]ostmodernists produce ‘Open, discontinuous, improvisational, indeterminate, or aleatory structures.’ They also reject the traditional aesthetics of ‘Beauty’ and of ‘Uniqueness’....They are ‘Against interpretation.’ (198-99) This laundry list of critical concerns and contradictions helps to explain the inviting potential for applying postmodern thought and aesthetics to the Ramones as they strove to redefine themselves and their music from 1979 onward. On a very basic level, postmodernism and punk rock music seem similar in that they challenge both authority and traditional artistic sensibilities. The preceding passage, however, also helps us to understand the ultimate failure of the band’s attempt to simultaneously affect change in rock ‘n’ roll while also achieving lasting commercial success in the increasingly formulaic realm of rock and popular music. So with their minds on change at the turn of the decade, what motivated the Ramones to participate in a movie produced by Roger Corman, a man who was already notorious for overseeing the creation of several unremarkable low-budget films? Perhaps the Ramones saw their participation in Rock ‘n’ Roll High School as a way to stay on the cutting edge, if not musically, then philosophically—after all, the plot of the movie revolves around the younger generation rejecting the rules and standards established by the older generation, something the Ramones were attempting to do with their music. More likely, however, events transpired in an appropriately aleatory fashion to create the perfect postmodern storm without those who were caught up in it fully aware of what was 96 �RANDY JASMINE happening. Either way, the movie remains worth looking at even now, some thirty years later. On the surface, Corman and Arkush’s movie appears to be the perfect vehicle for the expression and embodiment of countercultural sentiments; it is rife with the “Anti-elitism, anti-authoritarianism” described above, and in its script “Art becomes communal, optional, anarchic.” Other postmodern descriptors also fit: “irony becomes radical, self-consuming play, entropy of meaning,” producing “Open, discontinuous, improvisational, indeterminate... structures.” Arguably, the presence of these factors have contributed to the movie’s free spiritedness and its lasting popularity. For the Ramones, as well, the movie was a boon of sorts, expanding the band’s fan base with a loyal following for which the movie is the centerpiece of the band’s identity. At the same time, the movie also demonstrates many of the factors that guaranteed the ultimate failure of the band’s interest in challenging and even changing the established order within the world of commercial rock ‘n’ roll music: a stated goal not only of the Ramones but of the larger punk rock movement, of which they were some of the earliest and most influential pioneers. At this point, let’s take a closer look at the movie itself. The opening moments of Rock ‘n’ Rock High School set the stage for postmodern irony: a freshman looks at a map of the layout of Vince Lombardi High and sees an X in the center. He muses, “You are here. I’m where?” He then looks down at his feet and sees a corresponding X on the ground. This opening, we see, signifies the existence of a postmodern world of relativism and decenteredness that will continue throughout the film. The next few scenes show us that a new principal is being installed at the school. Right away the viewers know that Evelyn Togar is going to rule Vince Lombardi High with an iron fist. We see that, both physically and verbally, Togar is a thinly-veiled totalitarian, frequently linked to the most obvious and recognizable symbols of evil in the twentieth century. She constantly threatens students with black marks on their perma97 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL nent records, she officiously and aggressively stamps absence notes that she approves, and her hall monitors wear SS-style uniforms. These hall monitors, who are equally farcical symbols of collaboration with authority, are named Fritz Hansel and Fritz Gretel. They enjoy eavesdropping and conducting body searches, and when they are charged to go to the Ramones concert and spy on the students who are attending, they cruise down the street in a motorcycle with sidecar. The regime of Togar is authoritarian, fascist, and reactionary, and the Ramones and their punk rock anthems, played both at their concert and later in the halls of the high school, embody a means of resistance to such over-the-top tyranny. By choosing to resist the tactics of Togar, the Ramones and their fans—the students at Vince Lombardi High—enjoy access into the improvisational and anarchic world inside the school. As the high school administration is uniformly repressive and negative, the Ramones and their music are seen as being universally liberating and positive. The high school music teacher Mr. McGree, who spends the first half of the movie trying to convince his students of the value of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, goes to the Ramones’s concert and is converted. He later declares, “I regret that I have but one life to give for rock ‘n’ roll.” He is the only teacher eventually accepted by the students and the Ramones because he rejects the aesthetics represented by the more formal and traditional types of music for which he advocates earlier in the movie. Mr. McGree, incidentally, is shown freeing himself from the constraints of normalcy by ripping off his suit and tie while dancing and sporting a Ramones t-shirt. Moreover, the music of the Ramones miraculously unifies the different factions inevitably present in a typical high school. We see a crosssection of the student body engaging in the collective disruption of the school: the smart kids, the popular kids, the jocks, the band members, the attractive girls, and the nerds all join together—no distinctions exist between rival groups at Vince Lombardi High, and all of this is because of the Ramones. The students who 98 �RANDY JASMINE buy tickets to the Ramones’s concert the night before are happy to salute them when they show up at the school the next day. The Ramones—a somewhat marginalized punk rock band who in reality were still trying to build a mainstream following—have become in the film the band for everyone. In the world created within Rock ‘n’ Roll High School, however, both musically and aesthetically, as literary theorist Terry Eagleton puts it, “the non-normative has become the norm” (16). Such comic premises make for a humorous film, but they also spelled the end of the Ramones’s hope for the sort of commercial success that intertwined with the bandmates’ desire to adhere to an artistic loyalty to a larger punk rock zeitgeist. All the students in the fictional high school rally around the Ramones, but, in doing so, they rob the band of much of what was unique and meaningful about its artistic convictions and musical appeal. The fictional triumph of the Ramones in the film, we realize, was a Faustian bargain for the actual band. The absurdity of the group’s success at Vince Lombardi High School attached itself to the Ramones after the film’s release, making it harder for some critics to consider their music seriously. One last connection to postmodernism comes from those who are watching the events at the high school unfold. Radio deejay Screamin’ Steven gives a play-by-play account and makes the statement that “this is a classic confrontation between mindless authority and the rebellious nature of youth.” As with the parodic Nazi imagery earlier in the film, this comment tends to both universalize and simultaneously trivialize the protests occurring in the movie. As Eagleton also points out regarding the postmodern lens through which society is being viewed, “Those who believe that normativity is always negative [as postmodernists do] are also likely to hold that authority is always suspect” (15). In an interview from the DVD extras of the film, actor Clint Howard, who appeared in the movie, describes his experience in Rock ‘n’ Roll High School as “rebellion with a smile on your face.” This statement goes a long way toward explaining the appeal of the 99 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL movie, perhaps, and the Ramones’s commercial and artistic frustrations after they appeared in it. We are left to wonder, is such a paradoxical relationship even possible? Works Cited Eagleton, Terry. After Theory. New York: Basic Books, 2004. Print. Heylin, Clinton. From the Velvets to the Voidoids: A Pre-Punk History for a Post-Punk World. New York: Penguin, 1993. Print. The Ramones. End of the Century. Sire, 1980. CD. Rock ‘n’ Roll High School. Dir. Allan Arkush. 1979. Roger Corman Cult Classics, 2002. DVD. Seldon, Raman, Peter Widdowson, and Peter Brooker. A Reader’s Guide to Contemporary Literary Criticism. 5 ed. London: Longman, 2005. Print. 100 �JEFF AMES UTAH CINEMATIC HISTORY: A CONVERSATION WITH JAMES D’ARC INTERVIEW BY JEFF AMES The beauty and diversity of Utah’s landscape have made the Beehive State a popular destination for Hollywood filmmakers for nearly a century. Hundreds of movies have been shot here, including classics like The Searchers (1956), Planet of the Apes (1968), and The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976). In the fall of 2010, James D’Arc published When Hollywood Came to Town (Gibbs Smith, 2010), the first comprehensive survey of Utah’s cinematic heritage. In December 2010, D’Arc visited Dixie State College of Utah to give a presentation on the history of motion picture production in St. George (the home of Dixie State) and surrounding Washington County. Afterwards, during a book signing in DSC’s Gardner Center, D’Arc took a moment to answer some of our questions. 101 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SOUTHERN QUILL: Tell us about your new book and what it’s about. JAMES D’ARC: When Hollywood Came to Town covers the history of moviemaking in Utah. Primarily, it covers Hollywood moviemaking, which began here in the 1920s and goes all of the way up until today—an enviable legacy of more than 700 feature films, television movies, and episodes for television series. SQ: What prompted you to write a book about this topic? JD: Flat-out curiosity. As a southern California native, I came up to Utah for college. [Editor’s note: D’Arc attended Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah as an undergraduate in the 1970s. He is now curator of BYU’s Motion Picture Archive]. I had been in Utah a couple of times before, but since I knew I was going to be living here for at least four years, I wanted to figure out a way that I could feel like I knew the state better than I did. So I took my love of movies and movie history that came from being raised in southern California, laid it over the state of Utah, and began poking around and interviewing people. I looked at old newspapers and developed a list–which is now in the back of the book–of all the films that I could find that were made in the state of Utah. As I got to talking to actors, producers, directors, and locals in towns that included St. George, Kanab, Rockville, and Zion National Park, I found there was a real human story here in addition to the gee whiz stories of Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, and so many other stars. There was a tremendous human story about how Hollywood impacted the residents of Utah and the long lasting favorable impressions that Utahns made on the Hollywood community. SQ: Was there one film in particular that prompted you to get started on this project, or was it, rather, the incredible volume of movies that have been made here? 102 �JEFF AMES JD: What jumped out at me during the research was the variety of films that represented the range of landscapes that Utah could represent credibly in so many motion pictures. One of the most impressive in terms of a Western film, for example, is a 1946 picture starring Fred MacMurray and Anne Baxter and Bruce Cabot called Smoky, from a Will James novel about a horse. It was filmed throughout Kane County in 1946 by Twentieth Century-Fox and is probably the most beautiful Technicolor film ever made in the state of Utah. They were able to get deserts, alpine meadows, rivers, lakes, and Zion National Park all in one motion picture. It was a very impressive thing. They didn’t need to go anywhere else other than Kane County to make the movie. Another picture that demonstrated the sheer variety of Utah’s landscape was the 1965 biblical epic The Greatest Story Ever Told. Now, one would think you would have to go to the Middle East, maybe Morocco, to film a story like this. It was all filmed in Kane County and Grand County. The Sermon on the Mount was filmed at Grand View Point in Canyonlands National Park. John the Baptist baptized the new Christians in a steadily filling Lake Powell at the time the Glen Canyon dam had just finished. They had only two weeks to film there before the area where they were filming, The Crossing of the Fathers, would be submerged underwater. So, on the one hand, you’ve got a very western story like Smoky. On the other, you have The Greatest Story Ever Told, nothing even close to a western story. All in one state. SQ: Have you been able to visit all of the locations you’ve written about? JD: Well, I’ve visited most of them. With 700 hundred films, shows, and television movies, you can’t visit them all. But the ones that I identified, that I wanted to discuss in detail in the book because of their significance—I visited most of those locations. Or at least verified through numerous resources that the pictures were 103 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL filmed there. That was one of the biggest challenges of the book, creating this comprehensive list of all the films and then authenticating where they were filmed. Because, regardless of where I went, whether it was St. George, Kanab, Moab, or Salt Lake, there would be people who would claim that a film was made there. Oftentimes I found that it was just local lore and nothing more than that. I had to crosscheck many sources in order to get it right and that’s one of the reasons it took over 35 years to write this book. I needed to authenticate it, because I knew I only had one shot and that likely no one else would attempt to do this again. So there was a great sense of personal responsibility to get the story straight. SQ: Were you able to track down any films that have been lost? JD: Many films involved in my research turned out to be lost films, unfortunately. Primarily those made during the 1920s in Washington County. It’s so sad because there are many still photographs left over from these productions that show these beautiful vistas, and it just broke my heart that I couldn’t get access to these movies. Particularly the very first Hollywood production shot in Utah, The Deadwood Coach, which was filmed back in 1924. No copies are known to exist. That is one that I would really like to have uncovered before I die. The very first one that got it all started in Utah. There are probably 15-20 others that are considered lost. This includes a filmed version of Helen Hunt Jackson’s novel Ramona, which is a California story, not a Utah story, but the producers came to Zion National Park to film it. They built a huge Mexican hacienda up at the Temple of Siniwava area, and way up on the West Rim, an entire Mexican structure. There’s no way they would be able to do that sort of thing nowadays. SQ: What is the response your book has generated? 104 �JEFF AMES JD: The response to the book has been very, very good. The reviews that I’ve read on Amazon.com are all positive. The overwhelmingly predominant reaction that people have to the book is one of surprise. They had no idea that so many films had been made in the state of Utah for so many years. Films that they thought they knew that were favorites, they would simply react with: “That was made here?” That’s the reaction I get. SQ: Any interesting anecdotes about the people you interviewed? JD: I think the best interview that I had was with producer Howard W. Koch in his office at Paramount Studios, back in February of 1976. At that time he was a very big producer at Paramount. He would later produce Ghost [1990] with Whoopi Goldberg, and Airplane! [1980] with Leslie Nielsen. But in the years when he made his films—the mid-fifties—in Kane County, he was a scrappy independent producer, trying to crib together whatever money he could to independently make B-grade western films, among them Fort Yuma [1955] and War Drums [1957]. My interview with him was such that, even in 1976, years after making his movies in Kanab, and at a point in his career in which he was making really big A-class movies, there was tremendous sentiment in his voice for what he thought of the people of Kanab. Faye Hamblin, in particular, a man who’d served as a location scout and contact man for the studios in Kanab, was a rancher, but Howard Koch just loved that man because of all that he had done for him to help him get those movies done on time and under budget. When Hamblin passed away, Koch flew up from Hollywood on his own dime and gave a eulogy at his funeral. Koch was the one who told me this story, that Hollywood moviemaking in Utah is not just about the movies–it’s about a people and about a place. That’s what endeared the Hollywood movie companies to Utah. SQ: Robert Redford is another personality with strong feelings for 105 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Utah. Was it because of Utah, and the people of Utah, that he created the Sundance Film Festival? JD: Robert Redford fell in love with Utah when he first drove through the state in the mid-fifties, according to the things I have read. He was so impressed with it that he convinced the director and producers of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid [1969] that they had to come to Utah if they wanted him in the movie. He directed them to Washington County. It was with the tremendous earnings from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid that he and Paul Newman got in together and bought the property we now know as Sundance. Shortly after that, he bought out Newman’s interest in Sundance and made himself the proprietor of it. He made other films here in Utah, as well—Jeremiah Johnson [1972] and The Electric Horseman [1979]. Redford is a tremendous booster for the state of Utah. In fact, he joined forces with Gov. Calvin Rampton in the 1960s and created an organization called Rampton’s Raiders. What the “raiders” term refers to is Redford and Rampton and a group of people from the state of Utah who would go down to Hollywood and visit the various studios and hold seminars and meetings to persuade them to come up to the state to make motion pictures. Redford was very aggressive in attracting movie work—not just his own movies—and other movie producers to come here. He is a great lover of Utah. Politically, there have been considerable differences that many in Utah have with Redford. The folks down in Kane County even burned him in effigy when he was against the Kaiparowits Power Project during the 1970s. But, nevertheless, Redford loves Utah and has attracted many motion pictures to the state. SQ: Did you get a chance to meet Redford? JD: No, he was too busy producing his own movie at the time, The Conspirator, which is coming out pretty soon. He was in post106 �JEFF AMES production at the time I needed to interview him for the book. But I was able to get some quotations from many, many other sources that did the kind of work that I wanted it to do in representing his impact on the state of Utah. I think he’s well represented in the book. SQ: What are some of the other films that have been shot in Washington County? JD: Well, the earliest one was a 1937 serial made by Republic Pictures called The Painted Stallion, which was made out in Snow Canyon. Probably the most controversial one to this day is the John Wayne film The Conqueror, in 1956, where John Wayne is Genghis Khan, and Warner Valley and Snow Canyon double for Mongolia in the twelfth century. It was made by an eccentric billionaire—Howard Hughes—who owned RKO Radio Pictures. It was directed by an actor—Dick Powell—and John Wayne was the one who wanted the film made with him in that part. His part—Genghis Khan—was originally written for Marlon Brando. But Brando opted out and the producers convinced John Wayne that this would be a good film for him. When somebody asked Dick Powell why he would want to direct a film like that, his response was, “Well, if John Wayne wants to make it and he wants you as a director do you turn him down?” The film has become a source of derision because it’s so outlandish to have John Wayne as a twelfth century warlord and so for that reason it’s laughed at more than it’s watched. And yet it’s the single most ambitious production done in this area probably until the present time. A major expenditure of money showed off the St. George and Washington County landscape probably like no other film has done, except for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And yet, because of its reputation, the movie doesn’t get much attention. But it’s a film well worth watching for residents of this area and movie lovers in general. You have to see The Conqueror at least once. 107 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SQ: I’m going to name a couple of films and, if you would, tell me a story about each one. First, The Outlaw Josey Wales. JD: The Outlaw Josey Wales [1976] was filmed in both Utah and Texas. Clint Eastwood loved making the film in Utah. He was the picture’s producer and, later, its director. It was in Utah that Eastwood fired the original director he’d hired, Philip Kaufman. We’re not sure quite why. He could’ve been behind schedule, could’ve been costing a lot of money, or there could’ve been substantial creative differences—I’m not sure. But that key event occurred and Clint Eastwood took over as director during the Utah portion of the filming of The Outlaw Josey Wales. The scenery was stunning in that film because of the Utah locations. And to see those beautiful, sort of parfait-layered cliffs of Paria Canyon in Kane County—no other place has beauty like that. SQ: Planet of the Apes. JD: Planet of the Apes used locations in Utah in such a wonderful, novel way, from the crash of the spaceship into Lake Powell to the characters rowing their rafts among those beautiful canyons along the lake and then filming on those dry, hard, barren, clay cliffs of desert in the Glen Canyon National Recreation Area—it was just a tremendous use of Utah. That was in about the first third of the film. The rest of the film, where they showed the village where the apes actually live, was done at the Twentieth Century-Fox ranch in southern California. But the Utah portions at the beginning of the film just gave that movie a tremendous start for viewers. SQ: What about television? JD: When television came into being, I think many people wondered, “What’s the future of moviemaking in Utah?” But Western series predominated on television in the 1950s. Popular programs 108 �JEFF AMES like Gunsmoke and Have Gun, Will Travel and particularly Death Valley Days, in fact, used Utah quite a bit. The problem that a historian has is not that episodes weren’t filmed here, but, rather, it’s quantifying how many shows were filmed here. Because, unlike feature films, most of these television series of the 1950s don’t end up on DVD and it’s very hard to screen 300 episodes of something, to try and recognize what is Utah and what is not. So we are less certain of quantifying the number of episodes that were shot in Utah, as opposed to those that weren’t. We can identify certain episodes of Have Gun, Will Travel and Gunsmoke, but we don’t have a definitive list yet of how many episodes were filmed in the state. SQ: Not every film or TV program that’s been filmed in Utah has been a success, of course. JD: With a total of more than 700 films, TV movies and series episodes, there are going to be many, many, many titles that can be charitably referred to as turkeys or dogs. Films that I would classify in that category would be Salt Lake City Punk [1998], Dumb and Dumber [1994], Troll 2 [1990], and a number of TV movies that are better left forgotten than remembered. But they are still nonetheless an important part of the Utah filmmaking story. SQ: Final question—you see all of these people standing in line waiting for your book and you had a fine turnout at your lecture today. What does that say to you about what you’ve done with your book? JD: For those who are aware of it, there’s a tremendous interest in the story of moviemaking in Utah. Yet many people have never considered this a part of Utah’s history. So I hope that the book will fill that hole and show how Hollywood’s presence out here has been a significant part of Utah’s story, Utah’s people, and now Utah’s heritage. 109 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL ELAINE WILSON-SHARP BOOK REVIEW When Hollywood Came to Town: The History of Moviemaking in Utah James D’Arc, Gibbs Smith 304 pages, $30.00 As an almost thirty year resident of Utah, I have seen my fair share of tourists, religious protests, mountains, and red rocks. I remember, as well, watching with great interest as filmmakers sped past my home in the desert outside of Moab. Huge equipment weighed down their vans, actors and actresses precariously climbed the rocks I knew so well, and calls for hurriedly built movie sets gave my father many construction jobs. Living where I did, I witnessed several different movies being made and as a teenager was completely infatuated. What if a casting director stopped by? What if they needed a young girl who could sing? Would they need someone who could handle children like Maria von Trapp? As the oldest of nine, I felt sure I had the monopoly on that one. And what if they needed a young woman who could climb the numerous rock mountains with skill and flair? Few people realize that Utah has been a popular location for filmmakers from both Hollywood and other locations around the world, bringing prosperity and technical wonder to our little corner of the country for nearly a century. Even longtime residents have no inkling of the beautiful heritage we have. But now, fortunately, Utah’s movie history is the subject of When Hollywood Came To Town, a delightful new book by James D’Arc, who is also the curator of the Motion Picture Archive at Brigham Young University. When Hollywood Came To Town tells the story of how the film industry first became interested in Utah and how Kane County, in particular, came to be known by its residents as “Little Hollywood.” The Parry brothers, Gronway, Chauncey, and Whit, D’Arc explains, 110 �ELAINE WILSON-SHARP were the driving force behind the entertainment industry’s discovery of the state and they made constant efforts to recruit filmmakers out here to see for themselves its beauty. William Tufts, a friend of the brothers, is quoted in the book as saying, “They are enthusiastic about the development of southwestern Utah and are popular with the residents of that region.” It wasn’t long before the Parrys had a full-fledged business entirely devoted to catering to directors and producers, as well as scouting out new locations for films. The history in D’Arc’s book is accompanied by pictures and movie stills along with personal interviews and little known facts about the different sections of Utah that will fascinate even the most languid moviegoer. Pictures of old movie posters and candid shots of actors and actresses, directors, and producers, make the pages come alive. The book also includes a chronological list of movies filmed, either completely or in part, throughout the state. A quick search makes us realize just how many of our favorite movies were filmed in Utah. D’Arc’s book is likely to change many preconceived notions of our state and opens everyone’s eyes to the wonder of it all. He regales us with tales of movies lost and forgotten and others that are well known to most, along with personal narratives about actors who are no longer with us. Many might be surprised to learn, for instance, that movies such as Thelma and Louise (1991), Mission: Impossible 2 (2000), and National Treasure (2004) were filmed in Utah, or that episodes of the popular television show Gunsmoke were shot near Kanab in 1971. Several westerns that starred John Wayne were made here, too, among them She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949) and The Searchers (1956). D’Arc also provides us with plenty of entertainment about the entertainment industry and its impact on our glorious state. It brings to life many aspects of our heritage that most of us have completely missed, at the same time reminding us that Utah is filled with much more than mountains, sage brush, rocks, and sand, despite Susan Sarandon’s claim in Thelma and Louise, “Well, we’re not in the middle of nowhere. But we can see it from here.” 111 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL THE ANNIE ATKIN TANNER MEMORIAL POETRY SCHOLARSHIP FUND All poems submitted to The Southern Quill by DSC students receive consideration for Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Scholarship prizes. The Tanner fund was established in November 1972 by Dr. Vasco M. Tanner, upon the death of his wife Annie. Throughout their married life, Mrs. Tanner accompanied her husband on field trips to collect specimens for Brigham Young University’s Department of Zoology and Entomology, which Dr. Tanner established and chaired for over 33 years. Annie, a prolific writer, would spend her time “out in the field” writing poetry and stories. As a member of the Pen Women of Utah, her poems and stories were published in the Relief Society Magazine, the Deseret News, and various literary journals. Many of her poems reflect her love for the physical beauty of St. George, where she was born and spent the early years of her life. For several years the Tanner children have continued to contribute to the fund, which awards three scholarship prizes each year. To determine scholarship winners, our editorial staff reviews and evaluates every poem submitted to the Quill by students. The editors then rank and select the 10 strongest pieces from this pool and forward them to members of the Tanner family, who determine the first, second, and third place winners. Though community members are published in the journal, only student poets can win the scholarship money. On occasion, the student editors of The Southern Quill place poems in the journal; these student poets are not excluded from competing in the Tanner prize competition. But to remain objective and fair, staff members cannot score or rank their own poems. 112 �CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Published annually, The Southern Quill is Dixie State College of Utah’s student-edited literary magazine. In circulation since 1951, the journal features poetry, short stories, and artwork produced by Dixie State College students; it also welcomes material from writers and artists who live in Washington and Kane counties, Utah, and Clark County, Nevada. SUBMISSION GUIDELINES Contributors may submit up to 5 poems, 3 works of visual art, and 1 short story (2000 word limit). Materials should be emailed to: submissions@thesouthernquill.com The subject line should read SUBMISSION followed by your name. Also include your phone number, mailing address, and email. Please indicate if you are a Dixie State College student. No hardcopy submissions. All materials accepted for publication may be edited for content and style. All rights revert to creators upon publication. For more information visit www.thesouthernquill.com or find us on Facebook. Deadline is December 23, 2011. Tanner Prize Winners 2011 1st: “The Shrine,” Hunter Cox 2nd: “Colonel Miller’s Mansion,” Kami McArthur 3rd: “Crayon Drawn Letters,” Marjorie Eno 113 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CONSIDERING A FOUR YEAR DEGREE? A degree in English is extremely versatile. English majors develop writing skills prized by numerous professions, including business, law, marketing, advertising, journalism, film production, public relations, public affairs, and teaching. Students in our program also broaden their understanding of the complex relationship between the aesthetic and intellectual aspects of literature and the cultural milieu in which important literary works were produced. English majors at Dixie State College of Utah can choose from three emphasis options: Literature, Professional & Technical Writing, and English Education. For more information, check out: www.dixie.edu/english/ or contact Dr. Randy Jasmine (Department Chair) at 435-652-7815. 114 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2011.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2011 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2011 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tbody><tr><th>TABLE OF CONTENTS</th> </tr><tr><th>POETRY</th> </tr><tr><td>3</td> <td>Markay Brown</td> <td>Dylan Thomas’ Writing Room, South Wales</td> </tr><tr><td>4</td> <td>Ariel Chamberlain</td> <td>Remember</td> </tr><tr><td>5</td> <td>Gary Christian</td> <td>Summer Interlude</td> </tr><tr><td>6</td> <td>Keith Cliver</td> <td>The Girl in Art Class</td> </tr><tr><td>7</td> <td>Hunter Cox</td> <td>Eden</td> </tr><tr><td>8</td> <td></td> <td>The Shrine</td> </tr><tr><td>10</td> <td>Majorie Eno</td> <td>Crayon Drawn Letters</td> </tr><tr><td>11</td> <td>Lynn Vernon Floyd</td> <td>Traditions</td> </tr><tr><td>12</td> <td>Sam A. Jackson</td> <td>Buckskin Mountain</td> </tr><tr><td>14</td> <td></td> <td>Mornin’ Songs</td> </tr><tr><td>16</td> <td></td> <td>Old Barns and Men</td> </tr><tr><td>19</td> <td>Myrianne Jones</td> <td>Early Morning</td> </tr><tr><td>20</td> <td>Chelsi Sutton-Linderman</td> <td>Dishes</td> </tr><tr><td>22</td> <td></td> <td>Considering the Mojave</td> </tr><tr><td>24</td> <td>Travis Marker</td> <td>Binghamton Heat</td> </tr><tr><td>26</td> <td>Jenica Maxwell</td> <td>The Last Stanza</td> </tr><tr><td>28</td> <td>Kami McArthur</td> <td>In the Corner of the Library</td> </tr><tr><td>30</td> <td></td> <td>Colonel Miller’s Mansion</td> </tr><tr><td>31</td> <td>Stephen D. Nadauld</td> <td>Death’s Door</td> </tr><tr><td>32</td> <td>Marie Tollstrup</td> <td>Kachina</td> </tr><tr><td>33</td> <td></td> <td>Loom</td> </tr><tr><td>34</td> <td>Nova Wahl</td> <td>Glass Music Box</td> </tr><tr><th>FICTION</th> </tr><tr><td>37</td> <td>Micki Ericksen</td> <td>Scraps</td> </tr><tr><td>43</td> <td>Elaine Wilson-Sharp</td> <td>Clank</td> </tr><tr><td>47</td> <td>Sean Scott Pitch Black</td> <td>Attic</td> </tr><tr><th>VISUAL ARTS</th> </tr><tr><td>2</td> <td>Libby Booth</td> <td>Stupid Cat in the City</td> </tr><tr><td>36</td> <td>Jeff Ames</td> <td>Zulu-Zero &amp; The Kids</td> </tr><tr><td>54</td> <td>Peter Wiarda</td> <td>Iron to Iron, Dust to Dust</td> </tr><tr><td>55</td> <td>Arleth Lujan-Ponce</td> <td>Blue Spirit</td> </tr><tr><td>55</td> <td>Jamie Leavitt</td> <td>InnerSanctum</td> </tr><tr><td>56</td> <td>Keenan Schwalger</td> <td>Samoan Tattoo</td> </tr><tr><td>57</td> <td>Krishel Smith</td> <td>Baby</td> </tr><tr><td></td> <td></td> <td>Snake</td> </tr><tr><td>58</td> <td>Micki Eriksen</td> <td>Open Wide</td> </tr><tr><td>58</td> <td>Jamie Leavitt</td> <td>Color Perspective</td> </tr><tr><td>59</td> <td>Robert Curl</td> <td>Man’s Dearest Creation, the Absolute</td> </tr><tr><td>60</td> <td>Jordan Goodrich</td> <td>Pocket Spot</td> </tr><tr><td>61</td> <td>Micki Eriksen</td> <td>Prickles</td> </tr><tr><td>61</td> <td>Jordan Goodrich</td> <td>Sands Motel</td> </tr><tr><td>62</td> <td>Arleth Lujan-Ponce</td> <td>Not Just Snow</td> </tr><tr><td>62</td> <td>Ashlee Millett</td> <td>Twin Falls, Idaho</td> </tr><tr><td>63</td> <td>Micki Ericksen</td> <td>Desert Snow</td> </tr><tr><td>64</td> <td>Peter Wiarda</td> <td>Sunflower Soliloquy</td> </tr><tr><td>65</td> <td>Ashlee Millett</td> <td>Special</td> </tr><tr><td>66</td> <td>Libby Booth</td> <td>Look What I Found!</td> </tr><tr><td>67</td> <td></td> <td>Untitled (Happy Kids)</td> </tr><tr><td>68</td> <td>Nova Wahl</td> <td>Cactus</td> </tr><tr><td>70</td> <td>Micki Ericksen</td> <td>Remember When</td> </tr><tr><th>NONFICTION</th> </tr><tr><td>71</td> <td>Marjorie Eno</td> <td>Ultimatum</td> </tr><tr><td>75</td> <td>David Cordero</td> <td>The Longest Hit</td> </tr><tr><td>81</td> <td>Kami McArthur</td> <td>Sam A. Jackson, Cowboy Poet</td> </tr><tr><td>85</td> <td>Stephen B. Armstrong</td> <td>In Love with the Movies: Joseph McBride</td> </tr><tr><td>93</td> <td>Randy Jasmine</td> <td>The Ramones and Rock ‘n’ Roll High School</td> </tr><tr><td>101</td> <td>Jeff Ames</td> <td>Utah’s Cinematic History: A Conversation with James D’Arc</td> </tr><tr><td>110</td> <td>Elaine Wilson-Sharp</td> <td>Book Review: When Hollywood Came to Town</td> </tr></tbody></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/ff86b85619a5e4bb6d95f7158ad1ac03.pdf 41ef08894546ee7f4b23f50490f2786e PDF Text Text �The Southern Quill There is no way of writing well and also of writing easily. -Anthony Trollope Copyright © 2010 The Southern Quill �THE SOUTHERN QUILL STAFF 2010 TABLE OF CONTENTS POETRY Managing Editor: Rob Gray MAYGEN MORTENSEN AWAITING SPRING Creative Director: Nova Wahl Poetry Editors: Lucas Yates (Chie9, . Morgan Clements, Jenica Maxwell, Stefam McKenz1 Art Editors: Morgan Clements (Chief), . Micki Ericksen, Arleth Lujan-Ponce, Megan Stucki Fiction Editors: Ronny Ruesch (Chief), Kami McArthur, Rob Gray, Micki Ericksen Non-Fiction Editors: Lindsay Ferrin (Chief), Shaylee Bailey, Develon Isom, Nova Wahl Associate Editors: Hannah Davenport, Royal Donnelly, Mitchell Reber Jennifer Rood, Mary Anne Trunnell, Paul E~o, Kaila Lakey, Ryan Rarick 2 CHEVIS MCMILLIN 3 NATALUKAS 4 BARBARA WIATRAK-YOUNG TIDAL WAVE CHEMOTHERAPY 6 BREVITY CALL OF THE CANYON 7 STEPHEN D. NAD AULD 8 AMANDA JACOBS 9 CASSI MILLER DREAM DOUG KELLER LIKE A BUTTERFLY ACROSSATSAINTAVOLD DEVASTATED 12 COTTONWOOD TREES 14 KARLA SEAMONS 15 LUCAS YATES Cover Design: Shaylee Bailey 16 MARY ANNE TRUNNELL Cover Photo: "Kanab, Utah" by Skyy McKendry 17 KIRSHEL SMITH 18 PAUL YODER 20 JENICA MAXWELL LAMENT OF AN INSOMNIAC Layout Editor: Jenica Maxwell Advising Editor: Stephen B. Armstrong 11 STRUCK MARSHALL YOUR MIND PINK SHOES NATURE' S CYCLE FORHER lll �FICTION 20 27 50 RICK SMITH 51 JAMIE LEAVITT SORROW PAPA MICKI ERICKSEN THE GOLDEN WATER FOUNTAIN SHADOWS KAMI MCARTHUR MICKI ERICKSEN 33 37 40 THE STORM LINDSAY FERRJN THE CARROT PAUL YODER 52 LACEY KNIGHTON 53 TIFFANI HERPEL JOURNEY TO THE KING'S KITCHEN RONNY P. RUESCH OLDSOUL FROSTED ELEGANCE BIRD LADY JAMIE LEAVITT CORY WALKER NONFICTION ART viii MORGAN CLEMENTS THE DOCUTAH RAVEN 54 ROB GRAY WALKING HOME: A MEMOIR 44 JAMIE LEAVITT ART INSTALLATION-BUTTERFLIES 58 ED MEYER THE STRAW BOSS 45 MICKI ERICKSEN RAIN GUTTER 61 AMIJO COMEFORD ARLETH LUJAN-PONCE THE DREAM CLOSET 66 KAMI MCARTHUR MICHAEL LEVI ARNONE RUNNING WILD 71 MONTANA PLATT 75 NOVA WAHL 46 SINGING RICK SMITH 47 THE WOLF MARY ANNE TRUNNELL JESSICA DAY GEORGE'S PRINCESS OF THE MIDNIGHT BALL STAR TREK: DESTRUCTION OR NEW HOPE? VARIOUS ITEMS PHOTO ESSAY ALYSSA NORRIS-PAYNE 49 CHRISTOPHER PAOLINI'S BRISINGR THE UNIVITED NEIGHBOR ITHILLIAN NOBLE BEN ANDERSEN 48 PAWNS AND VAMPIRES UNTITLED 78 BERTN. WALKER from DESTINIES MET NEAR GRAFTON THE WORN PATH NOVA WAHL iv V �EDITOR'S NOTE As managing editor of the 2010 Southern Quill, I had the opportunity to help the other editors select the pieces appearing on the following pages. We had hundreds of submissions to pick from-too many, in fact, to include all that each editor liked. Many times we could not reach a consensus and selection came down to a vote. So it is with art. What appeals to one may not appeal to another. In this year's edition, we have four sections: poetry, fiction, visual arts, and non-fiction. Taken with a camera, molded from clay, or written with a laptop, these selections all evoke highly emotive images. This constitutes art. But what drives photographers, sculptors, and writers to devote their attention to creative work? For an answer, we went to three successful authors, a film critic, a short story writer, and a novelist. Joseph McBride, a professor in the Cinema Department at San Francisco State University, has been publishing books since the 1970s, among them Steven Spielberg: A Biography ( 1997) and Searching for John Ford (2001 ). Joe explains that he writes because "I have always been fascinated with finding out what's behind the curtain of history-uncovering the stories that are hidden, the facets of people that they try to conceal, the deeper meanings that are obscured by superficialities and obfuscations, the truths behind the official lies. As a writer of film criticism, I have always tried to delve beyond the conventional wisdom; as a biographer and historian, I have always tried to tell stories that have been neglected or misunderstood. I started as a newspaper reporter and still consider myself an investigative reporter at heart." Elaina Westegaard is a student in the Master of Fine Arts Creative Writing program at Chatham University. Her story "The Black Lacquer Box" appeared in the 2008 edition of The Southern Quill. For Elaina, creative work is "a means to escape, relive, and explain my day-to-day life experiences and because life is too funny, sad , unbelievable, and incredible to miss recording. I write because I communicate better through prose than face to face. I write to be remembered when I'm gone. I write to heal hurt feelings from the VI past and to rehash old sentiments from my history. I write because I ca_n, becau~e I have to. For all these reasons I write, but above everythmg, I wnte because I can't imagine doing anything else." Jesse Bullington is the author of two novels: The Sad Tale ofthe Brothers Grossbart (2009) and The Enterprise ofDeath (forthcoming). Jesse is a writer because " it's the most effective way for me to tell stories. I write because I'm extremely non-confrontational and passive-aggressive and writing gives me a safe outlet. I write because I've always wanted to. I write because I can. I write because I like attention. I write to make other people think. I write to make other people happy. I write to make other people sad. I write to make myself all of these things. l write to fix things. I write to break things. I write to escape. I write to engage. I write because I want to. I write because I have to. I write because someone else has probably already written this and I need to try harder." I hope ~ou like the following selections as much as I do. As you read the pieces and ponder the visuals, consider what this year's featured writers and artists communicate, and the emotions they compel. Hopefully, you will find several works that make you feel happiness or sadness, love or remorse, anger or fear, disappointment or optimism. If so, our contributors have achieved their goals. Enjoy, Rob Gray vii �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MAYGEN MORTENSEN Morgan Clements MAYGEN MORTENSEN AWAITING SPRING A burst of cool breeze touches my face and liquefies my soul. I am eager for spring. The land around me glistens and gleams like a sequined dress on a brightly lit stage. I leave a trail of small footprints behind me. Each and every year it's as though God decided to eat a powdered donut and shake the excess dust upon the town. I look up into the sky and see the rays of sun shining through the airbrushed clouds. I shake off the donut particles and breathe in the cool breeze. There's a warm promise in the air. I am eager for spring. The DOCUTAH Raven vm �T HE SOUTHERN QUILL NATA LUKAS CHEVIS MCMILLIN NATA LUKAS TIDAL WAVE CHEMOTHERAPY The world consumes Everything ensnared in a tidal wave My stress ebbs Your pain flows Our emotion crashes on the shore line The strain is never ending My mind warping in this hollow shell The world's illusion pulls Our delusion pushes My senses stretch Words never reach ears to understand them They must become more Solid words break in the mind They condense in your heart And rain upon our souls My words become like water They're liquid, flowing on the page, dripping from my tongue Waters flowing from my synapses Rivers running from my pen Oceans stretching out on sheets of paper Now the world reads them The sweet release of my words My stress ebbs Your pain flows Our emotion pulled back out to sea 2 The images still come to me deep in the dark of night your chapped red skin your jaundiced eyes the bloating that ebbed and flowed as regular as the tide your digestive tract tom apart by the chemicals they fed you intravenously it's no wonder you died you hadn't had a real meal in months this is exactly what I didn't want to remember you like this l hated going to the hospital to see you suffer you suffering in pain suffering not necessarily not necessarily because you wanted to live but because you knew how it would affect us when you did die leaving your two-year-old son fatherless. 3 �BARBARA WIATRAK-YOUNG THE SOUTHERN QUILL BARBARA WIATRAK-YOUNG BREVITY I am only here for a moment, To smell the flowers and sing, How brief, how brief is their blooming How quickly flees the spring. I am only here for a moment To learn the things that I should, So I will walk in the soft-scented meadow, And wander the quiet solemn wood. I am only here for a moment, A moment of pleasure and pain, So I will revel and bask in the sunshine, And run in the silver rain. Though time is my companion, He is not a friend I trust. I am only here for a moment, As fragile as gossamer wings, But the beauty, oh, the beauty, That frail moment brings. I must gather the gifts of the moment The beauty, the grace, and the song, To hold, to keep, to remember, For eternity is long. I am only here for a moment So quickly fly the years, So swift each dying ember, Bathed in mortal tears. It's all too fragile and lovely A light and then it's gone, I can't hold on to the beauty, Too soon I have lost the dawn. I am only here for a moment, A moment that crumbles to dust, 4 5 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL STEPHEN D. NAOAULO BARBARA WIATRAK-YOUNG STEPHEND. NADAULD CALL OF THE CANYON A CROSS AT SAINT AVOLD I hear the call of the canyon, Where my horse runs wild and free, Vermillion cliffs sound an echo, That sounds like a song to me. And over the desert we gallop Up craggy mountain tops, My horse is white with flowing mane, And a spirit that never stops, The breeze plays a game in the meadow With the flowers so blue and tall, And an eagle flies o'er head, Surveying his kingdom and all, And the pine trees up on the mountain, Laze in the summer sun, With the scent of the green grass growing my horse begins to run. The streamlet is singing its music, As it joins other winding streams Ah, yes, I am riding the canyon But it's only in my dreams. 6 A letter was sent so long ago By one of the men in the crew. He said if their plane did not return There was something he hoped they would do. The plea was that he and his crewmates Who lived by the bond of the brave Would be together in death as well And rest in a common grave. A white marble cross at Saint Avoid Marks a spot of hallowed ground. Beneath the cross is a plaque of brass Declaring that there may be found Three valiant men who fought and died That others may be free. They lie as they wished in their common graveGod bless their memory. 7 �CASSI MILLER T HE SOUT HERN Q UILL AMANDA JACOBS CASSI MILLER DEVASTATED DREAM Thick, black a smudge, a smear makeup disturbed by a single tear swimming deep in pools of black They run free ly now no turning back. 8 The cacophony haunting dreams. Glow of sunset in spring. Sighing winds in a chi ll-winged night. Endearing rhythm caressing symphony. Solemn beauty of pure delight. A damsel swaying in the grove of broken flowers. Heaven's memories of yesteryear. Cherished deeds in a peaceful trance. Beauty's heavy tears. 9 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL DOUG KELLER DOUG KELLER LIKE A BUTTERFLY Hard the trail was that I strode Hard the saddle that I rode Hard my life and hard it flowed Through the stream of years Met her on a soft spring night Softly filled me with delight Softly my hard soul took flight Into dreams of love Hard the work to buy a band Hard to ask for her soft hand Hard to mutter words so grand Of a life so hard Soft her voice as breeze in spring Soft her hand that took my ring Hand on my face like the wing Of a butterfly Hard the world outside our door Hard the work and bills and more Soft the children that she bore Into this hard life Stole my mind, my heart and all Meaning from my life Hard she fought the racking pain Hard my heart; my mind insane Hard she wiped the bright red stain From her pale bruised lips Soft the pillow 'neath her head Soft her quilted bright death bed Softly smiled as her breath fled On the soft still air Hardness filled me up with hate Cursing death and God and fate Hard to put my soft soul mate In the cold hard ground She comes softly in my dreams 'Round her face her soft hair streams Dances near on soft moon beams Like a butterfly With a small soft sneeze one fall Soft a hard thief came to call 11 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL DOUG KELLER DOUG KELLER THE COTTONWOOD TREES On the Virgin River down Southern Utah way There's a wide canyon where I grew to be a man. ln my childhood memories I see the gentle sway Of giant cottonwoods whose leaves the breezes fan. A soft and soothing music calmed my restless soul. The peaceful rustling of the leaves filled up the air. The rumbling of the river on its endless roll Created background music for the tune played there. I'd herd grazing cattle up the ditch bank's grassy edge. It was my job to keep those milk cows from the hay, But sometimes as they grazed I'd climb up a high ledge From that great castle wall I' d fight the Huns away. Or I'd lay flat on my back in a tree's cool shade And read an exciting book while my mind roamed free To ride with Don Quixote on a windmill raid Or watch Moby Dick take Ahab beneath the sea. But first I helped Dad milk those cows, all twenty-one. I stripped out every drop of milk that I could squeeze. And the work was hard and tiresome for a young lad Who only wished from life to play and sit and dream. But thanks to a sweet mother and to a stem dad Life was of the crop and not just of the cream. Cottonwoods are gone now, the water all in pipe. An old man ponders here and mourns about their death 'Cause their peaceful memories are of the lasting type And they'll be with me all the days that I draw breath. At night in dreams I see them swaying in the wind And their lovely sounds play gently across my mind When I cross the Great Divide, even though l 've sinned, Ditch banks lined with cottonwoods I hope I find. The day so full of magic would soon run its course And I'd gather up the cattle to take them back. Just a guileless young dreamer and his trusty horse Hazing the cattle down a well-worn, tree-lined track. At home mother waited with supper almost done. The aroma floated out on the evening breeze. 12 13 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL LUCAS YATES KARLA SEAMONS LUCAS YATES LAMENT OF AN INSOMNIAC STRUCK Leaves tremble, lose their grip Rocky mountainsides slip Waterfalls cut downward paths Streaming toward their frothy baths Leaky faucets drip and drip Bumbling fingers spi ll or tip Beltless pants downward slide Droopy diapers reveal pink bides People falter, trip and stumble Even agile athletes fumble Hearts sink, spirits drop Hopes collapse, ideas flop Lightning hit me, Blasting through my eyes. Retina fried, iris peeling from its color. Loud crack, a death whip, ears gone, shredded drums beating; what makes an ear an ear. Nerve endings burst then crawl through hollowed caves in thirst. Breathing's what kills me, Withered lungs clutch air, not there. I've been struck. Legs give, gravel screeches, palms plant then leave me. I click my tongue: steel saliva drips across the curb from lacerated lips dipped in heat. Pulsing pressure squeezes my neck, a choking grip, Constraining my chin erect but burying my knees to the earth. Fall in love or fall from grace Fall for " it," fall into place The Fall nudged humanity on its way Nightfall announces end of day Trip, glide, plummet, tumble, descend The ways to fall know no end And yet with heavy lids, And limbs, and feet Why can't I just fall Asleep? 14 15 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL KJRSHEL SMITH MARY ANNE TRUNNELL KIRSHEL SMITH MARSHALL YOUR MIND PINK SHOES Marshall your mind and pen in union And conduct your paper in jubilant solo symphony Reach out to the highest peak of understanding seen or unseen Yearn to seek and find each fathomless meaning Answer the unasked, the unspoken Nurture wilting voices and awaken dormant emotions Negate the pleasing pretty popular perfect positive prose Evaluate, explore, invite, and instill humanity l miss running in the sprinklers And looking for my little pink shoes I miss the world where I screamed at spiders Because nothing was scarier It gradually slipped from my fingers Gone forever now, but so close To never return to childhood Is sweet like popsicles and bitter like grief I peer into the child-adult limbo Part of me has been mature for a long time I grew up when I realized I only had a few years left to be a child Everyone wants to return to Neverland A simpler world that banned nightmares Everyone deals with the loss of naivete Wishing Peter Pan would teach them to fl y I will grow up like everyone else Looking to the past is like running backward I will surely fall and get hurt If I do not face the future and what lies ahead But right now it's okay to grieve To press my face up against the window to limbo And cry inside As I try and try and try to grow up 16 17 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL JENICA MAXWELL PAUL YODER JENICA MAXWELL NATURE'S CYCLE FOR HER Nature's Bane Shattered winds Rend azure skyKindle for winter's blight. l grieve for a fallen star tonight Whose light, unseen on Earth, Was stilled in space's unfeeling void Death proximal to birth Nature's Release Cold to Chill. Need to want. Broken free from icy clutch. I have no proof it even was But silence screams to me Some far-world has gone dark tonight Dusk for Eternity Nature's Rest Cycle's slaughter Of past seasons Ends now with summer's start. Tomorrow I will be as sad My heart impacted yet But in a week? A month from now? To survive I wi ll forget Nature's Fall Without life To carry on. Death is change of color. Unfair that fickle as I am This wound w ill be discarded While somewhere there's an empty sky Forever broken-hearted 18 19 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MICKI ERICKSEN WCKI ERICKSEN PAPA Dad leaned in through the driver's side window and kissed my cheek. "Love you, sweetie, have a safe drive." "Love you too, Dad." "Here, for the road." He passed me a pack oflemon shortbread cookies. I grabbed the cookies and tossed them onto the passenger's seat. "Thanks." Reaching through the window again, he tousled my curly auburn hair, then stepped back to put his arm around my mother's waist. She stood on the edge of the driveway with her arms fo lded, a frown deepening the lines in her face. "I still don' t understand why you want to go there," she said. " It's just an old junk heap now, full of nothing but bad memories." "Bad memories for you, Mom. I just need this, okay? I'll be back tonight." She shrugged her shoulders. I pulled out of the driveway, waving my hand out the window. They both waved back, framed by their split-level ranch style house, its plush lawn and flower beds sparkling with the early morning dew. I. turned on the radio and found a country music station. Tim McGraw crooned about fishing and reading the good book as I pulled onto the freeway. The sun rose from behind the mountaintops, and the landscape changed from tree-lined fields to sagebrush and cactus as I. sped down the familiar stretch to my old hometown. By mid-morning, I reached my destination and pulled off the exit, marveling at the hustle and bustle of the strip malls and business offices that now lined the once-sleepy thoroughfare of this Southern Utah town. 20 A few miles later, I pulled up to the old "ranch," a stark contrast to the storage units and apartment complexes that now surrounded it. Developers had pleaded with my grandfather for years to sell this two-acre parcel, promising a hefty compensation. He always rejected their offers. Now, barely two weeks after his funeral, a deal bad already been made. I cut the engine to my car and stepped out, squinting in the bot sunlight. Two rusty and corroded double-wide trailers sagged dejectedly next to the demolition machinery. The bulldozers crouched there, waiting like tigers ready to pounce, their black and orange gleaming in the desert sun. I stared at the former home of my grandpa from the roadside, half expecting his ghost to swing open the door and greet me with the same gleeful " Well, hello there!" that became so familiar to me as a child. Part of me wondered if Papa would haunt this piece of land forever, stubborn as always, determined to linger. I walked across the yard toward the second trailer, the same forlorn and empty shape as its neighbor, and leaned on the chain link fence that surrounded the makeshift front yard. My mom had the fence installed when I was a baby, once she realized we would be there for a whi le. She yearned for any kind of division between her and her unfavorable surroundings. Up until I was eight years old, we lived in the trailer next door to Papa's, sharing the land and livestock while my father traveled into town day after day, looking for work. I didn't blame my mother for never wanting to come back to this place. I remembered her holding all four of us children close during a wind storm and cursing the flimsy walls. She just knew eventually a tornado would come and lift us all away to Oz, just like Dorothy. My six-year-old imagination thrilled at the possibility. An engine roared, and I turned to see a man in the seat of the nearest bulldozer, preparing for the day's work. I ran across the gap between us, my flip-flops spraying sand and pebbles up to hit my calves. 21 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MICK.I ERICKSEN "Wait!" l called, waving my arms. He cut the engine and opened the door, leaning out to give me a perplexed look. "Sorry ma'am," he drawled. "I didn't see you over there. This is a closed site. We' re flattenin' this place today." "I know," I said. " Can I have a few minutes? I used to live here. My Grandpa..." I gestured to the trailers and the land around them. " Well," he scratched his chin, following my gaze. "The other guys aren't here yet, so I guess just a minute would be okay, but we'll be starting work here pretty quick." "Thank you," I said and began walking between the two trailers into the back yard. The animals had been kept on the east end of the lot. I strode in that direction and stopped at the empty goat pen. I rested my hand on top of the dilapidated wooden fence, seeing the hay and pebblelike goat droppings strewn over and through the sand. There was the raised platform in the comer where the goats had been barricaded for milking, their heads in a wooden vice to keep them still while Papa cussed at them every time they twitched a hoof or brayed an indignant "Maaaa." All the while he pulled on the teats methodically, up and down, watching the milk splash into the quart Jar. My view was different back then, peeking through the wooden slats, seeing only pieces at a time. I would watch Papa, his white hair spilling out from underneath bis signature black cowboy hat, curling round the collar of a long sleeved flannel shirt he wore every day, even in the summer heat. Then I would shift my gaze to the goat, an ornery old nanny that feared only Papa, with good reason. His treatment of the animal wasn't exactly gentle. A light desert breeze blew, sending the smell of stale hay and manure my way. A strand of hair tickled my cheek, and I tucked it behind my ear. Neither one of my parents had red hair. They told me that in his younger days, Papa's hair had been a deep copper color, just like mine. At least one positive thing to pass on, l 22 thought. That, andjust a trace ofhis stubborn streak. "Ma'am?" I heard a voice call. Three construction workers stood just behind Papa's trailer, orange hard hats glinting. The one I bad spoken to earlier walked toward me. " We need to start our work, now. We got another job down on Sunset this afternoon and- " "Just a couple minutes, please?" I called back. "We gotta get this going." "Look," l said, beginning to get irritated. "You fellas get paid by the hour. Me standing here a couple minutes is only going to earn you a few extra cents." The construction workers looked at one another, then back at me, no doubt sizing me up and trying to determine how big a fight I would give if they attempted to haul me off the property. "How about this," I tried again. "When your foreman gets here, you act all bent out of shape, and tell him what a beast I've been and that I've refused to get out of the way. In the meantime, you can go have a smoke, or whatever kind of break you like, and we' ll all be happy." I smiled serenely at the group. They shrugged their shoulders and walked back up to the front yard. Sighing, I looked around the yard and spotted the old tree stump, our favorite gathering place each season for the decapitation of chickens. I strolled over to it and saw in my mind's eye the bloody birds :flopping around and sometimes walking a few paces, even as their heads lay on the old stump, lifeless next to my grandpa's ax embedded deep into the wood. The gruesome tradition had fascinated me as a child. Papa always enjoyed watching the birds and our reactions to them, doubling over and slapping his knee while he whooped with laughter. Papa often disregarded the natural order of things, :finding humor in the grotesque and praising the unethical. Even in his last years of life, Papa defied anyone who thought they knew better than him. "The cancer is ravaging his entire body," a sympathetic doctor had explained to my father after Papa's second stroke. "He 23 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MICKI ERICKSEN doesn't have much time left." "Aw, hell," Papa responded when he heard the news. "I ain' t gonna let no invisible enemy take me down." He refused any kind of hospital treatment. "Garlic. A clove of garlic a day'll keep me around, just you wait and see." Papa lived for eight more years. He always said he would outlast any of the old gang of outlaws he ran with out on the Arizona strip. Apparently their days of robbing liquor stores and stealing cattle got the better of them, all but Papa. Ever conscience free, he lived two decades longer than any of them. I wondered sometimes if he hung on so long because he was afraid to die, afraid of what was waiting for him on the other side. All his life he proclaimed that he had no belief in deity. "It's them ants," he once told me when I inquired why he didn' t go to church with us each Sunday. "I can't believe in no God who would create them gol' durn ants to torment us all." I jumped as I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw another construction worker, this one with a white hard hat. He was a tall, muscular man, wearing a white t-shirt that stretched across his chest and shoulders, but with kind features. As I looked at him, a memory stirred. "Jacob?" 1 asked, a grin spreading across my face. "l haven't seen you since you lived next door to this place!" "What the-" he stammered as recognition dawned. Jacob tipped his bead back and laughed out loud, then looked back down at me. "The guys were describing some crazy lady who was throw. was you. H ow ya 'been.?" ing some kind of fit. Shoulda known 1t We reminisced for a few moments about the days we both used to play in this yard, entertained by my grandpa and his antics. I informed him of Papa's recent passing. "Yeah, 1 figured that had to be it when they finally got permission to demolish this place. It's a shame he's gone. A shame this will all be gone," Jacob reflected, his eyes wandering over the remains of our childhood playground. "Do you mind if l have just a few more minutes?" " Sure thing. I' ll keep ' em out of your way." 24 As he walked away I looked toward the west end of the lot where an overgrown garden choked by weeds spread across a fifth of an acre. Papa had weeded and watered that garden every day faithfully, though I never knew what he harvested there. Probably tobacco. I chuckled to myself. My mother was so disgusted with this habit of his. She was disgusted with every part of him. The brown stains down his front from when he missed his spittoon, the familiar stench of body odor, garlic and tobacco that followed him wherever he went, his foul language and mockery of all things moral and good. I had just accepted it all as part of him, all just Papa to me. I only cared about when his next weeding of the garden would be so I could ride in the wheelbarrow on top of the weeds, their bittersweet smell burning my nose and prickly stems making my skin itch, both of us bouncing and laughing all the way as Papa pushed me across the yard to the burn pile. My biggest concern back then had been if he were out of the lemon shortbread cookies he kept stashed on top of bis fridge. He saved them especially for us to share on my daily visits next door. I turned full circle, remembering the sounds of the rooster crowing, goats bleating, and chickens clucking. I stepped out of my shoes, feeling the warm sand between my toes, and 1 was skipping barefoot after my Papa, helping him with his daily chores, chasing the chickens around the yard each time they ventured from their coop to peck and scratch at the ground. [ returned to those days of youthful energy and unconditional love, before I cared what people thought or believed, how I looked or who I associated with, before I saw Papa as the atheist, the drunk, the criminal. I breathed in all of it, and then let it out, blew it away and came back to this place, reality. But a piece of it stayed inside, just enough of a piece that I tipped my head back, stretched my arms out wide and smiled at the sky. Papa was gone, but he had left his mark on the world. He may not have made it a better place, but he definitely made it more interesting to live in. l put my arms back down, still smiling, and saw the construe25 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL KAMI MCARTHUR tion workers staring at me from the gap between the trailers, three with bewildered expressions, Jacob looking amused. "I'm done," I called, and slipped my shoes back on. I trotted over to them, thanked Jacob, and walked to my car. Halfway there, I stopped and looked over my shoulder. They were still staring. Jacob grinned and waved. I returned the wave and then called out, "Hey, do you mind if I stay and watch? I'll keep out of the way." "Go ahead, just stay across the street," Jacob called back. He turned to give some instructions and the men all dispersed, climbing into the bulldozers. Engines roared to life, and the equipment began to move. I was amazed at how quickly and efficiently the job was done. The machines and men scurried busily over the land, working simultaneously to tear down, rip apart and haul away the decaying remains of the rundown ranch. The trailers gave only a feeble squeal as the machine's teeth chewed through the metal. The rest of the structures barely needed a nudge before collapsing in on themselves, sending clouds of dust into the air. As the last truck pulled away, its bed filled with usable wood scraps tom from the animal pens, I looked over the flattened, empty lot. "Well, Papa, they finally won, but you sure put up a good, long fight," I whispered. I got into my car and reached for the lemon shortbread cookies. I opened the pack, breathing in the cookies' sweet, lemony scent. More memories of my beloved grandfather flooded my mind and heart. Smiling, I grabbed a cookie, took a bite, and drove toward the setting sun. 26 KAMI MCARTHUR SHADOWS I should have left for home earlier, but instead, I stayed at Avery's house to play another game of soccer and lost track of time, again. As the sun started sinking behind the mountains, I snapped a long, stringy twig off the willow tree in her backyard. "You should call your dad. It's getting dark," she told me. Using a tan rock that left streaks like chalk, she started writing her name on the patio. I frayed the top of the twig with my fingernails and pulled down a strand of dark bark, uncovering the stick's white insides. "I think I'll just walk home." Avery stopped writing and looked at me, but I kept staring at the stick as I tried to pull down another strip of its skin. "But what about the Shadows?" she asked. I shrugged even though my throat seemed to tighten. Avery went back to work and finished her name. "They could come out while you're walking." "But chances are they won't; they only come out when they get hungry. Anyway, my dad is already mad at me for breaking the mirror and lying about it." Avery was drawing a heart now. I wanted to ask if her mom could give me a ride home, but I didn't want anyone to know how frightened I felt. Besides, earlier today I bad told her brother that nothing scared me when he dared us to chant "Bloody Mary" with the lights off in the bathroom. Nothing had happened. I also knew Avery's mom had a big presentation for her work tomorrow, and I didn't want to bother her. "I don't want to call my dad," I mumbled. I finished stripping my twig and held it out to admire its white surface. After a minute, I stuck it in the pouch of my navy blue hoodie and lightly stepped 27 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL KAMI MCARTHUR out of the willow tree's shadow. "Do you think he's still mad?" Avery asked. She stood up with blades of grass clinging to her jeans. "Yeah, he hasn't even come looking for me," I pointed out. When my dad told me I couldn't go on the California trip with Avery's family, 1 chucked my baseball straight at the full length mirror in his bedroom. After fighting with him about who had done it, I sprinted all the way to Avery's house. " But I mean, if Bloody Mary can't even get me when I'm calling her name, I don't think I need to worry or anything." "You should still run the whole way. It'll be dusk soon and they might come out. I don't want them to get you." I agreed and kicked a rock before quietly slipping through the back gate. I jogged across the dirt lot and onto the street. The Johnson kids bad stopped playing in their front yard and called out to me through their chain link fence as I ran past them. "You better get borne!" the oldest shouted, as be dragged his baby brother toward their front door. I reached the end of the street and turned left onto Crystal Drive: still two more streets to go. The sun had already sunk halfway behind the mountains, and although I thought I could make it home in time, my skin prickled as I watched the shadows on the ground elongate, growing longer than the trees were tall, bigger than the houses were wide, still stretching and distorting as I went my way. They reached out toward me with their deformed shapes and long limbs. My own shadow grew, too. Its legs and arms lengthened into spidery extensions, and its hands transformed into pointed talons. My heart pumped fierce ly as my shadow mirrored my every move. I turned down the next street: empty, just like Crystal Drive had been. Sweat trickled down my neck. I picked up speed, and so did my shadow. Theres nothing there, I reminded myself, theres nothing to worry about while they 're all still flat. But my heart wouldn't listen. It beat frantically against my rib 28 cage as though I had swallowed a humming bird. Now only a sliver of the sun remained visible; the mountain ridge concealed the rest. Panic slithered between my joints, and hot tears crept into my eyes, blurring the world together. K eep running. Keep running. I'm more than halfway. As I wiped the water out of my eyes, some black lumps rose in the shadows. They bubbled out of the ground like mounds of tar. I jumped over one as I ran. The bumps grew, shaping into heads and necks, forming into human figures and extracting themselves from the ground as easily as breaking through the surface of water: first their heads, then their shoulders, and then their treacle-like arms. With their claws, they pressed against the floor and yanked their tarry bodies out from the abyss, their legs kicking as they heaved their masses up on the rim, the solid floor of our world. Everyone I knew called them the Shadows. Entering our world wherever there was shade, they surrounded anyone outside after sundown, enveloped them with their gooey arms, legs, and bodies, and pulled their victims back through their shady portals into the Shadow Lands. There, they absorbed the life out of humans, transforming them into one of their own. They moaned when they spotted me. 1 reached the park, and decided to cut through it to the last street. As I. ran across the field, more of them crept out of the shadows from the trees, teeter-totters, slides, and picnjc tables. My heart throbbed in my ears. But my foot caught on something. I tripped and tumbled to the cool grass. Shadows closed in on me. I scrambled to my feet, breathing so hard it hurt. Faceless, solid silhouettes surrounded me. Their smell reminded me of pus. In the comer of my eye, I spotted a smaller one, a Shadow girl. She wore a hoodie, sneakers and had short hair like me, and knobby knees and sharp talons. As she came closer, her head resembled mine, but stretched out like taffy. The Shadows' wailing sounded louder than my pounding heart. This couldn't be the end; l mean, I was just a kid. l had so much 29 �TH E SOUTHERN QUILL KAMI MCARTHUR life left. I clenched my hands into fists. " You guys better watch out," I told them. "I have super powers. Yesterday I smashed in a car with my bare hands. You don't even know what I can do to you." They stopped walking toward me. They just stood there like statues, whining. I continued, "If I was just a stupid little kid, I wouldn't have been out for a run at night, would I? l 've dealt with your kind before, and I made sure they never made it back to the Shadow Lands!" Abruptly, they grew silent. I looked around at them and their sagging chins, wondering what to do next. I turned 180 to stare down the Shadows behind me. Could I get past them? I saw a blur of black out of the corner of my eye and whirled around again. The Shadow girl stood a foot away from me. A chill darted down my spine. How had she gotten so close to me so fast? She tilted her head to the side and raised her long arms. They stretched passed me. With a jolt of fear, I punched her. I gasped as my fist sunk into the side of her head. She embraced me around the shoulders. Her limbs melted across my back like syrup. Struggling against her hold, I stuck my knee in her stomach. "Let me go," I growled through clenched teeth. With a final heave, the sludge that had melted over me stretched and snapped apart like silly putty. I caught my balance and ran straight for the barrier of Shadows like a twisted game of Red Rover. When I collided with them, I sunk into their sticky flesh. They grabbed me around the middle as I tried to batter through their shadow wall. I thrust my elbow at them and strained against their gummy limbs. I felt some of them tear open from my struggle, intensifying the putrid smell that made my nose burn. But more Shadows latched onto me, encasing me in their muck. I couldn't get away. The sludge, thick like oozing honey, slid down my scalp and dripped over my face. I coughed and gagged when it entered my mouth. I shook my head and spit, trying to loosen the 30 goo that silenced me. I heard the roar of a car's engine and tried to scream. A gurgl ing sound came out instead. As a mass, the monsters carried me toward a gigantic shadow a gazebo cast on the lawn. They entered it and began sinking through the portal again, and soon l would be sinking through it w ith them. I scrunched my eyes closed. But then the darkness lightened. We stopped descending. I heard a car door open and slam shut, and I looked. White light blinded me while someone -my dad-screamed my name. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I was staring into the headlights of h is truck. They cut through the gazebo's shadow, closing the gateway, and leaving the monsters' legs stuck in the ground. The Shadows squirmed and flai led their bodies. Desperate whines filled the air as my dad rushed toward me with a broom. He flung the handle into the black sludge. My hands searched through the gunk, fumbled for it. It kept slipping through my fingers. Finally, I got a steady hold on, and he tried to pull me out, but the Shadows tightened their grip, thickening the muck around me. They began absorbing the broom. My dad let go. H e glanced around and darted for the sand box a yard away. He seized a bucket, scooped it to the brim w ith sand, and dumped it on the Shadows. The grains sunk into their bodies. H e filled the pail again and again, sprinting across the grass as fast as he could without spilling. The sand cascaded into the sludge around me, stiffening the tar and turning it gritty against my skin. My dad's hands dove into their bodies and grabbed me under the arms. After three tugs, he pulled me free. I stumbled, but he caught me. Together we ran for the truck. " Get in!" he yelled. I planted myself in the passenger 's seat and scrambled for my seatbelt. My hands shook. My dad backed out of the park and sped towards home. "Are you okay?" he asked. I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat, and instead, 31 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL LINDSAY FERRIN I started crying again. "Are you hurt?" He looked quickly from the road to me. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I rubbed my eyes with my sleeves. After a moment, I looked up at my dad. "You," I said, "You came looking for me." His brow furrowed as he glanced at me, grabbing my small, shaking hand. "Of course I came looking for you. You're my daughter." My hand stopped shaking. 32 LINDSAY FERRIN THE STORM The wind whipped around our boat with strength and authority as the rain fell from the skies. Wiping the icy water from my face, I shuddered in the cold. Even with my foul weather gear, my clothes stuck to my skin in the thick air. Our schooner heeled to its side, and the sea thrust a burst of water onto the vessel. The concentrated smell of salt rose as I looked out at the green, broken waves, surprised at the intensity of the storm. Only thirty minutes before, the morning had seemed beautiful and clear, but now the ocean shifted in a chaotic mass, twisting and contorting its shape. My heart beat rapidly, my hands cold. Any good sailor should know to fear the sea, I thought, and I did. I respected its massive control and feared its callous destruction. That awareness, however, didn 't necessarily make me a good deck hand. Almost everyone on our crew had sailed since youth. Then I came: the new recruit from Kansas who had never lived near a body of water bigger than a swimming pool. In fact, while growing up I didn't like swimming, and I didn't live close enough the ocean to appreciate the water. If my brother-in-law Alex had not been my captain, I would not have taken a job sailing. But he was, and ironically, I followed suit, facing the water for my summer job. "Jess," he 'd said, trying to convince me to come, "you only live life once." And so, to broaden my experiences, I moved with my sister and brother-in-law to Rhode Island and became a sailor. And this, I contemplated miserably, marked my first real experience sailing in a storm. The wind screamed in my ear as my shoes slipped on the slanted boat. I leaned against the hanging life raft for support. In distress, I looked to our captain, expecting his face to show some kind of stress or fear. Instead, his head tilted back into the wind, 33 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL LTNDSAY FERRIN letting the rain fall on a huge grin. He hollered in delight, making my fears subside a little. I furrowed my brow. That was the hardest part about being an inexperienced sailor- I never knew when to feel afraid; I had to trust my superiors. Lucky for me, trusting them meant trusting family, and that made faith a little easier to come by. "Comin' about!" yelled the captain, his voice muted in the deafening torrent. I wondered how loud be had to yell for us to hear him. Tucker and I manned our positions and got ready. Crazy, I thought, not for the first time, that two crew members and a captain could man an 80-foot boat. My shaky hands timidly twisted around the wet, heavy rope. My arms felt larger with the weight. I blinked frequently to keep the water from trickling into my eyes and blurring my vision. I looked back at Alex as he began to tum the vessel. Three, two, one. In one powerful motion, the wind sucked our sails from one side of the vessel to the other. The front sail lashed forcefully to and fro, folding onto itself, creating a harsh cracking sound each time the material collided. I gritted my teeth and pulled hard and fast on the line until the sail was finally taut. The sail stayed obediently inside its restraints, every now and again flapping just a little, teasingly. When the crisis ended, I wrapped the rope into the wench and squeezed my eyes tightly, finally breathing. Tucker, the first mate, came and trimmed the sail until it reached the perfect form. Without reservation, I let him, not really knowing myself how best to shape it. Shielding my face with my arm, I looked up at Tucker. He stood with perfect balance and ease, though the boat turned almost to its side, his dark hair and complexion faintly camouflaged against the shadowy sky. Tucker's expression seemed fearless, even excited, as he looked to the raging waves. He dropped his head and shook off the excess water and quickly returned his gaze to the dark, disorderly ocean. I sensed that my face reflected the opposite emotion. Just let me make it home. I turned my attention to Alex with his black, soaked hair and felt my opinion of him drastically chang- ing by the minute; family or not, my trust in him did not drown my fears. Drown- I shied away from even the thought. The contemplation of a watery grave made my chest hurt. I couldn't think of a death worse than gasping salty liquid into my lungs. My breathing accelerated and in my fear I whispered, "Why do people do this?" Then, as if the ocean heard me, the vessel smashed into a vengeful wave, sending the front of the ship diving downward toward the water. I leapt for the rails on the edge of the deck. My wet hand slipped off the metal, causing me to lurch forward. [ reached again, this time planting my hand firmly on the skinny bar. I might have cried-I couldn't tell with my face drenched in rainwater. The color drained from my hand as I gripped the rail. This is suicidal, I thought, as 1 crouched for better balance. "Look at that," Tucker cried out, disrupting my thoughts. My fingers almost relaxed at the distraction. "Look at what?" I said, trying to wipe my eyes with my only free hand. "On the starboard side," he said. I glanced to the left and Tucker laughed a little. "Other side," he said kindly. I turned and squinted in the direction he pointed, peering through the sheets of rain toward the waves. In the distance, I witnessed a breathtaking mass of billowing white. We were staring at a colossal tall ship that made our schooner look like a bathtub toy. Her sails were tight against the wind, pushing them forward through the storm. I counted the sails twice for accuracy and made out seventeen. I almost laughed as 1 thought of the four sails on our schooner. I didn't know bow many sailors it took to man a tall ship, but l figured it would take more than the three crew members on our vessel. She was beautiful. Her dignity tempered the chaos stirring around me. I ignored the long, sticky threads of hair plastered in front of my eyes as the wind and storm around me became distant and unreal. Then, I knew the answer. I understood why people did 34 35 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL PAUL YODER this. Sailing went beyond the ordinary into the world of fiction. 1n front of me-a pirate ship, tall and threatening. I listened for the explosion of a cannon, watched for the black flag of a skull. And our schooner, though small, was a bold enemy with its ballooning jib, fu ll and erect. "It's remarkable, isn't it," said Tucker, mirroring my thoughts. His eyes remained fi xed on the tall ship. ''Yeah, it is," I said, smi ling for the first time on our sail. "So what do you think? ls sailing growing on you?" he asked, his eyes meeting mine. "I think... " Sudden ly Tucker rushed away from me. "We're tacking again," he called over his shoulder. I hesitantly let go of my safety rail and inched toward the bow. Tucker hunched over the rope, ready to go. I slid on the slick surface to my place and grabbed the wet rope again. Alex smiled at me as I looked back at him, and this time my face relaxed a little when the boat turned. The anxiety was still there, but l controlled it, making my feet tip their pressure to my toes as I bit my fear out through my tongue, my eyes wide. As the sail recoi led on itself, the wind matched its rhythm, creating an exhilarating symphony. Planting my feet firmly on the deck, I braved a walk toward the raging water and grabbed onto a secured line, letting it support me in the wind. 36 PAUL YODER THE CARROT A carrot dropped into the horse's view. It was ripe, straight from the old farrner 's garden- the green leaves still on top. This carrot was not just left over from the farmer's daily harvest like the horse was used to. It was a carrot without blemish, washed clean of any gritty dirt. It was the finest carrot the horse had ever seen. The carrot hung down from a bowed pole, tied, and suspended by some brown twine. John, the farmer, inspected his handiwork and pulled the carrot, then let go, sending it bouncing inches away from the horse's nipping teeth. John laughed as he watched the animal snap for the dangling carrot without success. "Betty won ' t believe me if this works," he said as he went into tbe other corral room to set up the coach, leaving the horse in its stall all alone. This horse was special and the horse knew it. He was the only one of his kind who could understand human talk, though he could not sp~ak i~. H~ considered himself a horse of some intelligence, for while bis km went about fo llowing the farmer's orders he didn't. He had learned early on that ifhe gave him a half-day's work when he expected a whole day, then John would simply choose another animal. The horse had a name that he had given himself- Donner. The farmer, however, didn 't recognize bis name as anything but "Horse," the same name he called a ll his horses. One night, the ~ortly old farmer's wife had chased John out of his house for gett1~~ too drunk. He chose this horse for company that wintry night. S1ttmg on a stool in the horse's stall, he had relayed a story about a ~at, old man all dressed in red and white who rode a carriage without wheels. John told the animal that the carriage, fi lled with toys, was pulled by eight muscular reindeer. The horse dido 't have 37 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL PAUL YODER a clue what reindeer were, but if they could carry a carriage of such unimaginable weight, then reindeer, he decided, must be horse gods. Since he had been thinking of what to call himself prior to this intimate night with the farmer, and since the only other names he had heard before were "John," "Betty," "Carl," and " Betsy," none sounding like proper horse names, he decided to take the name of one of these horse gods- the only one he could remember, "Donner." Donner could hear John futzing around with riding equipment in the other room now, and he knew the old man was ready for a ride. When John entered Donner's stall a moment later, he snatched his reigns and led him out to the carriage room. "You're the only horse in my many years I couldn't properly train and sell. It's your lazy nature. You just won't do work. But I bet you' re hungry right now-' least you should be, after missing two meals. I bet that carrot looks mighty fine in front of your face. Perhaps that's just the motivation you need to carry me around the block." A trot around the block for the finest carrot he had ever set eyes on seemed reasonable to Donner. After John finished strapping all the belts from the carriage to the horse, he climbed up to his bench. Soon he tapped the carrot with his rod and set it bouncing. Donner started forward, snapping futilely, his eyes bulging. The horse and carriage sped from the stable, down the drive, and out onto Third Street, where they passed rows of merchants and their carts of fresh produce. At first Donner enjoyed the game because he didn't know that attaining the carrot was totally unachievable. All he knew was that the carrot was close-very close-so close that he could smell the minty greens on the carrot's top. As he snapped and nipped, Donner's gait sped up, causing John to roll from side to side, laughing. But Donner didn't notice anything except the breeze as it ruffled past the carrot. He had his tongue out, lapping at the air. People on the street jumped out of 38 the way, while other drivers steered clear as the hysterical farmer and the crazed horse blasted past them. Donner soon began to slow, however, wondering if perhaps the carrot were out of his reach. John had fooled him, it seemed, and his continued laughter confirmed this. Now, with a slouching pace, Donner started toward home without John's guidance and they rounded the bend back to the stables. Inside, the cruel farmer got down from his seat and reached for the carrot. The carriage jostled forward violently as Donner tried again to snatch the treat. But the carrot was still out of reach. He wanted to make another jump when John pulled the carrot free from the string. "The wife will never believe me," the farmer, wiping tears from the sides of his eyes. How could this be? Donner wondered.Didn't he know what it was like to be a horse? As John moved from the carriage, leaving with the carrot, Donner stretched his neck out toward the retreating treasure one last time. The reach seemed endless and impossible to make, but he did it. There was only one problem, though. Wrapped around the carrot's precious skin was John's hand and the only way to the carrot was through that hand. A day later, Donner was in the glue factory, using his last moments of life trying to conjure up the sweet taste of that carrot, which had cost him everything. But all he could remember was the bitter taste of blood. 39 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL RONNY P. RUESCH RONNY P RUESCH As I slowly opened my eyes, I saw the gleaming, textured surface above me. l wondered where I was at first but understood quickly enough when I looked around and noticed the whitewashed, wooden bars that enclosed me. This couldn't be happening again. It seemed that some of my more rebellious subjects attempted a coup at least once a day by imprisoning me in this padded cage the moment l drifted off. Luckily for them, I hadn't yet discovered who the guilty parties were. Luckily for me, l still had several loyal subjects. "Servants! Servants!" l called out to those in whom I entrusted my life. But, oh, the incompetence! I had been calling out with my shrillest voice-the one that will instantly make the most laid-back of people grind their teeth and clench their fists, and still no one came. It seemed impossible to find good help anymore. And talk about clueless. Just a few days ago, l had fired one of my servants named Dud, and yet he continued to show up to work every day. Not that showing up meant much to him. He'd leave early in the morning and not return until late afternoon. The other servant was much better. She was at my beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week-except, that is, for those few times when she would go A.W.O.L. and times like this, when she didn't seem to understand that when I called, I meant, "Come now." I have many names, although they seem to refer to me most frequently as Chubbers, Baby Boy, or Sweetheart- at least that's what the princess tells me that they're saying. I don't remember much about life before I was crowned king. In fact, the first thing that l remember is the pleasant servant holding me in her soft, warm arms and giving me a smile that surpassed the warmth of her arms. She had me with that smile. She was my most loyal and trusted servant, and I must admit that I felt a certain affection for her although I wasn't above disciplining her when the situation merited- like now. "Servants!!" I called again more loudly. The increase in volume usually seemed to do the trick, but this time it was a no go. Already, some twenty or thirty seconds had passed. I could not and would not tolerate such poor service. I was starting to panic. What if they left me here? What if they were all in on the coup this time? What could I do from this prison? It was time to pull out all the stops. "Servants! Corne here now! I can't wait any longer! Come here, come here, come here! " Finally, I could see the portal open and in came ... no, not him! It was one of the little servants, the skinny one. Not that they were little compared to me. But they were only about two or three times my size, unlike the giant ones. The little guys were unpredictable, uncomfortable, and, at times, downright insubordinate. On occasion, they were so bad that l preferred Dud to them. "No, not you!" l called out. "I want Mum! Get me Mum!" The little man came over and started speaking some gibberish that I couldn't understand. "ltsh okay, widow babiesh. Bruddersh gochoo." I stopped yelling at him for a moment, attempting to decipher this code. All of the servants seemed fluent in this bizarre language. I hadn't cracked it yet, though when they raised the pitch a couple of octaves I was able to make out some words. That's how I learned the names of Dud and Mum. These little guys' names were a little tougher to grasp, so I just referred to them as Hefty, Flaco, and Smiley. It was a struggle to learn their language, but l persevered. l figured that if l could learn it, l could spy on them. Then they would stop disobeying and plotting against me. That wasn't going to happen today, though. As I was listening intently, Flaco walked over to me, lowered the portcullis of my cell, and picked me up! The audacity! He did not have my permission to do this. In fact, I remember specifically telling him to get 40 41 JOURNEY TO THE KING'S KlTCHEN �THE SOUTHERN QUILL RONNY P. RUESCH me Mum. I mean, I wanted out of there, but not that bad. He took off with me on a crazy ride through the castle, whipping around comers and letting my head hang every which way. He descended the stairs at such a rate that I think I left my stomach behind. I always felt that he was right on the verge of dropping me. Flaco was not the type of guy that you chose to carry your litter. I began to call out again for Mum. But instead of taking me to her, he tried to hand me off to one of the other little guys, Hefty. It was a toss-up which of these two was worse. Hefty didn't usually p ick me up w ithout permission, and he was a little bit sturdier than Flaco. His one downfall was that he rarely came when I called. Sometimes, I'm not really sure why I kept these guys on. I suppose they made me laugh now and again, so I employed them as my jesters. It was when they attempted to fill these other duties that they really caused me grief. I calmed down for a m inute, attempting to come up with a plan. I would just tell this guy what to do, but I swear sometimes that he didn't understand my language even though I had declared it the official language of the kingdom shortly after my ascension. I sometimes wished that these people would just go back to whatever country they came from. But then who would serve me? I finally came up with a plan. I began to grunt and strain, and it wasn't long before the magic happened. That would do it. These little guys just weren't qualified for this royal duty. They would have to get me Mum now. I began to holler at him again in an attempt to speed up the process. "Hey, clown! Get Mum now!" He put me down and walked out of the room. Finally, we were getting somewhere. He had scarcely left the room though when Dud walked through the door. He came over to me and picked me up. I must admit that this was slightly better. I usually found it soothing when he bounced me on his knee, but in my current predicament, the bouncing presented a real problem. The fluid mass that now fi lied my breeches began to ooze into every crack and crevice as 42 it burned my sensitive, regal skin, and what's worse with each bounce the load threatened to burst forth from its containment. "Open your nose and smell the vinegar, you fool!" I yelled at him. "Whatsumatta, Baby Boy?" he asked. He grabbed my noble plug and attempted to shove it into my mouth, but I was in no mood for pacifying right now. He tried to distract me with one of my favorite games, which, under normal circumstances, I find very stimulating. Couldn't he understand what was going on? Only one thing could take my mind off my present discomfort, and let me tell you that this guy was just not equipped for it. There was just one more thing for me to try. I had to get through to him in his language. So I let out with a string of "Mum Mum Mum Mum" amid my cries of discomfort. His pinched brow finally relaxed, and his eyes opened wide in understanding. It was as if a light bulb had just come on. "Oooh," he said. " I thinkee wantsyu, sweetie!" Then I was lifted up and carried down the corridor into the great hall. And there, seated on the throne, was the object of my desire. I must admit that I lost control a bit at this point. I let Mum know of my mistreatment, I told her what l needed, and once again, I fired Dud. I looked on and screamed as Mum appeared to chew Dud out. She changed my imperial breeches. I felt much better, having clean pants once again, but it was too little, too late. I let her have it with another round of screeching. The decibels increased as I really lost it. She knew what I wanted, yet here I was, waiting still. Finally, all my chastising seemed to pay off. I melted into her warm arms as she satisfied my most primal need, drowning out all of my sorrows. What was I upset about in the first place? 43 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL VISUAL ART Rain Gutter Art Installation-Butterflies The Dream Closet 44 45 �T HE SOUTHERN QUILL VISUAL ART ...... ..... ~ c=;· -s;·e: - z0 ::r ll) 0 t"""' 0 :::. 0 ~ 0 ► 3 0 ::s 0 Running Wild 46 47 The Wolf �- - - - THE SOUTHERN QUILL VISUAL ART Various Items The Worn Path Untitled 48 49 �THE SOUTHERN Q UILL VISUAL ART The Golden Water Fountain Sorrow Old Soul 50 51 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL VISUAL ART Cory Walker ::::l ;:;i 1:1) e. Frosted Elegance Bird Lady 52 53 �THE SOUTHERN QULLL ROB GRAY ROB GRAY WALKING HOME: A MEMOIR I strode out, slanting left toward the road's white sideline. Tim put all his weight into the throw and sent the football. Unlike the Pleasant Grove Junior High School starting quarterback, Tim threw a tight spiral, which was easy to catch. I looked back over my left shoulder, slowed slightly, and watched the ball pass under the afternoon sun over my neatly-parted, blond hair and into my outstretched hands. My left foot down, I dragged my right just before the white line. "You make that look so simple!" Tim yelled. That's why I enjoyed playing receiver on the team. It was simple-just me against the defensive back. No complex strategy. No big responsibilities. No adult dilemmas- just me and him. If I ran a quick route with crisp cuts, I would get open. If not, the DB would have me covered. Simple. "Can you come over later?" l asked as we approached Tim's house. "No, Amy and I are going to the mall." "Then I' ll see you at Scouts tonight." " Okay." "And bring that," l said, pointing to the football. I continued walking home. l saw two mourning doves glide into the top of one of the apple trees in Mr. Harper's orchard. I breathed deeply. I could smell the apple blossoms, just one of the springtime smells I loved. I turned the comer toward my house thinking of Tim and Amy. Why did Tim want to complicate his life with a girlfriend? Doesn ~ he have enough going on: homework, chores, Scouts, andfootball? Mom always says, "Keep it simple; the fewer problems you have, the longer you live "- advice l now, thirty years later, strug54 gle to live by. Suddenly, Dean Terry backed his '61 Apache truck, freshly painted, steel gray, out of his driveway and lit up the tires as he sped toward me. I froze. White smoke surrounded me as he raced by. The smell of burning rubber filled my nostrils and curled my tongue. Then, he slammed the brakes, the gears grinding into reverse. He rolled back to me, leaning out the window. "Get in! " Dean was wearing his Scout Leader's shirt, crowded with medals and merit badge patches. He had on an Atlanta Braves baseball cap too, his gray hair curling around his ears. A freshly oiled, antique, 12-gauge, Ithaca shotgun stood between us on the bench seat. Dean reminded me of Grizzly Adams: a big, burly, yet quiet man. Some people saw Dean as the neighborhood vigilante; others saw him as a problem solver. Looking back, I' m still not sure which he was. When four college guys moved into the duplex down the street, all the neighbors complained to each other about the loud music and the late night parties. Everyone except Dean. One evening as AC/DC shook the duplex windows, Dean walked toward the front door. The neighborhood watched. Dean twisted the door knob and disappeared inside. Within a minute, the music stopped. The door swung open again and Dean walked out with his arm around one of the students. "Yes, sir. It won't happen again." "I knew you would understand," Dean said, straightening the boy's cap. Dean strutted home pretending not to notice everyone watching him. The students moved out the following week. We rolled through the stop sign at the end of our street without saying a word. Dean only obeyed laws he agreed with. Last fall, Dean, my dad, and I went pheasant hunting. Dean had no problem shooting seven birds when the limit was only two. But when he 55 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL ROB GRAY arrived back at home, he immediately placed his two Irish setters in their kennel because dogs could not legally roam the streets, although everyone else's did. We rode in silence. The wind rushed in through Dean's window and snapped my hair across my eyes. / guess I need a haircut, l thought. Just yesterday, mom said / look like a mutt. We passed a metal garbage can lying on its side, house number 339 painted on it with black spray paint. Dean shook his head; his knuckles became white against the black steering wheel. A dog knocking over garbage cans and scattering trash had become the latest crisis. Everyone complained about it. Everyone except Dean. Dean pulled the truck onto the roadside. Gravel popped under the tires. The Johnson's black lab Raider stood across the street three rows deep in a com field. The stalks were belly high to the large dog. Raider would be having pups soon. Keith Johnson said his dad would sell the pups for $300.00 each, that they were AKC registered. They would use the returns to buy Keith braces for his teeth, which be desperately needed. "Grab me my sunglasses out of the glove box," Dean growled, breaking the silence. I leaned down. As my hand reached for the glove box button, I noticed a sticker on the dashboard: "My child is an honor student at Lindon Elementary School" attached with scotch tape at the corners. I found a B ible, a flashlight, a map, and an old can of Copenhagen, but no sunglasses. B lam!!! My ears rang as the truck rocked to the side. l shot up in my seat, my nostrils full of the smell of gun powder. Dean placed the gun back between us and he fl ipped a U-tum. The hot, black barrel of the gun fell against my cold, pale arm. 1 wondered what just happened. Then I saw Raider: a black pile among the young, green stalks. Whal did Raider do to deserve that? [ thought.So what ifshe knocked over a few garbage cans? And how did Dean know it was her? Whal about the puppies? What about Keith braces? My s 56 hands quivered as they lay in my lap, helpless. Dean drove home silently and slowly. Why did you do that? I tried to scream, but the words wouldn't come. The anger resonated off my face as I glared at the driver 1 thought l knew. As Dean pulled into his driveway, he sat tall, a slight grin on his face. I forced opened the door to escape the murderer. "Rob." I stopped. " I want you to tell everyone what you just saw, everyone!" "Okay, Mr. Terry." That was the first time I had called Dean by his last name. r turned to walk away. Dean slouched a bit and stared at the floor-board. ls he upset that l called him Mr. Terry? I thought. Is he feeling remorse about the slaying? Surely, he didn ' t want to kill the dog, but no one else would fix the problem. Sometimes 1 replay the situation in my mind. Dilemmas are supposed to become clearer as you age, and many do. But some remain muddy, vague, unsolvable. l walked toward my house. My own garbage can lay on its side: a newspaper ripped into tiny pieces, a plastic Pepsi bottle, and several dirty diapers scattered over my lawn. 1 set the can upright and began cleaning. Animal Control wouldn i have done anything,· they 're only concerned with skunks and raccoons, l thought. And its unlikely that Mr. Johnson would have penned up his dog. Dean did the only thing he could- now the problem is gone. 1 fin ished with the trash and walked to my front door when I heard scratching. The sound irritated like a French manicure grinding down a black chalkboard. I turned in horror as l watched my white sheepdog clawing at a trash can across the street, trying to knock the lid off. "Come on, Snowball!" I yelled. Snowball and l walked through the front door, and 1 realized my life would no longer be simple. 57 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL ED MEYER ED.MEYER The weathered, teetering buildings along Main Street of Johnson Canyon's long abandoned Gunsmoke Western movie set seemed about to collapse in the cold February wind. An ancient rope, its noose long gone, swayed wildly on the rickety town gallows. A wooden shutter hanging from a single rusty hinge banged noisily against the walls of the old dancehall. Our guide was Denny Judd, the last of Kane County's "straw bosses." He began telling stories about the movie set in its heyday, and, at least in our mind, the town came to life. We could almost hear piano music and the laughter of ladies entertaining cowboys in the Long Branch Saloon. That afternoon, we learned a lot about Denny and Kane County's movie heritage. Denny's first contact with Western movie stars came when he was a 13-year-old bellhop at Parry Lodge in Kanab. Whit Parry and Fay Hamblin had courted Hollywood producers to shoot classic western movies in Kanab, so it was natural that the stars would stay at Parry Lodge. In the late afternoon, actors like Alan Ladd and Victor Mature would come back to the lodge hot and thirsty from a day on the desert. Each actor would g ive Denny fifty to seventy-five cents a day to have trays loaded with pitchers of ice ready for them. For six years, when the movies were being filmed, he would carry three trays, with seven to e ight buckets of ice on each tray. "I remember sitting in the bathroom stall at night, stacking my tips. I'd look down at those coins piling up and think I was a wealthy man." During the heyday of the Western movies and television shows, everyone in town was an extra as a member of the Cavalry, an Indian, or one of the townsfolk. People were buying up every old bus they could find to transport extras to the movie sets. It was in the area of transportation that Denny was given a huge opportunity. "My Dad was a member of Golden Circle Tours, a local tourism cooperative. One day someone from Gunsmoke saw the Golden Circle Tour Bus and asked if they could lease it to haul their construction crew out to build sets. Golden Circle Tours agreed-if! could be the driver." Denny must have done a good job, because he was soon the designated driver for the films' producers and directors. The executives were quick to tell Denny, "Whatever we say in this car doesn't go beyond this car." Actually, Denny's driving assignment was third in the pecking order. He was behind the union steward who drove the lead actors and his second in command who drove the crafts service person who catered to the needs of the stars. A crisis arose one day when a black limousine drove up, the window rolled down. One of the Gunsmoke producers nicknamed Tiny called Denny over. He said, "Why didn't you tell me you weren't a member of the Teamsters Union?" Denny told him he didn't know it was a requirement, but that he would be happy to join. Two days later a union leader from Salt Lake City drove into town and signed Denny up. In those days, everything in movies and television series were run by unions. In addition to the Teamsters Union, there was an actors union, a union for the extras and even a union for the people who placed bushes around the sets. Denny said joining the Teamsters Union was one of the best things he ever did. "The Teamsters Union provided pickup trucks, cars, livestock, wagons, and horses for the films. Since I was a member of the Teamsters, I'd get first shot at meeting these needs. Over the years, I provided more and more of these items and it became a very lucrative part of my business." While Denny's credibility with the filmmakers grew, he established an increasingly strong relationship with Fay Hamblin. Fay was the "straw boss." This meant that he was the local intermediary between the filmmakers and the community. "Whit and Fay 58 59 THE STRAW BOSS �THE SOUTHERN Q UJLL met all the local needs for the filmmakers," Denny explained, "Whit provided food and lodging. Fay arranged for the horses, mules, and men. Since Fay and the people in Hollywood bad become good friends, he was the first person they came to when they wanted to make a movie." When Fay died, Merrill McDonald became the straw boss for several years until he also passed away. Denny then became the new straw boss. "The popularity of Westerns was on the way down, but there was still plenty going on," Denny said. He recalled one movie about the Donner Party, "The director wanted to show the pioneers crossing a river, so we dammed the creek up by Mt. Carmel Junction. Several of the local women dressed up in pioneer dresses and bonnets and had a great time falling off the wagons into the water. Then, he wanted to show wagons being lowered over a cliff, so we went to Crazy Horse Canyon near Big Water where there was a 2,000 foot cliff. The only rope long enough to reach the bottom was mountain climbing rope, but we didn't know it stretched. When we pushed the wagons over the edge they headed straight to the bottom of the cliff. The wagons stopped six feet from the bottom and bounced right back up the cliff. Then the director said he wanted to lower a couple of horses. Our cow ponies weren't agreeable to that so we tranquilized them and they went down just fine. When we were done, we told the director we were way over budget. He opened a briefcase full of cash and told us to take what we needed. A lot of that kind of thing happened in those days." Denny shared story after story about the role he played in meeting the needs of the great Western filmmakers. When the stars weren' t in town, he operated Denny's Wigwam- from its beginning in the bay of an old service station to its status as a Colorado Plateau icon offering chuck wagon dinners, Western movie melodramas, and one of the Southwest's largest collections of Old West memorabilia. After three decades, Denny sold his business and retired in 2005. Today the movies are pretty much a memory, but Denny is still Kane County's legendary straw boss. 60 AMlJO COMEFORD AMJJO COMEFORD PAWNS AND VAMPIRES IN TWILIGHT, FOREVER KNIGHT, AND ANGEL The popular phenomenon of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight Saga and the recent films based on the novels is undeniable. Yet, beneath the teenage melodrama are a larming subtexts that academics and general readers alike must address, such as regressive female stereotypes. While these subtexts all demand attention, here l will focus briefly on a damaging theme that drives the Twilight series' climatic moment in the final installment: Bella's vampirism and what this transformation indicates about the ethical departure points that Meyer and ber fans must allow in order to accept Bella's change. A brief comparison to other popular vampire narratives in contemporary culture, James D. Parriott and Barney Cohen's television series Forever Knight ( 1992-1993, 1994-1996) and Joss Wbedon 's Angel ( 1999-2004), reveals a startling contrast between the cu lturally-significant phi losophical underpinnings that drive both of these shows but are, sadly, absent from Meyer's saga. Consider Meyer's explanation of the cover for the final installment in the Twilight series, Breaking Dawn (2008), in which a large, white, queen chess piece sits in the foreground with a smaller, red pawn in the background: " Breaking Dawn's cover is a metaphor for Bella's progression throughout the entire saga. She began as the weakest...player on the board: the pawn. She ended as the strongest: the queen." 1 What Meyer does not mention is that Bella's strength is present only by her murdered humanity-<iamnation in the form of vampirism. Bella begins as a weak female character whose distress is often ameliorated by Edward, a vampire whose love for Bella is couched in the language of addiction and obsession, and demonstrated in behavior more typically associated with male stalkers, such as sitting in Bella's room, watching her I. Stephenie Meyer, " Frequently Asked Questions: Breaking Dawn," The Official Website of Stephenie Meyer, http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/bd_ faq.html. 61 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL AMJJO COMEFORD sleep. In fact, Bella's humanity seems a prison, a condition that makes her vulnerable and in need of Edward's paternalistic protection. By the end of the first novel, readers have been ethically bamboozled when Bella childishly pleads with Edward to vampirize her, to take away her weakness, to make her invincible and sparkly. Vanished is any distinction between purity and damnation, compassion and selfishness. Vampirism replaces humanity as the strongest and best way to renounce a woman's position as powerless and claim dominance, as Breaking Dawn's cover so barefacedly announces. In contrast, Parriott, Cohen, and Whedon promote a world where humanity, though flawed, is the highest achievement, a state to which the damned aspire and which wayward humans seek to reclaim in their darkest hours. This validation of humanity in Forever Knight and Angel creates complex and emotional narratives, encouraging viewers to recognize humanity's potential. Forever Knight's creators emphasized vampire Nick Knight's search to reclaim his humanity at each episode's beginning: "He was brought across in 1228, preyed on humans for their blood. Now he wants to be mortal again. Repay society for his sins ... to emerge from his world of darkness, from his endless, forever night,"-emerge, that is, into a world of light, of humanity. Nick Knight (played by Geraint Wyn Davies) entered American and Canadian homes for three seasons, during which viewers watched vampire-turned-homicide detective Nick Knight seek to reclaim his humanity and escape the spiritual and emotional damnation of vampirism. In a touching flashback in "Be My Valentine," Nick tries to save his sister's life by preventing an older vampire, La Croix, from turning her. Nick's words to La Croix remind viewers that humanity redeems that which vampirism kills: " It is the beauty of her innocence that you love and that you will kill with the first taste of her blood. If you truly love [her], La Croix, you won't destroy that."2 Human innocence and love are what Nick uses to save his sister from endless darkness. Later in the same episode, as La Croix seeks to exact revenge by forcing Nick to bring his own love Natalie across to vampirism, La Croix again reiterates what drives Nick, and the show: nothing, not even death, is worth sacrificing either one's own humanity or the humanity of another: "You [Nick] revere all that is mortal, all that is human. If you really loved her you would never take that from her. You would rather see her die." 3 This reverence for all that is human, even with its flaws, carried Forever Knight through three seasons and led to powerful narrative moments for the characters and viewers alike, as Nick's attempts over the years to recapture his humanity repeatedly failed. Nonetheless, he kept seeking, because to be redeemed, to be free of addiction and the endless thirst for blood and pleasure, he had to be human. Five years later, a team of writers led by Joss Whedon would adopt much the same humanist-centered philosophy as a foundation for a new series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and three years subsequent, for Angel. When Angel spun-off from parent show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, viewers a lready knew that the title character (played by David Boreanaz), a vampire "cursed" with a human soul, was interested in redemption and atoning for his crimes as a sadistic un-souled vampire. By the end of the first season, the explicit theme Angel shares with Forever Knight made its appearance in "To Shanshu in L.A."4 ln this episode, another piece of Angel's strange destiny is revealed: if he continues to fight evil, he will be rewarded with humanity. The vampire will die and the human will live. This hope ofrecovered humanity governs Angel for the remainder of its television run and into the graphic novel continuation of the series.5 Notably, although humanity is held aloft as an ideal state of being, Whedon's team never presents an unrealistically optimistic portrait of the human condition. In fact, viewers are 2. "Be My Valentine," Forever Knight, DVD, written by Diane Cary, directed by Stefan Scani (1995; Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2005). 3. fbid . 4. "To Shanshu in L.A.,"Angel, DVD, written and directed by David Greenwalt (2000; 20th Century Fox 2002). 5. Brian Lynch, Angel: After the Fall, IDW Publishing. 62 63 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL AMlJO COMEFORD reminded in almost every episode about the difficulties of living, making good choices, and the horrendous consequences that can follow wrong, and sometimes even right or better decisions. Still, being human is the path to power and redemption, freedom and self-sacrifice. Ironically, as if anticipating Stephenie Meyer's renunciation of humanity and blatant regard for the charms of vampirism, Whedon 's creative team in both Buffy and Angel reminds viewers that as seductive as the life of a vampire appears, it remains a violent and selfish existence. In Buffy's " Lie To Me," one of Buffy's junior high friends appears in her town unexpectedly and joins a vampire-worshiping cult.6 To this group of misguided teens, vampires, " they who walk with the night, [ ... ] are not interested in harming anyone. They are creatures above us. Exalted!"7 Angel's immediate response to the vampire-loving teen is direct and to the point, "You're a fool." 8 One can almost hear Angel directing his response to Meyer and her creation Bella, who declares about Edward, "I could never for a second forget that I was holding someone more angel than man in my arms.''9 Unlike what Meyer's saga suggests, vampirism is not true supremacy, but endless darkness and enslavement to a demonic power that demands one's human soul and denies both physical and mental freedom. If Bella was a pawn in her human condition, she is even more so as a vampire, and Edward is farther from bis humanity than ever, having damned his wife to an eternity of darkness and blood rather than letting her die human, both of them then redeemed by the selfless sacrifice that such a decision requires. What is so troubling, of course, is the extent to which the Twilight Saga's fans have become exactly what Whedon's team illustrated through the teens in " Lie to Me"- willing consumers 6 "Lie to Me," Buffy the Vampire Slayer, DVD, written and d irected by Joss Whedon (1997; 20th Century Fox 2002). 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid. 9 Breaking Dawn, 23 64 of a forthright denuncia6on of human experience and potential, preferring instead a troubling vampiric fantasy. No one, either real or fictional, with any shred of sense would choose vampirisrn over humanity. To do so is to choose violence, selfishness, and worst of all, slavery to a physical addiction for all eternity. Sadly, this is what Meyer demanded of Bella, claiming that "the Twilight Saga" is really Bella's story, and this was the natural place for her story to wind up. She overcame the major obstacles in her path and fought her way to the place she wanted to be." 10 The protaganist fought her way to damnation and human renunciation. In this case, one wishes desperately that she had lost, because to be exalted by relinquishing one's humanity is disappointing, particularly in the case of characters who so many young adults not only like, but dangerously revere. Maybe Angel was right; maybe in our twenty-first century world of violence, drug addiction, and cyber stalking, we are like "children making up bedtime stories of friendly vampires to comfort [ourselves] in the dark." 11 The trouble is, in Meyer's case these stories actively advocate for the embrace of death, of eternal youth, thereby rejecting adulthood and maturity. Moreover, the narrative promotes power at any cost-ultimately blurring the line between right and wrong, freedom and slavery, redemption and damnation, rather than encouraging audiences to find power without sacrificed humanity and its then equally sacrificed values. AmiJo Comeford is an Assistant Profe ssor ofEnglish at Dixie State College of Utah. IO "Frequently Asked Questions." 11 "Lie to Me." 65 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL KAMI MCARTHUR KAMI MCARTHUR Christopher Paolini wrote his first novel Eragon as a hobby after graduating early from high school at age fifteen. With encouragement and support from bis family, he self-published the story in 2001 and proceeded to promote the book at schools, libraries, and bookstores. During his endeavors, Knopf learned of Eragon, and asked for permission to publish the novel. Paolini agreed, and Knopf published it a second time in 2003. That same year, the book became a New York Times bestseller just as its author turned nineteen. Since then, Paolini has written two sequels to Eragon: Eldest (2005) and Brisingr (2008). Together, and with the fourth and final book under way, they form a series called Inheritance Cycle. Since Eragon's release, reviewers have regularly criticized Paolini's series for stealing from other popular epics, particularly J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings and George Lucas' Star War film series. Entertainment Weekly considered Eragon to be a "Lord of the Rings knockoff' and rated Eldest as one of the five worst books of 2005. When asked bow be came up with the idea for Inheritance Cycle, Paolini states that his favorite science fiction and fantasy stories inspired him. Whether individuals consider similar styles, plots, or cultural customs as stealing or simply inspiration, all three books have been bestsellers. Paolini's series explores a world called Alagaesia and follows the adventure of a teenager named Eragon, who stumbles upon a dragon egg while hunting. As readers learn in Eragon dragon eggs, which are rare but can survive for centuries, only hatch when someone compatible with the dragon's personality possesses them. Once the egg hatches for Eragon an emotional and conscious bond forms between him and the dragon, whom he names Saphira. This bond enables Eragon to wield magic by speaJcing ancient words and also gives him the title "Dragon Rider." Because of the power Eragon and Saphira possess, an evil king named Galbatorix believes the two threaten his position as Alagaesia's ruler and attempts to capture and kill them. These attempts hurl the teenager and dragon into mortal danger and they become entangled in a war between Galbatorix, the Varden (a rebel group dedicated to overthrowing the king), and several races on Alagaesia. Circumstances force Eragon and Saphira to choose sides while they confront difficult moral and political decisions. In September 2008, Knopf printed and released Inheritance Cycle's newest installment Brisingr, which boasts a length of 7 48 pages at a price of $27.50. As the third title in the series, Brisingr delivers adventure with the characters trying to rescue loved ones, attempting to win alliances, fighting armies of men eerily immune to pain, and dueling against Galbatorix's dragon rider, Murtagh. But Brisingr also contains a great deal of filler, such as Eragon's tedious quest to find a suitable combat weapon, drawn-out political discussions, segments of over-explained cultural customs, and the settling of miniscule personal debts. Paolini 's tendency to intertwine high adventure with banal proceedings gives Brisingr an uneven structure and pace. The author's knack for depicting battles and duels, for example, shows in the chapter "Assault on Helgrind," where Eragon and Roran (Eragon's cousin) fight against human-sized creatures clad in black cloaks with bodies comprised of dark exoskeletons and mouths made of hooked beaks. These creatures, called the Ra 'zac, come across as threatening, not only because they can evoke fear with their breath, but because they prey on humans. Eragon must fight them with a meager hawthorn staff: "[Eragon] widened his stance as the two Ra'zac converged upon him; he had no choice but to bold his ground and face their combined onslaught, for he was all the stood between those hook-clawed carrion crows and Roran....Left, right, up, down. Eragon did not think; he acted and reacted as be exchanged a flurry of blows with the Ra ' zac.... He 66 67 REVIEW: CHRISTOPHER PAOLINI'S BRJSINGR �KAMI MCARTHUR THE SOUTHERN QUILL panted, each breath short and quick. Sweat dripped from his brow and gathered at the corners of his eyes .... He never felt so alive, or afraid, as he did when fighting." We find, on the other hand, one of Paolini's dull and dry passages in the chapter " Mind over Metal," which is composed of 17 pages explaining the process of creating a sword. Readers will find Brisingr's biggest disappointment, however, not in the sluggish segments, but in the ending. Unlike Eldest, which concluded with a twist, Bris ingr delivers a predictable outcome. Eragon and Saphira's wise mentors, Oromis and his dragon Glaedr, both suffer from chronic battle wounds from their younger years. Oromis, whose opponents once captured and tortured him through spells, is prone to seizures and Glaedr is missing a leg. The two have hidden themselves for years so that they can pass their knowledge of magic and combat to other dragons and dragon riders. But at the end of the book, they come out of hiding to fight in battle. Anyone familiar with popular epics such as Harry Potter, Star Wars, and even Lord of the Rings, will certainly have a hunch about what happens next. The novel's strongest point, character development, nevertheless manages to sustain the audience's interest, regardless of the plot's shortcoming. Even in the third book of the series, the readers can still learn more about the series' principal characters as they face new challenges and make decisions between moral codes and political expectations. Eragon's exposure to various religious beliefs, customs, lifestyles, and examples, for instance, causes him to reevaluate himself often as he creates his own moral code. He also wrestles frequently with the moral complexities of war and killing on the battle field. At one point, for example, he wonders how to cope with slaying another person and admits he feels " like a murderer." Although most readers may never face a real war themselves, they should appreciate and relate to these complex situations where right and wrong blur. Bris ingr also deserves praise for its intellectually strong female 68 characters who hold important political positions and make vital decisions on war tactics. Nasuada, the leader of the Varden, possesses the most significant say on what happens in the war against Galbatorix. She sacrifices her well-being and goes to extremes to win alliances by participating in the Trial of the Long Knives, an old, cultural tradition where the leaders of a people slice themselves with knives. The leader who can endure the most cuts gains authority over his or her opponent's people, and therefore gains military strength: "The razor edge burned like a white-hot wire. Halfway through the cut, her traumatized left arm twitched. The knife swerved as a result, leaving her with a long, jagged laceration twice as deep as the others. Her breath stopped while she weathered the agony. I can't go on, she thought. I can't.... It gave her some relief to indulge in those and other desperate complaints, but in the depths of her heart, she knew she would never give up." Similarly, Arya, the princess of the elves and an ambassador of the Varden, represents her entire race in all the decisions the Varden make concerning war and also keeps an eye on Eragon's safety and whereabouts. When Eragon and Arya encounter some of Galbatorix's soldiers, Eragon acknowledges: "The one thing that steadied him was Arya 's presence," and the text furth er reveals, " He would sooner cut off his hand than have her consider him a coward .. .. she was a mighty warrior in her own right." Nasuada and Arya demonstrate that women are fully capable of holding significant positions and can even do a good job at it. Brisingr, in short, acknowledges that the capabilities of women can be equal to those of men and even encourages women to strive for more influential positions in society. Brisingr and Inheritance Cycle offer other insights about human potential, as well. Paolini 's series, like so many fantasy stories, features a protagonist who must surrender his own needs and wants in order to aid the good and innocent people in the world. Eventually, he chooses to do this of his own free will. Most would agree that a protagonist forced to surrender his desires in this manner experi- 69 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MONTANA PLATT ences a lack of satisfaction. This can be read, perhaps, as a reflection of our own contemporary culture and our readiness to value the agency individuals must have to sacrifice for others. Thought-provoking, Brisingr stands as a statement about the challenges individuals face today and the strong capabilities of women; it also reveals our culture's approval of moral agency, its striving for equality and justice, and its desire to escape reality. Brisingr has both lengthy passages and page-turning sequences, and it ends predictably. But the characters and the challenges they face strengthen the novel and make the story personal to the reader. 70 MONTANA PLATT REVIEW: JESSICA DAY GEORGE' S PRINCESS OF THE MIDNIGHT BALL An overview of the last few decades demonstrates the growth and expansion of youth literature with more and more authors directing their works to late childhood and adolescent readers. Each author brings an individual color to the design which he or she creates by mixing his or her unique hue with a shade that a previous author contributed. In the case of many of today's children and young adult fantasy writers, the implementation of previous authors' techniques includes retelling popular fairy tales with each author's exclusive spin on the events. Over time the audience for these mythical narratives has increased as authors have added their works to the fairy tale pool. One increasingly popular young adu lt author, Jessica Day George, also experiments with fairy tale retellings in her work. In 2009, George published Princess ofthe Midnight Ball (Bloomsbury, 288 pages, $1 6.99), which provides the reader with a new approach to Grimms' tale "The Twelve Dancing Princesses." Set on the make-believe continent of Ionia, George's novel tells the story of Rose, the oldest of twelve sisters, who is forced to dance before King Under Stone in his underground castle. Unaware of the curse that forbids his daughters from telling anyone about their fate, King Gregor, ruler of the country Westfalin, recognizes something unusual in his daughters' behavior when the princesses develop a morning routine of replacing their worn out dancing slippers. In an attempt to determine his daughters' secret, he devises a plan to invite princes from other countries in Ionia to come to Westfalin and discover where the princesses do their nightly dancing. If any of the princes' attempts prove successful, the king promises the victor the hand of one of his daughters in marriage and the inheritance of the Westfalin kingdom. However, 71 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MONTANA PLATT when all of these attempts at solving the mystery fail, Galen, an ex-soldier, decides to try his hand at the royal puzzle. Using his knowledge, military experience, and a couple of magical objects, Galen soon succeeds in discovering what the princes could not. Like many of her contemporaries in the field of young adult literature, George weaves a plot that readers of all ages can enjoy. While George writes at a high school reading level, (allowing a large portion of adolescents to read and comprehend the text) her writing style has the power to keep even an adult audience captivated. Although many aspects of George's prose entice the reader to continue, perhaps the setting, plot, and character development allure the reader the most. The novel takes place in a make-believe country on a makebelieve continent; however, the reader has no trouble accepting Ionia as a realistic place. Perhaps the reason for this acceptance relates to the fact that, in many regards, George creates a world very similar to our own. Anyone who has studied European history will, very likely, start imagining Westfalin in a similar area. As it turns out, George presents a logical reason for this in the "Pronunciation Guide," located at the end of the story. She explains to her readers that she patterned Westfalin after early-nineteenth-century Germany, even using German names for many of her characters. However, enough differences remain in our world and the continent of Ionia that the reader has no trouble accepting the role that magic plays throughout George's story. One of the greatest aspects of Princess of the Midnight Ball pertains to the character development. Not long after starting the book, the reader begins to love and relate to both Rose and Galen. A desire to see how everything will work out for the protagonists captivates the audience until the last page. With a third person narrative, the reader comes to know the personalities of both of these characters making it easier to connect with many of Rose's and Galen's feelings. The audience first comes to know Galen when they access his inner musings on war and bloodshed at the beginning of the book. Making his way homeward after fighting in a long war, Galen describes war as "a disease, something to be avoided, not something he wanted to talk about with other afflicted men over the campfire." A few pages later, the reader becomes acquainted with Galen's most powerful characteristic when he gives an old woman the scarf he wears in order to keep her warm. His kindness and caring for others eventually leads him to be the novel's heroic character as he performs simple acts of kindness for the princesses whom he observes struggling with their emotional burden. These deeds finally lead him to perform his ultimate compassionate act on the princesses' behalf. One of the small services Galen renders takes place in the middle of the novel, when Galen and Rose find themselves alone in the castle 's hothouse talking about Alfred, the current prince trying to unlock the princesses' secret. Sensing the princess 's somber disposition, Galen successfully lightens the mood by joking about what Rose calls Prince Alfred's best feature: his long, horrific teeth. Galen ends the topic by stating, "He does remind me of a very handsome cart horse I once knew. They had the same color hair." Even though Galen's personality appeals to the reader, however, he is not portrayed in a perfect light. In fact, in many instances he allows his passion to overrule his good sense and logical reasoning. This fault eventually causes him to make the stupidest blunder at the worst possible time. Rose, an equally enticing character, has a great deal of responsibility as the oldest of twelve sisters. Interestingly, she does not play the part of a docile female who always acts bright and cheerful. Throughout the book she exhibits the nature and emotions of a normal female including sorrow and grumpiness. However, unlike many of the females in modern young adult novels, Rose appears to be more of the classic " damsel in distress" who cannot free herself and must rely on someone else for Iiberty. Many of today's critics might view her character in a negative light; however, Rose in no way acts passive. Though unable to free herself and her sis- 72 73 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL NOVA WAHL ters, she does not wait around for her white knight to come to her but, figuratively, runs to meet him half way. This is best seen when she and her sisters find themselves trapped in King Under Stone's dark kingdom. Believing that she and her sisters will have to find their own way back home, Rose boldly confronts the underground king with a dangerous proposition. A few pages later, Rose again demonstrates her courage when she recognizes Galen's need for a certain object in the silver wood that they had struggled to pass through just moments before: " [Rose] had put one foot on the bottom step, but now moved back. 'Lily,' she said to her sister. 'Take the others and go. Galen and I will stay to-' And without finishing her sentence, she lunged past Galen, running with her skirts high ... into the silver wood." The book constantly gives the impression that if courage, determination, and love were enough to rescue the princesses, Galen's heroism would be unnecessary. With a plot based on a fairytale, the novel obviously has a goodconquers-bad, love-conquers-all ending. However, unlike Grimm's original fairytale, Galen and Rose do not have an easy road to "happily ever after." In fact, the hard-road-to-happiness element in George's retelling helps to create the believable plot. Like so many of the novel's readers, Galen and Rose pave their road with one mistake after another. These errors help readers better relate to the characters because the human tendencies seen in Rose and Galen enable the audience to see that everyone makes mistakes. 1n addition, Rose and Galen 's journey gives readers the hope that a similar happiness awaits them as they live vicariously through characters like Rose and Galen who successfully conquer evil and trump all obstacles to reach that perfect ending. 74 NOVA WAHL STAR TREK: DESTRUCTION OR NEW HOPE? Star Trek fans went into theaters in May 2009, excited and scared to see the latest franchise movie, which is boldly, and simply, titled Star Trek. Paramount's earlier announcement that it was planning an eleventh Star Trek movie had come as a surprise to many. Most assumed that the franchise had taken its final bow from movies and television when the last Trek movie, Nemesis, failed to bring in the box office receipts the studio wanted. Yet, Paramount came up with a daring plan to reboot this dormant ins titution by making a Star Trek movie accessible and understandable to everyone-not just devotees. Some diehard fans just about had a heart attack. Instead of producing another Star Trek: The Next Generation film (as Nemesis had been), Paramount made an audacious move and focused the new Trek movie on the oldest of Trek characters- James T. Kirk and Spock. The tension in the Star Trek fan base continued to grow when Paramount announced that J.J. Abrahms, famous for the television shows Lost and Alias, would direct and produce the movie. What could they expect from a man who had little connection to Star Trek? What were Paramount and Abrahms willing to do in order to have the movie appeal to a wider audience? Many feared that this attempt to reboot Star Trek would lead to its ultimate destruction. Tensions soared as fans stood in line on premiere night. Long lines wrapped around movie theatres, filled with those who had never shown any interest in Trek before. The movie had already received critical acclaim and Paramount bad just fearlessly announced plans for a sequel. Many wondered, what did all the atypical Star Trek movie premiere behavior mean? They soon got their answer. This two-hour, action-packed, fastpaced, c ioematically breathtaking movie changed the Star Trek universe forever. Whjle the general population loved it, the loyal 75 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL NOVA WAHL Star Trek fan base found itself instantly plunged into chaos and turmoil. No one argued that the film was poorly made, that the actors were too different, or that the Orion slave girls were too green (though they weren't exactly slaves anymore, but Starfleet cadets). Instead, the worst possible charge in the Star Trek universe was hurled at the movie: Abrahms's Star Trek destroys the canon. (See "Trek Terms" below.) The new Star Trek, that is, creates an alternate timeline. Essentially, when the movie's villain Nero goes back in time and destroys, first, the USS Kelvin (with it Kirk's father) and then demolishes Vulcan (one of the most important planets in the Federation), the entire history of the galaxy changes. In response to these drastic changes, fans have created several theories, enabling them to adjust to the fact that this movie has the potential to completely wipe out the relevance of everything else in the Star Trek canon (excluding, of course, Star Trek: Enterprise, which was set before Star Trek: The Original Series). The first theory, which proves extremely reassuring to fans, holds that the prime (or original) timeline still remains intact. Advocates for this theory hold that the alternate timeline presented in Star Trek exists in an alternate reality and coexists along with the prime timeline. Basically, the prime reality exists out there, with all of its characters and storylines, and runs parallel to the new timeline in a different dimension. Yet fans remain uneasy about this explanation because while the movie makers insist this is what they've done, the first theory has yet to be explained in a canonical work, making it unofficial knowledge, and, therefore, subject to easy change. The second theory, in contrast, claims that the original timeline did exist, and continued its course all the way to the point where the Narada and Spock Prime's ship went back in history and erased the prime timeline. Adherents to the second theory say that everything really happened, everyone's favorite characters lived, storylines occurred, and battles were fought, but now the timeline's just resetting over. Fine, many fans say, if restarting the franchise requires such drastic measures, so be it. This second theory, while not as reassuring as the first, definitely looks better to them than the third, which states that all of Star Trek has been erased. All of it! Many felt this way after watching the movie, before theories one and two were devised, and before lengthy discussions transpired across all types of online forums and in fan clubs. Those who embrace the idea that the entire canon has been wiped out often refuse to even acknowledge the new movie's canonicity, and find themselves tormented day and night over the future of Trek. In the end, many fans went into theaters with apprehension over whether Paramount had stripped Star Trek of its trekkishness in order to appeal to a wider fan base, only to leave the movie with their heads spinning, trying to conceive of what this movie meant for the entire canon. Those fears, hopes, and dreams will, more than likely, only be put to rest with the release of an alternate timeline sequel- the only thing (short of another television series) that can officially canonize what really happened to the prime reality. Good luck, Paramount. 76 77 Trek Terms Star Trek l ' ni,·ersc: En: rythi11g-Trck, including- the canon, as \\·di as unolfical nm-clizations, books. and materials comprises the ( · niHTse. It is not 1nade up of the actual \rnrks but rather their contents. For c.xa111plc, the t ·nin-rsc docs 1101 contain episodes, it contains phasers. \'ttlcans, and Gala.xy Class starships, all \rn,·en into a continuous story based around the Trek timcline. Star Trek Canon: . \I most all Paramount productions arc part of the canon, including-The Orig-inal Series, The :\ext Generation, Deep Space :\inc. \ 'oyag-cr and Entnprise and all clcn·11 Trek n1m·ies. \\.hik· Paramount produced The .\nimatul Series, theY latcr decided to ck-cano11i1.e it. The Canon holds the ultimate authoritY i11 the Trek t ·ni,·crsc and fans take , ·iolations ag-ai11st seriously. �THE SOUTHERN QUILL BERT N. WALKER BERTN. WALKER from DESTINIES MET NEAR GRAFTON ....The settlers abandoned Grafton that year of 1866. They found safer places to work the land. After a few years the town came to life again like a fire that sputters back to flame ignited by some hidden coal. There was a fragile peace with the Indians, and the land was still productive. A school rose up among new houses, and the town became viable once more. Life went on with its joys and sorrows and an entire generation was fu lfi lled there. ln the next century, however, time passed the place by, and it was abandoned once more, a victim of its own inconvenient geography. Grafton seems doomed to be no more than a historical footnote now. People visit there to view the scant remains of a part of their heritage. But, when I visited there recently, I thought I caught sight of a new house starting up in a nearby fie ld. Photographs by Nova Wahl Note: Grafton is a ghost town in southwestern Utah, located between Zion National Park and the city of St. George. 78 79 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL THE ANNIE ATKIN TANNER MEMORIAL POETRY SCHOLARSHIP FUND All poems submitted to The Southern Quill by DSC students receive consideration for Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Scholarship prizes. The Tanner fund was established in November 1972 by Dr. Vasco M. Tanner upon the death of his wife Annie. Throughout their married life, Mrs. Tanner accompanied her husband on field trips to collect specimens for Brigham Young University's Department of Zoology and Entomology, which Dr. Tanner established and chaired for over 33 years. Annie, a prolific writer, would spend her time "out in the field" writing poetry and stories. As a member of the Pen Women of Utah, her poems and stories were published in the ReliefSociety magazine, the Deseret News and various literary journals. Many of her poems reflect her love for the physical beauty of St. George, Utah where she was born and spent the early years of her life. For several years, the Tanner chi ldren and family have continued to contribute to the fund, which awards three scholarship prizes annually. To determine scholarship winners, our editorial staff reviews and evaluates every poem submitted to the Quill by students. The editors then rank and select the 10 strongest pieces from this pool and forward them to members of the Tanner family, who determine the first, second, and third place winners. Though community members are published in the journal, only student poets can win the scholarship money. On occasion, the student editors of The Southern Quill place poems in the journal; these student poets are not excluded from competing in the Tanner prize competition. But to remain objective and fair, staff members cannot score or rank their own poems. 80 CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Published annually, The Southern Quill is Dixie State College of Utah's student-edited literary magazine. In circulation since 1951, the journal features poetry, short stories, non-fiction essays, and artwork produced by DSC students; it also welcomes material from residents of Washington and Kane counties. SUBMISSION GUIDELINES Contributors may submit up to 5 poems, 3 works of visual art, and l short story or essay (2000 word limit). Materials should be emailed to: submissions@thesouthernquill.com The subject line should read SUBMISSION followed by your name. Also include your phone number, mailing address, and email. Please indicate if you are a Dixie State student. No bardcopy submissions. All materials accepted for publication may be edited for content and style. All rights revert to author upon publication. For more information visit www.thesouthernquill.com Next submission deadline is January 11, 2011 2010 TANNER PRIZE WINNERS First Place: "Devastated," by Amanda Jacobs Second Place: "Lament of an Insomniac," by Karla Seamons Third Place: ''Nature's Cycle," by Paul Yoder 81 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CONSIDERING A FOUR YEAR DEGREE? A degree in English is extremely versatile. English majors develop writing skills prized by numerous professions, including professional writing and editing, library science, law, marketing, advertising, journalism, film production, public relations, public affairs, and teaching. Students in our program also broaden their understanding of the complex relationship between the aesthetic and intellectual aspects of literature and the cultural milieux in which important literary works were produced. English majors at Dixie State College of Utah can choose from three emphasis areas: Literature, Professional & Technical Writing, and English Education. For more information, visit www.dixie.edu/english or contact Dr. Randy Jasmine, Department Chair at 435-652-7815. 82 �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2010.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2010 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2010 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>TABLE OF CONTENTS</th></tr><tr><th>POETRY</th></tr><tr><td>1 </td><td>MAYGEN MORTENSEN </td><td>AWAITING SPRING</td></tr><tr><td>2 </td><td>CHEVIS MCMILLIN </td><td>TIDAL WAVE</td></tr><tr><td>3 </td><td>NATA LUKAS </td><td>CHEMOTHERAPY</td></tr><tr><td>4 </td><td>BARBARA WIATRAK-YOUNG </td><td>BREVITY</td></tr><tr><td>6 </td><td> </td><td>CALL OF THE CANYON</td></tr><tr><td>7 </td><td>STEPHEN D. NADAULD </td><td>ACROSS AT SAINT AVOLD</td></tr><tr><td>8 </td><td>AMANDA JACOBS </td><td>DEVASTATED</td></tr><tr><td>9 </td><td>CASSI MILLER </td><td>DREAM</td></tr><tr><td>10 </td><td>DOUG KELLER </td><td>LIKE A BUTTERFLY</td></tr><tr><td>12 </td><td> </td><td>COTTONWOOD TREES</td></tr><tr><td>14 </td><td>KARLA SEAMONS </td><td>LAMENT OF AN INSOMNIAC</td></tr><tr><td>15 </td><td>LUCAS YATES </td><td>STRUCK</td></tr><tr><td>16 </td><td>MARY ANNE TRUNNELL </td><td>MARSHALL YOUR MIND</td></tr><tr><td>17 </td><td>KIRSHEL SMITH </td><td>PINK SHOES</td></tr><tr><td>18 </td><td>PAUL YODER </td><td>NATURE' S CYCLE</td></tr><tr><td>20 </td><td>JENICA MAXWELL </td><td>FOR HER</td></tr><tr><th>FICTION</th></tr><tr><td>20 </td><td>MICKI ERICKSEN </td><td>PAPA</td></tr><tr><td>27 </td><td>KAMI MCARTHUR </td><td>SHADOWS</td></tr><tr><td>33 </td><td>LINDSAY FERRIN </td><td>THE STORM</td></tr><tr><td>37 </td><td>PAUL YODER </td><td>THE CARROT</td></tr><tr><td>40 </td><td>RONNY P. RUESCH </td><td>JOURNEY TO THE KING'S KITCHEN</td></tr><tr><th>ART</th></tr><tr><td>viii </td><td>MORGAN CLEMENTS </td><td>THE DOCUTAH RAVEN</td></tr><tr><td>44 </td><td>JAMIE LEAVITT </td><td>ART INSTALLATION-BUTTERFLIES</td></tr><tr><td>45 </td><td>MICKI ERICKSEN </td><td>RAIN GUTTER</td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>ARLETH LUJAN-PONCE </td><td>THE DREAM CLOSET</td></tr><tr><td>46 </td><td>MICHAEL LEVI ARNONE </td><td>RUNNING WILD</td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>RICK SMITH </td><td>SINGING</td></tr><tr><td>47 </td><td>ITHILLIAN NOBLE </td><td>THE UNIVITED NEIGHBOR</td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>BEN ANDERSEN </td><td>THE WOLF</td></tr><tr><td>48 </td><td>MARY ANNE TRUNNELL </td><td>VARIOUS ITEMS</td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>ALYSSA NORRIS-PAYNE </td><td>UNTITLED</td></tr><tr><td>49 </td><td>NOVA WAHL </td><td>THE WORN PATH</td></tr><tr><td>50 </td><td>RICK SMITH </td><td>SORROW</td></tr><tr><td>51 </td><td>JAMIE LEAVITT </td><td>THE GOLDEN WATER FOUNTAIN</td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>MICKI ERICKSEN </td><td>OLD SOUL</td></tr><tr><td>52 </td><td>LACEY KNIGHTON </td><td>FROSTED ELEGANCE</td></tr><tr><td>53 </td><td>TIFFANI HERPEL </td><td>BIRD LADY </td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>JAMIE LEAVITT </td><td>CORY WALKER</td></tr><tr><td>54 </td><td>ROB GRAY </td><td>WALKING HOME: A MEMOIR</td></tr><tr><td>58 </td><td>ED MEYER </td><td>THE STRAW BOSS</td></tr><tr><td>61 </td><td>AMIJO COMEFORD </td><td>PAWNS AND VAMPIRES</td></tr><tr><td>66 </td><td>KAMI MCARTHUR </td><td>CHRISTOPHER PAOLINI'S <i>BRISINGR </i></td></tr><tr><td>71 </td><td>MONTANA PLATT </td><td>JESSICA DAY GEORGE'S <i>PRINCESS OF THE MIDNIGHT BALL </i></td></tr><tr><td>75 </td><td>NOVA WAHL </td><td>STAR TREK: DESTRUCTION OR NEW HOPE?</td></tr><tr><th>PHOTO ESSAY</th></tr><tr><td>78 </td><td>BERT N. WALKER </td><td>from DESTINIES MET NEAR GRAFTON</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/7baf5661f9c13aa29af2f10f322eca5d.pdf 2149e6422521e3036828ba8ccee9c55e PDF Text Text The Southern Quill �The Southern Quill ESTABLISHED 1950 A CELEBRATION OF LITERATURE AND ART IN SOUTHERN UTAH Poetry is a spiral to the heart of the reader from the heart of the poet. It flows not just from the poet to the reader, but from poet to poem, poem to poet, and line to line. -David Lee, Poet Laureate of Utah, 1997-2002 Copyright© 2009, The Southern Quill. All rights revert to author upon publication. �TABLE OF CONTENTS EDITORIAL STAFF POETRY 1 JEFFREY OSTLER Byzantine Jazz 2 K.MARROIT For My Fools One Way Road 4 GARY CHRISTIAN Remembrance On the Corner 6 CONNIE BABER Winter Dreams 7 BILL WITSBERGER Marathon Street Production Editors: 8 KASEY GERRARD UDY Peanut Butter Kisses Shaylee Bailey, Paul Eno, Mary Anne Trunnell, 10 PAULENO Sweet Siren Strength ofSubmission 12 LAVERNAJOHNSON She Didn't Wait 14 CORTNEY MATHEWS The Rest ofYour Life 15 MARILYN L. BALL Two and the Sea 16 MELANIE FLORENCE Disconnected Cover Photo: Maria Wilson 18 DUSTINJACKSON Morning The Photo Album Advising Editor: Stephen B. Armstrong 20 BROCK GRAHAM Catharsis 21 CALEB PORTER Untitled Managing Editor: Dustin Jackson Layout Editor: Jenica Maxwell Visual Arts Editors: Ken Marrott and Cortney Mathews Non-Fiction Editor: Leah Graham JaNette Sill, Brody Mikesell, Royal Donnelly Associate Editors: Nova Wahl, Lori Mackay, Tracie Mcfarlin Cover Design: Shaylee Bailey �22 GRANT WILSON An Hour Before Sunrise 36 ANNETTE TRUNNELL Sharing 24 AMBERJOHNSON Flowers, An Excerpt 37 NOVA WAHL Crescent Moon 25 LEAHGRAHAM Pink Synesthesia 26 VICKI WHEELER Saddle Music 27 JANETTE SILL Penzance Paradox 28 JACOB W. THOMAS Mi Mundo de Suefios/ My World ofDreams 30 JACKIE FLETCHER Life Support 31 GRACE GRAHAM Spring Meadow VISUALART PROSE 38 CATHRINE GLOVER Meggie's Day at the Fai0 A Story for Children 43 CRAIG GOWANS OfSandcastles and Sea Demons 49 TONDREAJACKSON Double Rainbows 51 NOVA WAHL 1774 57 BRIANHART I Hate Chili Mac 59 SUE PERSCHON Unspoken Words CELESTE THOLEN Untitled 61 MORGAN CLEMENTS Writing Endures MORGAN CLEMENTS Night Watch 62 DIANA STANLEY CHRIS ONSTOTT Empty Pool Julius Caesarfor the 21st Century, A Review 33 AMBERJOHNSON Jelly Corn 34 STETSON HARRIS Jumpers 35 MARIA WILSON Hands in the Sky MELANIE FLORENCE Impending Storm ROBERT CURL Save Us 32 36 �JEFFREY OSTLER Untitled JEFFREY OSTLER BYZANTINE JAZZ That is no country for sinners. No artistic utopia, No mackerel crowded seas. No singing masters as our majesties. In church I saw a golden bird, white skin-black hair- with gold enameling. I saw her sit. I heard her sweetly sing. And when she smiled I thought she sang for me. (this) painter, dancer, (her) life is an art-form The slender shadow and her discerning eye would find forlorn the infidel, the unlucky guy who fell in love with her while knowing he has nothing she deserves. H er paradise is Istanbul - was Constantinople (a poetry bar) the theme song for romance that never starts like god jazz-this isn't music. It's the instrumented sound of breaking hearts. Celeste Tholen Off-beats are transgressions, solos out ofkey-is frailty of mind. This symphony in syncopated time. A tattered poet's couplet out of rhythm. - Verse out of rhyme. And therefore I have drifted away from That holy girl ofByzantium. I �THE SOUTHERN QUILL K.MARROTI K. MARROTT FOR MY FOOLS It may well be, as others have said, That any fool might find himself Like a plump, furry, sea-goer in A poem, or in an ocean, or in love. Further, it's been suggested, That either which wicked way He's doomed to drown without Some form of intervention. What's new, is that it's untrue These words about the fool Sure, he'll flounder, flap, and flail In a poem, or in an ocean, or in love. ONE WAY ROAD What happened to The thirteen ways For looking? At the middle of the road They merge, three Carrion feeders on the wing Shadow linked with shadow No distinguished line Emanations ofgrief On the road to the future Wearing nothing but Worn out jeans. But, the fool is proud of nothing And pride brings down so many. In a poem, or in an ocean, or in love, A fool can always play the hero. 2 3 �-THE SOUTHERN QUILL GARY CHRISTIAN GARY CHRISTIAN REMEMBRANCE A granite wall, as cold as tears shed long ago, recites the names of those it calls at Temple Hill. Their nam es are here, but they lie far away in battlefields beyond the sunrise, and where evening sinks into the sea. They shall stay forever young, as when we saw them last. They smiled and walked away, said, 'TU be seeing you." They shall not weary with the years, nor time impose its burden on their stride as with us who stand in silence to honor their repose. But they will hear the bugle that sounds reveille, and run,andlaugh,andlove when their veins run red with blood again. 4 ON THE CORNER At the lamppost on the corner where we gathered long ago, laughter rollicked in the darkness, evening spun it's soft intrigue. Myth and merriment were masters. Mirth and make believe were one underneath the starry lanterns strung along Frog Bottom Way. In the trees the wind was sleeping. In the grass soft breezes lay. In the lane lovers confided promising what would not be. Gone for now, and gone forever, are the ones who lingered near the old lamppost on the corner in the dawdling hours care. 5 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL BILL W1TSBERGER CONNIE BABER BILL WITSBERGER WINTER DREAMS MARATHON STREET Wrapped in winter's ermine cloak, Murmured words adrift like smoke In my ear she softly spoke. To the dreary gray I woke. Rain against the window weeps. She is not dead, but only sleepsNature's dormant council keeps. Lies still in brittle, broken heaps. Walking in the rain, Eyes over tea cups Lips on peppermint candy Winter winds bumping on the Windows of the coffee shop. When the tree is full grown WilJ we meet again on Marathon street? Beneath the brown and empty shell She stirs in springtime's magic spell, The whispered promise time will tell. Cast deep within a wishing well. She'll come again with greening gleams, Awoken by the sun's warm beamsSo far away, it always seems. Lost in slumber, winter dreams. 6 7 �-THE SOUTHERN QUILL KASEY GERRARD UDY KASEY GERRARD UDY PEANUT BUTTER KISSES Tiny hands and smiling eyes At only the age of two, With rosy cheeks and a pouty lip Will melt a heart right through. Graffiti on storybook pages, Jelly handprints smudge the wall. Crayon marks on the furniture And toys strewn down the hall. It is true, it is not easy, But a child grows up so fast. So in the messy moments I sigh, ''.And this too, soon will pass." Crackers floating in the fish tank, Potato chips sprinkled on the floor. Day-old gum stuck in the carpet And dirty socks stashed in a drawer. So as these moments ebb away, It's one of my daily wishes, To receive loving little knee hugs And gooey peanut butter kisses! Toilet paper wound off the roll, My lipstick has been smashed. Toothpaste plastered on the mirror Oh! The bathroom has been trashed! Nursery rhymes and color books, Toys scattered all around. ABC cards and puzzle pieces That have yet to be found. A teddy bear named "Bubby" With fur rubbed off its ears. And a blanket called a "Wooby" That comforts when there's fear. A purple kool-aid mustache, Food stains on her clothes. Hair that needs a re-combing And an ever runny nose. 8 9 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL PAULENO PAUL ENO SWEET SIREN She, like the biting of cold, crisp, clear winds Slips through the crevice in my wounded skin. Sundered and ruined, my crumbled will bends. Sweet are the whispers that echo within. Swift is the swirling of sweet sirens' song, Shatter my thoughts that this nightmare might end. Sweep off these restraints, contrived to spare men, Sift through these whispers that our hearts might blend. Sacred the bindings you hold my soul with. Sending succinct, surreptitious secrets, Silence the meaningless elaborate myths Sojourn beside me until my blood sets. Softly inducing my heart to release Searing the organ until I find peace. STRENGTH OF SUBMISSION She holds me breathless with her beauty Oblivious, she chills me with her smile Her presence beckons my heart to sing Close now, restraint becomes my trial. Hers, I eagerly become Her whim my master all along Whispers tantalize my thoughts Evoking the effervescent song. Solace tames the flagrant mind Her grasp encasing me, sublime Fear ofloss, in me, subdued My soul cries for the halt of time. With time my desperation ebbs The sun, my heart, for her will shine Ever strong, my will shall cling Doting on this great love of mine. 11 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL LAVERNAJOHNSON LAVERNA JOHNSON SHE DIDN'T WAIT When I am old I shall wear purple... Jenny Joseph She didn't wait till she was old to don a purple dress or wear a hat of feathered red. She didn't wait to guess what others watching her might think of what she wore, or did. She loved each day and lived it well before they closed the lid. Don't wait! Like her, let's make life fun and laugh at our mistakes, forgive ourselves and others, for I'm sure she knew it takes a happy heart to steel our aim toward our final goal. Don't wait to bask in purple if it's healing to your soul. She didn't wait 'til she was old to flaunt her unique ways or reach out to a stumbling friend to brighten up the days when everything was going wrong and life seemed hard and cold. Bright colors warm around her said she never did grow old. She didn't wait to build a child whose manner might seem mean. Somehow she knew a listening ear would lift up self esteem. She didn't criticize or scold. She didn't castigate, but simply, as we have been taught, she loved. She didn't wait. 12 13 �TH E SOUTHERN QUILL MARILYN L. BALL CORTNEY MATHEWS MARILYN L. BALL THE REST OFYOURLIFE TWO AND THE SEA Innocence, Is leaping in hope that someone will catch you. It's trusting your life with another, And knowing they'll never mislead. Rebellion, Is not always doing what's wrong. It's venturing out and experiencing life, And finding your place in the world. Exploration, Is discovering unfamiliar passions. It's taking a risk and trying something new, And making decisions that alter your life. Commitment, Is knowing what it really means to love. It's finding that special someone, And uniting your life's purpose with theirs. Wisdom, Is recognizing blessings that have come your way. It's learning from costly mistakes, And sharing life's lessons with the ones you love. Closure, Is knowing your journey is nearing an end. It's feeling at ease with your achievements, And realizing you've just lived the rest of your life. 14 Great unearthed roots reached skyward needling the loneliness. Here the Oregon coastline fractured water and waves cleaned sodden stumps where an old man sat pondering. He watched my children, leaping and crashing with the waves. Every swinging piece of kelp they threw boomeranged into the sand. Each child hand-painted an image that refreshed his memories and moved us closer: stranger and mother, claiming some tie with them and the sea. 15 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MELANIE FLORENCE MELANIE FLORENCE DISCONNECTED When they told me he was dying, I knew I shouldn't be bothered because I'd been disconnected. But I went to see him anyway. A once pompous man, he had shrunken down to flashing eyes and gnashing teeth, tie-downs, tubes and IVs. He couldn't talk; he couldn't breathe. That night I dreamed about him dying alone, imprisoned and suffocating under anger, resentment, hate and the failure to appreciate. Years ago, when he told me to leave, it was then that I grieved. When he drove me away, and fought against my need to stay, he had played his hand for it to turn out this way. Because I'd been disconnected. Out of pity, I gently kissed his brow and told him I loved him. He mouthed back, "I love you, too." Was he speaking the truth? Or was he twisting me around to do his bidding? Either way, I mustn't care because I'd been disconnected. When I saw him again, near the end, he begged me to take him home. But how could I? I'd lost the power to help him when I was disconnected. 16 17 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL DUSTIN JACKSON DUSTIN JACKSON MORNING My brown feet swish in the sand. A leaf, a leaf is all I want. I pluck a leaf and bring it to the tip of my mouth. Small puddles of dew glisten in the sun. The dew loses stillness, Struggles down as entering a flume, And looks to me. I long the dew to zoom to me, But it shivers to me. The dew drops into my mouth. Dew soothes me, Moves me, Lures me to know a simpler life. THE PHOTO ALBUM One dress, one veil, one tux, Two hands clasped. Only a year ago, but These photos are smudgedMeaningless. I shovel them into the wheelbarrow Filled with manure. The clothespins pinch my nose So I don't smell the photos. Another photoWe're cutting the cake. AnotherThe pregnancy test. AnotherHim. A list of baby names And a photo albumAbandoned and aloneLeans against the armchair. 18 19 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CALEB PORTER BROCK GRAHAM CALEB PORTER CATHARSIS UNTITLED I thought I was superman, but I'm not, and I got caught ... So I'll do my time, and write this rhyme. I feel scarred inside, barred inside. Counting bricks, as the dock ticks. Seconds feel like hours. I have no power. Mind numb with what's to come, Though this is heaven to some. Cop arrives, stomach dives. Cuffs tighten on my wrists. Leaving marks around my fists. Like cattle, loaded on a van. Transition from boy to man. In a cell once again, These boys now considered men. In a courtroom at last, My countenance: half mast. The judge's words sink like steel, Into my heart, this can't be real. I see my father's solemn face, it cuts me deep. I'm HIS disgrace. I hear the verdict, walk away. The judge has nothing left to say. Back on the van ... Hardly a man. Locked in a cell, waiting for bail. Heaven or hell? Time will tell. Lying here on cold cement, energy spent, Not a cent to my name; put my family to shame. I'm finally tame. 20 Behold the crimson red rose by the brook Her velvet petals waving in the breeze Majestic beauty, one only need look Or breathe her sweet scent which is sure to please. Yet, the Wy in the lake is white and pure. A star, she glistens serene and alone No man shall take thee or follow thy lure. God hath foresworn thee to something unknown, And while God hath made flowers not by chance Men are enchanted by the flowers that dance. 21 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL GRANT WILSON GRANT WILSON AN HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE It is an hour before sunrise. Time is mired in semidarkness Not enough light to Proceed. Time is to timid to advance; Creatures of the earth convert their thoughts, Birds are sleepy, Crickets tired they fiddle vespers and retire. Young ones twilight dream of Breakfast Old ones test their muscles and bones Trees stretch in the slight breeze. Cares of the day are not yet concerns Activity is irrelevant I Enjoy Myself and being, listening, and touching. I draw myself in perspective and realize 22 I am not an accomplishment or an activity. An hour before sunrise lam. 23 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL LEAH GRAHAM AMBER JOHNSON LEAH GRAHAM FLOWERS, An Excerpt PINK SYNESTHESIA These flowers Standing before you Choose to bloom. With their identity All unique And beautiful Vibrantly showing As if A very rainbow Was buried, Spread out, And grew again In a world ofhfe. But in time The flowers Will wilt, Loosing their petals Like the silent trickles Of a dazzling rainstorm. 24 Pink is happy and angry all at once while stomping up and down in the line at the store. Pink shuffles loudly, awkwardly like organza, twirling and falling onto the floor with a squishy sort of smack. Pink wiggles and convulses as I hold it, trying desperately to wipe away tears on hot flushed cheeks. Pink smells a little like sweat and bubblegum, the latter of which will probably end up in long, sleepy, matted tresses. Pink kisses me tenderly right on the lips, with a slobbery, yet cheery choke ... and strangle, and then releases into a peaceful slumber with fairies, scary things, and a little bit of Pomeranian fluff. 25 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL JANETTE SILL VICKI WHEELER SADDLE MUSIC The joy of busy saddle leathers sing and clip-clop hoof-beats add the constant drum. As coy as belly-dancers' cymbals ring, the drip-drop clink of halter metals hum. Their motions sway in time to music's dance. As one they move through brush and trees to streams, then climb the mountain, breathless beauty's chance for fun and work-to see the stuff of dreams. Now dots on valley floor below, he sees, near lake and grassy meadow's emerald stand, his knots of cattle graze amid the trees and take their pause to hear his jingling band. JANETTE SILL PENZANCE PARADOX The simple solution if the daughters had wanted to, was simply to tell the pirates they could not harm the general as they wanted to do. For, quite simply, whether or not his story was true, if he had been killed they would then be orphans too. Which would make them exempt from any attempt of a forceful piratical I do. Not long, his herd content-his presence there; his song familiar on the cool fresh air. 26 27 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL JACOB W. THOMAS JACOB W. THOMAS MI MUNDO DE SUENOS Siempre me imagino y tengo sueiios acerca de un lugar. Es un sitio de belleza donde canta la felicidad. Las sonrisas y la risa suenan coma la musica de la noche, Y el sentimiento en el coraz6n dice que aqui es mi hogar. He tratado muchas veces de encontrar este lugar asombroso, Pero siempre me elude tal coma humo y continua mi busqueda. Hay veces que pienso que he capturado este galard6n, Pero la deja vacia mi alma y se siente pesado coma un aguacero pesaroso. Ahora que te encontre las nu bes oscuras se levantaron de mi coraz6n, Comenzamos a estar juntas con un comienw duke y hermoso. El tiempo que hemos compartido no pudiera haberse pasado mejor, Mi duke amor - debes de haber sido enviada del cielo por esta raz6n. Las estrellas en tus ojos son las mas brillantes de percibir, Tu sonrisa maravillosa es mas valiosa que el oro. Tu risa contagiosa es como una sinfonia a mis oidos, Y tu abrazo destierra todos mis temores que me puedan sacudir. La busqueda de mis sueiios por ultimo ha akanzado un termino, Ahora nosotros viviremos nuestros sueiios en su lugar. Tu eres la raz6n que mi mundo de sueiios se realiz6, Y es por eso que yo te quiero. MYWORLD OF DREAMS I always imagine and dream of some things, of a place of beauty where happiness sings. Smiles and laughter are the music of the night, And the feeling in my heart says that all is so right. I have tried many times to find this amazing place, But it always eludes me and I continue my chase. There are times when I think that I have captured my goal, But as fleeting as a rainstorm it leaves empty my soul. Then I met you and the clouds lifted from my heart, We began to be together with a sweet, sweet start. The time we have shared could not have been better spent, My sweet love- you must have been heaven sent. The stars in your eyes are the most brilliant to behold, Your beautiful smile is more valuable than gold. Your infectious laughter is like a symphony to my ears, And your wondrous embrace banishes all my fears. The search for my dreams has finally reached a head, We are now going to live our dreams instead. You are the reason my world of dreams came true, That is why I love you. English translation appears on the following page. 28 29 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL GRACE GRAHAM JACKIE FLETCHER GRACE GRAHAM, Age 8 LIFE SUPPORT SPRING MEADOW Daily requirement for sustenance Food, clothing, shelter require My attendance Stimulating, boring, redundant Sitting in a chair Staring at a screen I breath in, And out To meet my quota 30 Walking through a meadow on a spring day is like heaven. Nectar from a flower is like a drippy rainbow. Rambunctious bees whistling gloriously in the background Are like a light echo bouncing through the trees. The lilies in the field smell sweet like sugar. Slurping the juice from a honeysuckle flower Tastes like flowers in my honey bear. A couple months later I am wishing I could be there today. Spring comes fast and it leaves like a comet. 31 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Jelly Com Night Watch 0 ::, ,..,. (/) 0 :+ Amber Johnson Empty Pool 32 33 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Jumpers Hands in Sky Stetson Harris 34 Impending Storm 35 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Crescent Moon Save Us g ~ ::+ ~ ~ C ;:, ::, ~ t= Nova Wahl Sharing 36 37 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CATHRINE GLOVER CATHRINE GLOVER MEGGIE'S DAY AT THE FAIR, A Story for Children O n a crisp September morning Meggie woke up early. This was the day that she had been waiting for. Meggie loved animals. She had lots of soft and cuddly animals in her bedroom that she played with everyday. Ever since Meggie went to her Aunt Jennie's farm in Wyoming and rode an old white horse named Chase, horses were her favorite animals. Mommy and Daddy promised to take her to a place where she could see horses and many other farm animals. They called it a "fair." Meggie was three and had two older sisters and one older brother. Meggie's brother and sisters had all been to the fair before and they were excited to ride the Ferris wheel and eat cotton candy. Meggie had never been to the fair, and she was very excited. What Meggie was most excited for was to see all of the animals. Meggie's favorite song was "Old McDonald"- he knew all of her animal sounds. A cow says moo, horses say neigh, ducks quack, and sheeps say baa. Meggie jumped out of bed and ran down the hall to her mommy and daddy's room. They weren't awake yet, so she bounced on their bed and said: "Get up, get up, today is the day we see the animals!" Meggie's parents slowly opened their sleepy eyes to see their little girl's face, framed in blonde curls, big blue eyes and a huge smile. "Okay, Miss, we're up, go get dressed and wake your brother and sisters," Daddy said. It wasn't long before the moans and groans from waking up sounded through the Jones' house. On Saturdays, everyone liked to sleep in - Next it was Tommy's turn to wake up, but he wouldn't wake up! Meggie decided to bounce on him- that would definitely wake him up! It wasn't a minute, and Tommy was wide awake and yelling at his little sister. "Meggie-get off me!!" When everyone dressed, the family headed for the fair. Meggie was so excited she had a hard time sitting still in her booster seat. It seemed like a long drive, and then suddenly the car stopped, and daddy said, "We're here, time to get out:' As Meggie and her family entered the fair, they saw giant pumpkins, some as big as Meggie, some even bigger. Tommy told Meggie, "That pumpkin is bigger than you-tiny, I'm gonna' call you 'Tiny'." Meggie wanted to cry so mommy told her to go stand by the pumpkins, and she would take a picture of her; this made Meggie feel better. Soon they walked through the midway, past the row where all of the carnival games were set up. She didn't know that games cost money to play, and she wanted to get a stuffed animal. "Daddy, get me that cute doggie, pleeeease ... ask the man for the doggie, and I can take it home to the rest of my animals and they can have a new friend ... pleeease ?" "No, Miss, it costs money to get the doggie." Meggie's head dropped, and daddy said, "how about we get a treat instead?" Everyone was excited and hungry so off they went to find a treat. As the family passed the food, everyone wanted something different. Lindsy asked fo r a hot dog, J amie points to the caramel apples, and, of course, except for this Saturday. Lindsy and Jamie woke up and were quick to Tommy stopped in front of the cotton candy. Mommy said, "How about we get two funnel cakes to share and later everyone can have their own treat?" Everyone thought that was a good idea, and they went to place complain. "Meggie, get out, leave us alone, we wanna sleep in!" the order. Meggie was tired of waiting, and she could hear the cows' mooing 38 39 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CATHRINE GLOVER somewhere. many people into the barn. M eggie continued to search the eyes and I'm three years old. I'm a big girl, I want to go see the animals, and I'm going to find them. faces of all the people who walked by, looking for her family. Meggie felt Off she went in search of animals. She followed the mooing to a barn like Aunt Jennies and there were all of the cows! There were cows with lost in the sea oflegs that surrounded her. Meggie knew that she should have stayed with her family. "Whitie, I'm scared," and Meggie began to cry. She looked around the black spots, some were brown but all of them said moo. Meggie mooooed barn but did not see a familiar face, just strangers looking down at her back at them and laughed out loud. She watched them eat and swish and then passing by. their tales, and then she kept walking. The next thing she knew was that she had found the sheep with their curly white hair; they are so soft she thought, as she pet one. She still hadn't found her favorite animals, the Suddenly Meggie heard voices. She recognized one calling out her name, it was her Mommy! "Here I am, here I am, Mommy, over by the little white horse;" called horses. Meggie continued on her quest to find the horses when she heard Meggie. Mommy searched the barn until she saw her little girl and then ran to neighing and followed the sound. She weaved in and out of the animal's Meggie and hugged her tight; Meggie didn't want her to stop. legs around her without a worry. Finally she spotted the horses. There "Where have you been, you little stinker? We have been looking ev- were horses of all colors, black, white, brown, and even brown horses erywhere for you." Mommy then called out to Jamie, Lindsy, Daddy, and with white spots! Meggie found a little white horse that reminded her of Tommy. Chase at Aunt Jennie's farm. The horse dropped its nose down for Meg- "I found her, and we're over here with the horses." gie to pet. Toe rest of the family quickly joined Mommy and Meggie. Everyone "You're a pretty white horse, I'm gonna' call you 'Whitie'! What do gave Meggie hugs; they were so glad to see her. you think ofWhitie,Jamie?" Meggie was so excited she turned to see what Jamie thought and making so much noise we all decided to look in here for you;' Daddy discovered that she was all alone. She looked up only to see the big, dark said. eyes of all the people who where quickly walking by her, but she didn't "Little Miss, you gave us all a scare! When we heard all of the horses Meggie turned to her new friend Whitie and said, "Thank you, Whitie, recognize anyone. Meggie's heart started pounding and she began to I knew you would help me find my family!" Whitie neighed and nuzzled get scared. No one noticed Meggie and brushed by her as if she wasn't Meggie's cheek; he was happy to help. standing there. Tears came to Meggie's eyes as she asked Whitie. Toe ride home was a short drive home from the fair. Meggie fell "Whitie, I can't find my family, what'll I do?" asleep in the car on the way home; she was so tired from the fair. Daddy Whitie put his nose down next to Meggie's cheek and rubbed it back carried her into the house and gently laid her into her bed. and forth to comfort her; he lifted his head and began to neigh. Soon all of the horses in the barn began to neigh; it was as if they were talking to one another. Toe sound from the horse barn was so loud that it drew 40 Meggie opened her eyes to see Mommy and Daddy lean over to kiss her good night. "Sweet dreams, Miss," said Daddy. 41 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CRAIG GOWANS CRAIG GOWANS "I love you, Little One," said Mommy. Meggie then said in a sleepy voice, "Can we go back to the fair tomor- OF SAND CASTLES AND SEA DEMONS row?" and fell fast asleep. The sun was sinking below the surface of the sea while the children played in the wet sand. They built a sand castle, large and stately, and dug trenches to direct the water away from their well-crafted fortress. Towers at each corner were carefully constructed. Windows and doors were intricately carved into the sides of the castle. A certain magic existed on this beach when sand castles were built. The children did not fully comprehend it, as if the sand willfully constructed itself into the castle at the children's command. The foamy salt water dared to approach the castle, but never touch the royal structure. In the quiet stillness of the night the magic was most alive. "Children! It's getting dark. Time to come inside!" The children heard their mother's voice from atop the cWf. They finished the last details, then gathered their tools and climbed the wooden stairs up to the beach house. The lights from the house lit the sand castle below. Through the windows the children looked upon their sandy edifice. The castle showed with a supernatural aura that reverenced the children. When the lights went out, all was still and quiet and the ocean calm. All seemed tranquil, but a magical energy stirred the sand, and a light breeze blew past lighting the sandy windows and woke the inhabitants within. The door unlatched, the gate opened, and the draw bridge lowered. A trumpet sounded a vibrant intonation and the sand surrounding the castle moved agitatedly. From the sand there arose a mighty army. Minute sand soldiers formed and turned human, holding their shields of faith and brandishing their swords of righteousness. Behind the footmen arose archers with loaded quivers and taut bows. Last to rise from the sand were siege weaponry. Ballistae and trebuchets stood stalwart 42 43 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CRAIG GOWANS behind the royal army. The soldiers stood tall and sharp. Their armor glistened in the light from the castle windows. They were calm, yet ready over the army. The foamy sea calmed once more. Steamy vapors bubbled up from to engage the enemy in battle. The trumpet sounded again and the solid doors of the castle opened. the cold water. Turbulence raged and a sea monster ofthe vilest nature broke the water's surface. The creature rose higher, towering above the A bright light emerged along with the king's most noble and royal knights. Fourteen knights coated in shiny armor marched through the door and stood as sentinels along the bridge. Swords of the strongest metal hung from their sides and held spears in their hands. Drums rolled and trumpets announced the presence of the king and his fair queen. All castle. Thick metallic green scales covered its body and sharp spikes lined its head and down its back. Red demonic eyes shown bright with fury. Fangs dripping with acidic venom protruded from its gaping attention was turned to the castle to witness their royal majesties arrival. Hand-in-hand, from the light of the castle, they came into the dark night. Her royal highness, the queen, was dressed in a beautiful gown made of the finest materials. Her rosy cheeks and blue eyes flattered her fair skin that glimmered with angelic luster. She bore armor and a long and slender sword. The king was a strong man whose countenance demanded reverence and respect. He walked with a tender grace that calmed and encouraged all around him. He held the hand of his queen with notable love and gentleness. His majesty radiated the light of a pure heart and righteous intentions. His sword hung at his side. His legions looked to him for guidance and direction. The magical energy swept through the army touching every member, and they stood in silent confidence. Their attention was now focused on the sea in front and waited. The sea was calm. Silently the water built up its dark energy. A tangibly dark force drifted up the shore clashing with mouth. It held a scepter in its claws. Hate emanated from the demon lord with such power that felt like wind rushing over the king and his loyal army. The sea demon wailed a high pitched cackle summoning its minions from the cold, wet deep. Legions of smaller sea demons formed from the foam. They held in their claws spears of a devilish appearance. An explosion from beneath the foamy sea broke the surface and out flew concourses of winged serpentine devils. Scarlet snakes hovered over the other demons spouting sparks from their infernal nostrils. A wail from the master demon sent the snakes flying toward the castle and its army. They came diving over the footman with fire shooting from their rancid mouths. "Defend!" rang from the king as he stretched forth his mighty sword. The archers shot. A volley of arrows flew through the air piercing the serpentine devils. Ear splitting screeches sounded from the falling snakes and with a thud they hit dead on the sand. Another wave of fly- the magical power of the royal sand army. The footman shivered but ing snakes advanced along with the demon army. Out of the water they came. Armed with spears of death and surrounded by a tangible hatred, up to the shore they marched. held true to their posts. The sea receded and with great force launched a wave toward the The archers shot arrows into the sky piercing the flying snakes. The ballistae shot their mighty harpoons at the incoming sea demons. The castle and its army. The wave raced with destructive force and hit the wall surrounding the army. Water sprayed in all directions, wetting the evil creatures from the sea crossed the wall surrounding the army. Both armies engaged in battle. Swords met with spears and clanked against standing soldiers. Patiently, they held their ground. A second wave crashed against the immovable wall and a third sprayed cold salty water the demons metallic body. The brave soldiers raised their shields to protect themselves from the claws of the large beasts. Fire descended upon 44 45 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CRAIG GOWANS them from the snakes soaring above. The trebuchets launched boulders into the warfront blasting away the scaly sea demons. The clashing of metal and the shooting of spears and arrows was in full-fledged war. The scepter of the giant master demon glowed acid green, and with sea creatures' numbers were miniscule. The king's remaining archers concentrated on the few snakes still taunting from above. The surviving ballistae targeted the giant scaly demon lord. The last stage of the battle had begun. Morning was drawing near. The king gathered his remain- a wave it sent a torrent of water rushing toward the castle. His majesty stepped forward, raised his sword once more, and invoked the pow- ing troops to commence the final offence against the foul fiend from the cold, deep sea. Willing to die in defense of their royal majesties each ers of righteousness, sending forth a magical barrier that hit the wave front. The force of the wave hitting the magical protection rebounded with such intensity that the salty sea water sprayed in all directions. The footman and archer fought with strength and vigor. The demon lord, upon seeing the defeat of his evil minions, called up the powers from his infernal abyss. His scepter glowed acid green. The demon lord cried at the foil of his death wave. Boulders launched from the trebuchets pecked off the metallic demons from the deep. Fires burned around the battlefield from the snake surrounding sea steamed and erupted with a diabolic sound. A force of black energy shot from the watery chasm and flew toward the shore with intentions to destroy. The king summoned the magical shield once more. The demon lord screeched a nasty noise and whirled his scepter attacks. The flying serpents targeted the king's royal siege weapons. AIchers were quick to defend the heavy equipment. Scores of arrows shot into the air kept the snakes at bay. Ballistic darts fired repeatedly into the night sky aiding the archers' missile volley. The king's fourteen valiant knights defended the gate and his majesty with great fierceness and faith. They struck down the larger scaly sea demons with sharp skill, never tiring of the constant and relentless attacks. The magical aura emanating from the castle gave strength to the king's army. The king and queen aided in the fight chanting incantations and casting defensive spells. The mighty demon lord cast his own evil spells. Waving his scepter he sent crimson bolts of death and destruction toward his righteous enemies. There were heavy losses on both sides. The footmen's swords were sharp and shields strong, yet no match for the larger and stronger sea demons. Faithful and true the king's army fought, overcoming the great odds to victory. The archers quivers never emptied and their arrows flew with divine precision. Most ofthe soaring winged serpentine devils had fallen to their death. Soon there were only a few members of the royal army left, and the 46 around sending a storm of wind, hail and lightning to engulf the castle. Another tidal wave raged behind the storm. The king, in good faith, maintained his magical protection that did not allow the tidal wave to pass. The fair queen held her sword above her head and it illuminated as bright as the sun that calmed the storm and warmed the army. The king and his queen joined hands and together prayed, raising their swords high into the air. Energy was forming. A spinning orb of white magical energy grew above their heads. With a clap ofthunder a bolt of white light blasted toward the demon lord. The light struck the giant. The demon lord swayed and splashed down into the water. He recovered and rose from his fallen state. He waved his scepter to send another surge of black power. Singing diabolically the blackness raced to finish the king. Another bolt of white light met the black force in its path. Good and evil united in an explosion of sparks and fire. The king and queen recited another incantation and shot bolts of light. This last bolt, endowed with the gift of a pure and righteous monarch, hit the demon lord delivering death. The demon lord cried out a devilish noise that pierced any listener to the core. It convulsed, twisted, 47 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL TON OREA JACKSON and turned in torment. In one final attempt to destroy his victor, the TONDREA JACKSON fiend exploded, and all its dark power raged. The metallic scales rode as knives in the missile of darkness. The quick chanting of the king placed up one last time the magical protective shield. With an added blessing from her majesty the queen, the shield absorbed the black power and DOUBLE RAINBOWS turned the projectiles into sand and fell to the beach. All was still and quiet. The raging sea calmed, and the air cleared. My two cousins Tyler and Skyler, my brother Jeffrey, and I are playing "tag you're it" in great, great Grandpa James' front yard. The tall Their majesties stood reverently to honor their fallen men. The magical aura returned to the castle. A trumpet sounded, and the king, with his queen, returned to the castle. Their knights followed, and the doors shut and skinny pine trees and the thick ones, too, are wide enough to hide behind them. The trumpet sang one last time before the sun rose above the earth, its rays illuminating the sand castle. The light in the windows returned to their natural state. The surviving soldiers dissolved into the sand taking their place back on the seashore. A gentle wave rolled up the shore washing away the fallen winged serpents and sea demons. The rising sun warmed the sand. The children woke. They looked out the window gazing at the beach below. They were charmed to see their sand castle still standing. Running down the wooden stairs to return to the sand, they paused at the beachfront. They shivered at the sensation of magic lingering in the air. "Do you feel that?" one child questioned. "Yes. What does it mean?" responded another. "It means that good conquered evil." They giggled, then ran to play in the sand where they continued build- behind. Three foot hedges run the length of both sides of the sidewalk from the porch. The four young plum trees line up in front of the porch and form a narrow maze. Circular flower beds in the middle of the front yard spread around the trees. The flower beds are made up of dark green grassy plants with purple and white bellflowers; orange, red, and yellow zinnas; yellow and white gladiolas; and pink, white, red, and yellow roses. The blossoms could cover the palm of a large-handed man. Next to them there are stinky yellow and orange marigolds, and their job is to keep the bugs off the roses. As we run back and forth in the maze of hedges and flowers, we breathe deeply the strong sweet smell of the roses. Then the clouds move in, hiding the sun as if someone quietly slipped a blanket over our sunny day. We hear the roll of thunder and look up. Gray, blue clouds traveling fast from the east, charging the air with electricity. A light breeze stirs to the pine needles, the roses, and the tall flowering grass, the smell of damp earth. We run for cover and long-legged Tyler reaches the house first. A screen encloses the white porch as long as the front of the house. Six ing castles. wooden rocking chairs on either side of the front door are covered with green and white seat covers, and Tyler sits on the side with the oncoming storm.Jeffrey pulls a chair over, saying, "I don't want to sit all alone." We reach the porch in time and we see mist and as it gets closer it is a wall of rain. Behind this wall of summer rain the gray-blue clouds bear an ominous look. As the dark clouds draw closer, they reveal their white 48 49 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL NOVA WAHL teeth, and we hear the angry words of thunder shaking the house. Yet through all of this we sit very still, and the storm marches by with a strong wind at its back. The rain slows to a soothing pitter-patter and soon this ends, too. We walk out onto the sidewalk, passing the wet plum trees. We pass the flowers drooping from the heaviness of the good bath they just received. Passing all of this we walk to the end of the long driveway, careful not to step in the rain puddles, and we come to the quiet two-lane freeway. We look to the left, no car. We look to the right, no car, no cars coming in either direction, and we walk on the paved road. The water from the rain is clearing, running off into the ditches on either side of the road. The air smells clean. Jeffrey exclaims, "Look! There's a double rainbow!" and he points to the sky. Facing north, my cousins and I look up, and we too see the double rainbows. The colors are a brilliant red, yellow, orange, blue, purple, and green. The larger one stretches longer and higher above the smaller rainbow. Skyler begins to run toward them. "Let's see who can find the end first!" Tyler stands behind his twin brother at first. Then he overtakes Skyler, as his legs are a little longer. I come next, and Jeffrey brings up the rear, yelling, "Hey, wait for me!" NOVA WAHL 1774 Mariah sat up suddenly in her bed. She tried to slip out from under her piles of quilts, but they came tumbling down beside her. She looked around the room. That was what was wrong. Ruth should have been sleeping on her little mat, at the foot of the bed, keeping warm and keeping the fire strong throughout the night. She wasn't there, and the fire was dying. She hadn't come rushing over to tuck Mariah back into bed, to pick up the quilts and tell her that everything was all right. Something was very wrong. Mariah tip toed to the bedroom door and peered out. Lanterns burned downstairs and the light floated up the stairs and into the empty hallway. As she sHd out1 trying not to open the door to the point where it would creak, she became conscious of a sound. A low, muffied sound. She stopped for a moment, trying to make the sound out, but the noise was indistinguishable. During the day, with carriages going by, slaves working around the house, she would have never heard the noise. She slid the rest of the way out of the door and walked swiftly on the wood floor, the light striking her white woolen nightgown. She turned down the adjoining hall and went down the slave's stairs. They were still lit but only slightly. With each step, the sound seemed to be getting louder. When she finally reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused for a moment. It was a human sound, screaming. Mariah paused in the hallway that led to the kitchen. The sound had pulled her there. The sound of the screaming was so overpowering that Mariah could hear the agony in the voice, but she couldn't understand it. She stood there shivering, nauseous. She couldn't. Her hand hesitated on the door knob. One thought came through the screaming. She was, all of a sudden, unsure if she wanted to know what was on the other side 50 51 �- -THE SOUTHERN QUILL NOVA WAHL of the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Her hand turned the It's freezing:' knob and opened the door, and she was on the other side. As soon as salt would make the burnin' worse:• the door shut behind her, Mariah could no longer breathe. The hallway "No, ma'am, that would just make it worse," Ruth yelled back, "That A moment later, the screams became shorter as Timothy gasped for smelled putrid like burning flesh and hot tar. There were other noises air. His convulsing quickened. He managed almost to sit up, and when too, but they were nothing, nearly unhearable behind the screaming. he sat up, he saw Mariah, and Mariah saw him, and their eyes locked. There was nothing but screaming. The voice rose to an ear shattering This young boy she used to play with. Ruth and her mother pushed him pitch and then dropped to start its rise again. She found herself knocked back down. They hadn't seen Mariah, but Mariah had seen them, and back, staring down the empty hallway, at the place where the light from she had seen him. She ran out the door at the end of the hallway, into the kitchen spilled out into it. She stared at the kitchen's shadows too. the frostbitten world. The shadows flailed in agreement with the screaming. The burning Mariah made it only a couple of yards from the house, when she col- smell, the screams, the shadows all blurred into one. They were one. lapsed in the dirt. She heaved. She couldn't feel anything. She couldn't Then, dreamlike, she found herself walking down the hall towards the feel her body or the cold or any emotions at all. She could smell though, light and the shadows. Towards the screaming. She reached the open the bitter smell of boiled tar and flesh. She could see the look in Timo- doorway and stood up against the wall. As she stood there, the scream- thy's eyes, the look of death, until soon she couldn't see anything at all. ing drowned out into background noise, and her thoughts quiet. She was still drawn by the screaming. She turned and peered around the corner Mariah opened her eyes as Peter, an older slave with slightly graying into the kitchen. There, on the table, in the middle of the kitchen, lay Timothy, convuls- for a second she didn't know where she was or why she was there. She ing. Mariah grabbed the doorframe as the image overtook her. He was leaned into him, away from the cold. Her head was under his chin as he covered in hot tar, pieces of straw stabbing into it at random. It was his began carrying her back to the house. Then she remembered. flesh that was burning. His young body writhed, knocking off the pieces of the white ice piled onto him. hair, picked her up from the frozen dirt. The world was still groggy, and "Don't take me back there," Mariah whispered, her voice filled with fear, eyeing the house, still brightly lit against the dark night sky, "I don't Ruth's strong, reassuring face was now covered in fear. Mariah's mother stood on the other side, holding him down, too. Her new green silk dress stained in black tar, her hair beginning to fall down around her shoulders. The other slaves ran in and out the kitchen's back door, their want to go back there:' "Shhh, Little Miss, shhh ..." Peter replied in his deep voice, "You're safe, Little Miss, you're safe." Peter changed his direction, and Mariah relaxed as they went into arms and aprons filled with ice. They piled the ice upon him, but he his little cabin in the slave quarters. H e put her in his big wooden chair, continued screaming. "It's not cooling him down quickly enough!" Her mother's voice rose right in front of his fire place, wrapped in his tattered quilt. He sat on the above the child's, "Maybe ... maybe we should go dunk him the ocean. 52 dirt floor beside her, added more wood to the fire, and stared into it. "Peter:' Mariah's voice was still weak and slightly twinged with pain. 53 • �THE SOUTHERN QUILL NOVA WAHL Her fingers hurt as she pulled up the blanket and buried her head into its dusty folds. "Little Miss," Peter replied, warming his hands by the fire. While she spoke, she stared into the flames. Everything was quiet now, no more screaming. No one was getting ice. They no longer needed ice. "Timothy ... he's dead. Isn't he:' "Timothy in heaven, Little Miss. Where all little children go." Little hadn't called her Mariah since she was small. "You don't know this. I had a daughter once, just like you. Her name was, was Rose. When her momma died, she said the same thing to me, and I told her. I told her that sometimes a person's heart gets so broken up into pieces, so scared, or so sad, or even so angry that it doesn't know what to do. It is just too much for one little heart to hold, so it closes its doors for a little while, and don't feel anything. A person just can't han- C hildren. Timothy was exactly her age, twelve. Someone had killed him, killed a little child. It didn't matter if he was a slave or not, or what dle that much pain," His voice was soft and soothing, "Just too much." "But, Peter, will my heart ever feel again?" Mariah asked, looking up color he was, he was still a child. "Peter," Mariah's voice shook, "What, what happened?" She wasn't into his face, sure that he had all the answers. "Yes, Little Miss, you'll feel again," Peter said, hugging her to him tighter, "I just hope you'll never have to feel this again." sure she really wanted to know right now, but she knew that Peter would be the only one who would tell her the truth. "Those rebels ... the street gangs, they threaten to burn the Master's store down. Says that he's evil for sellin' tea. We all guardin' it, case they try something with the Master being out of town. We were too strong for them, but... ," Peter paused, swallowed, "But they got Timothy. They got him, and we couldn't get him back." Peter's voice became angry on the last few words. He didn't get angry often. Ruth said that he used to be angry all the time. That he just couldn't stop. Flora, the cook, told her that was because his last owner was real mean, meaner than even Ruth's. Once when Mariah asked him why he had the letters C.R. on his arm, he told her it was because he was waiting for "Christ's Return." Flora said it was his last owner's initials branded into his skin. "Peter, I don't feel anything." Mariah said after a while, climbing down out of the chair and sitting on the floor next him, "When you picked me up I felt scared, and sad, and sick. But now, now I don't feel anything. Not anything:' "Mariah," Peter said, opening his arms to her, "Come here:' She crawled into his lap, and he stroked the back of her head. He 54 Mariah watched the sunlight shift across her bedroom ceiling. She still couldn't feel anything. She looked down at her nightgown, covered in dirt. Her brother, Matthew, said he was a rebel. He hated tea, and argued politics so much with their father that he had to live with their uncle in New York. But he couldn't be like those rebels, Mariah thought to herself, those rebels are evil. They are the evilest people ever, and Matthew could never be like that. Matthew's rebels had to be different; his rebels lived in New York. They didn't kill children. Mariah got up out of bed, and dressed as quickly as she could by herself. Ruth was still not to be seen. She walked down the stairs to the dining room. Her mother was already there, picking at her breakfast. Mariah sat down at the other end of the table, hoping the distance would make her mother not talk. "Mariah;' Her mother began, before pausing, blinking quickly, inhaling deeply, "I have something to tell you." Mariah nodded back at her from across the polished oak table. "Last night ... last night, young Timothy accidentally fell in the barn 55 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL BRIAN HART and died:' Her mother sounded as if she was trying to believe her own words, "He didn't suffer at all:' "That's ... sad," Mariah replied, "Sad:' "It is. I know you used to play with him when you were younger. But now he's in heaven," Her mother seemed relieved that Mariah didn't question her, "Heaven:• "Yes, mama, he died in the barn. He didn't suffer:' Mariah repeated, wanting to make herself believe it, too, "He's in heaven now:' BRIAN HART I HATE CHILI MAC The cafeteria was empty and quiet while I sat playing with the noodles in my chili mac. I had started off scooping the grease from the bottom of the tray and pouring it back over the top, but after a half hour or more, the grease was hard. So I separated the noodles from the meat, and when I had completed that, I formed miniature sculptures out of them. I worked the meat into a small volcano, with bits of orange grease inside, and I was still working on the noodles when I heard them come up. "You mind if we join you?" There was no mistaking his voice. He still talked like he was back in Samoa. I toyed with my noodles for a second more before looking up. "Sgt. Togafu! No, go ahead, have a seat. What brings you two out here?" I was hoping he hadn' t heard yet. I was hoping he didn't want to talk about it. "We came up to get some real food. Heard you boys are gettin' fed good up here." He looked at his driver Taylor and chuckled. Taylor was a young private who usually didn't talk much. He looked up at Togafu and gave a half-hearted smile, but his expression turned grave when he glanced over at me and he resorted to taking a seat and eating in silence. "No, we came out to get Taylor's money straight. They didn't pay him all last month. You believe that?" I shook my head. "So we came to take care of that. He's good now." I gave him a smile of approval and looked over at Taylor, but he was still staring down at his plate of food . Togafu studied me with an open gaze and I could see him trying to catch and decipher any hint of emotion he could get. I went back to my noodles, trying to figure out what I had been creating in the first place. 56 57 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL SUE PERSCHON "So ... uh1 Carter." I heard it in his voice. I remained silent1 only my hand started to tremble. Every time the anxiety came I tried pushing it back1 but I never could. I glanced up. "We heard about Armando today." I nodded and went back to my noodles. "We heard and .. . uh ... we're sorry." I lowered my spork and sat there for a second as the anxiety pressed through my body. SUE PERSCHON UNSPOKEN WORDS The headline read "Body of Unidentified Man Found." The short article that followed had little impact on me; I assumed he was probably just another bum. I was on vacation with my family, enjoying the Then I looked up at him. "You know what, Sgt. Togafu, I think he's going to be okay. I mean he's not going to have any legs, but he can still have a good life. I can even see him getting one of those fast wheelchairs warmth of the California beaches. I sat in the laundromat waiting for wet swimsuits to dry. A few years later, this article would touch me in a way that never seemed possible. and racing it around town, and by the time I get out we'll both be drinking at the V.F.W. No ... he's gonna be just fine." The phone call came early one morning as I rushed to get ready for work. My sister's voice cracked as she started speaking. Our family had tried to locate my oldest brother for a few years, and I knew that this I looked out the window and took a big bite of my noodles, nodding. It was the best I had felt since the bombing earlier that day. I was smiling at Togafu when I looked back, but he looked shocked. Taylor quickly grabbed his tray and left. I turned to Togafu. "You know what Sgt. Togafu? Armando is going to be ok, and there is no reason why I shouldn't be happy for what he's got left." "Carter:' The tone in Togafu's voice was soft as he leaned across the table towards me. "The doctors couldn't stabilize Armando. He died on the table." call had something to do with that search. "Steve has been located," she began. "His body was discovered inside an old pick-up, behind a mall parking lot in San Diego. The coroner's office listed the official cause of death as a heart attack. He didn't have any identification, so it took a while for them to identify him:' Finally, after a long pause, I asked her when all of this happened, "According to the police department, about two years ago." My mind strained to recall memories of this older brother who left home when I was just seven years old. Fourteen years older than me, we were never really close. I vaguely recalled waiving good-bye at the old Union Pacific Railroad Station on the west side of Salt Lake City, in 1957. I had so many questions about his life, and now his death, and I wanted some answers. As we talked, I could hear the pain in my sister's voice and I felt guilty for not sharing her emotions. I felt genuine sorrow at his death, but I lacked the fundamental feeling ofloss that usually accompanies the death of someone you love. Where had he been all these years, and why had it taken two years for us to receive information regarding his death? 58 Being the youngest set me apart from the rest of my siblings. They 59 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL MORGAN CLEMENTS were all close in age and grew up together sharing experiences. My aging parents took great lengths to insulate me from Steve's escapades. What I did know, I had pieced together from snippets' of conversations, old photos, and hidden correspondence. The truth, as I knew it, lay somewhere between my imagination, bizarre stories and a few facts. The realization that this unknown brother's life ended all alone in a parking lot began to hit me. I tried to express my feelings to my sister by saying "I don' t even remember what Steve looked like:• When what I wanted to say was "Please tell me about him and his life." I knew that my sister understood my frustrations, but being the protective older sister, she could only give me words of consolation. As we continued to talk, I resolved that I would never keep information from my children under the guise oflove, for I had come to learn first-hand how destructive this is in building strong family bonds. This distance that now separated me from my family had become much more than an issue of age. The conversation had been long, and I was late for work. I thanked my sister for calling, and as we said our goodbyes, she exclaimed, "Oh one more thing. The police put an article in the local newspaper hoping to find a lead. The story told of an unidentified body and they listed a description of him. It's really unfortunate that none of us saw the article': "Yes," I replied, "very unfortunate:' 60 MORGAN CLEMENTS WRITING ENDURES In our quick-paced world filled with disposable writing like that found in instant messages and email, few consider how enduring the written word can be and how we can use it to shape the thoughts and ideals of society. Writing frequently leaves an impact that transcends the boundaries of time, geography, and culture. The works of philosophers Aristotle to Foucault are great examples. Their thoughts serve as the foundation of modern politics, religion, law, and even literary theory. Fiction writers like Ernest Hemingway, Maya Angelou, and JK Rowling have created works oflasting interest, as well, by illuminating the unchanging aspects of the human condition, such as our capacity to love, to grieve, and to hope. Writing is also important because the framework of society is a framework of words. The history of generations past exists because of the writer. And the future, which has yet to be written, will do its research in the writing of our time, because great writing endures. 61 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL DIANA STANLEY century despotism. When those characters tear off their pinstriped ties DIANA STANLEY JULIUS CAESAR FOR THE 21ST CENTURY, A Review Many playgoers want their Shakespeare traditional. They expect men in doublets and hose and women in sumptuous gowns. They envision wooden balconies and large, red curtains. So when they hear a theater is dressing the actors in modern-day attire, they tend to roll their eyes and stay away. But this is the Tony Award-winning Utah Shakespearean Festival (USF), and that makes a foray into experimentation worthwhile. In USF's Fall 2008 production ofJulius Caesar, men wear dapper business suits and the women sport chic professional ensembles. When they go to war, the men don modem camouflage while airplanes buzz overhead and enormous guns boom in the distance. The stage features a minimal set with large, white columns and a stepped piazza, backed by a screen that changes color according to the mood of the scene. And and cry " Freedom!" after assassinating a would-be dictator, that freedom becomes very real in a world that is struggling for self-determination. When a well-liked political figure uses a microphone to whip a crowd into a riotous frenzy, he stands in for every demagogue who uses mobs for power. When war resounds with modern explosions instead of the out-dated noise of clashing swords, even cynical playgoers feel the death and destruction. With such immediacy, USF's Julius Caesar becomes an experiment in perception. While the setting subtly reminds the audience they are in ancient Rome, the modern characters bring the themes of freedom, honor, and ambition into the twenty-first century. Playgoers can identify with the very contemporary personalities displayed upon the stage. They may even forget to struggle with Shakespeare's Elizabethan tongue and allow themselves to be absorbed by the story. When patrons become emotionally part of the play, theater succeeds. Touching people's lives, after all, should be the purpose of any artistic experiment. when Antony gives his famous speech, his electronically amplified voice echoes across an imaginary Roman forum. Such experimentation for its own sake, however, is simply gratuitous and serves no worthwhile purpose. So why does a theater put a contemporary twist on a 400-year-old play that has stood the test of time as it is? The answer: immediacy-bringing the play into context for modem audiences and helping them grasp its relevance to their own lives. Without context, the antique speech of Shakespeare's plays can seem like a foreign language to modern viewers. Add to that a distant landscape and costuming, and the sense of alienation can be complete. Patrons may find the show beautiful and entertaining, but without being able to place themselves in the setting, their connection to it may stop at the stage curtain. Yet when a modern character denounces tyranny, audiences think of tyranny that exists in the world today, rather than some seventeenth- 62 63 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL THE ANNIE ATKIN TANNER MEMORIAL POETRY SCHOLARSHIP FUND CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS All poems submitted to The Southern Quill by DSC students receive Published annually, The Southern Quill is Dixie State College of Utah's student-edited literary magazine. ln circulation since 1950, the journal features poetry, short stories, and artwork produced by Dixie State College students; it also welcomes material from writers and artists who live in Washington and Kane Counties. consideration for Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Scholarship prizes. The Tanner fund was established in November 1972 by Dr. Vasco M. Tanner, upon the death of his wife Annie. Throughout their married life, Mrs. Tanner accompanied her husband on field trips to collect specimens for Brigham Young University's Department of Zoology and Entomology, which Dr. Tanner established and chaired for over 33 years. Annie, a prolific writer, would spend her time "out in the field" writing poetry and stories. As a member of the Pen Women of Utah, her poems and stories were published in the Relief Society magazine, the Deseret News, and various literary journals. Many of her poems reflect her love for the physical beauty of St. George, where she was born and spent the early years of her life. For several years the Tanner children have continued to contribute to the fund, which awards three scholarship prizes each year. To determine scholarship winners, our editorial staff reviews and evaluates every poem submitted to the Quill by students. The editors then rank and select the 10 strongest pieces from this pool and forward them to members of the Tanner family, who determine the first, second, and third place winners. Though community members are published in the journal, only student poets can win the scholarship money. On occasion, the student editors of The Southern Quill place poems in journal; these student poets are not excluded from competing in the Tanner prize competition. But to remain objective and fair, staff members cannot score or rank their own poems. 2009 Winners First Place: "Pink Synesthesia;' Leah Graham Second Place: "The Photo Album," Dustin Jackson Third Place: "Morning;' Dustin Jackson 64 SUBMISSION GUIDELINES Contributors may submit up to 5 poems, 3 works of visual art, and 1 short story. Materials should be sent to: The Southern Quill Department of English Dixie State College of Utah St. George, UT 84770 Include a cover letter with contact information (phone, mailing address, e-mail) and a self-addressed stamped envelope; materials will not be returned unless senders state that they want material returned and provide sufficient postage. All pieces must be submitted on disk/ CD; include hard copy versions, too. E-mailed submissions are also welcome; use SUBMISSION in the subject line and send to thesouthernquill@) gmail.com. Please let us know, as well, if you are a Dixie State student. Deadline is January 25, 2010 65 �THE SOUTHERN QUILL CONSIDERING A FOUR YEAR DEGREE? A degree in English is extremely versatile. English majors develop writing skills prized by numerous professions including: business, law, marketing, advertising, journalism, film production, public relations, public affairs, and teaching. Students in our program also broaden their understanding of the complex relationship between the aesthetic and intellectual aspects ofliterature and the cultural milieu in which important literary works were produced. English majors at Dixie State College of Utah can choose from three emphasis options: Literature, Professional & Technical Writing, and English Education. For more information, check out: http://new.dixie.edu/english/ or contact Dr. Sue Bennett (Department Chair) at 435-652-7815. 66 �$8.00 CONTRIBUTORS JEFFREY OSTLER• K. MARROTT GARY CHRISTIAN• CONNIE BABER BILL WITSBERGER•PAUL ENO KASEY GERRARD UDY STETSON HARRIS• LAVERNA JOHNSON CORTNEY MATHEWS• BRIAN HART LEAH GRAHAM•MARILYN L. BALL DUSTIN JACKSON• BROCK GRAHAM CHRIS ONSTOTT• CALEB PORTER AMBER JOHNSON• GRANT WILSON VICKI WHEELER•JANETTE SILL GRACE GRAHAM•JACOB W. THOMAS JACKIE FLETCHER• MORGAN CLEMENTS MARIA WILSON• MELANIE FLORENCE ROBERT CURL• ANNETTE TRUNNELL NOVA WAHL•CATHRINE GLOVER CRAIG GOWANS•TONDREA JACKSON SUE PERSCHON• DIANA STANLEY � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2009.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2009 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2009 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>TABLE OF CONTENTS</th></tr><tr><th>POETRY</th></tr><tr><td>1 </td><td>JEFFREY OSTLER </td><td><i>Byzantine Jazz</i></td></tr><tr><td>2 </td><td>K. MARROTT </td><td><i>For My Fools</i></td></tr><tr><td> </td><td> </td><td><i>One Way Road</i></td></tr><tr><td>4 </td><td>GARY CHRISTIAN </td><td><i>Remembrance </i></td></tr><tr><td> </td><td> </td><td><i>On the Corner </i></td></tr><tr><td>6 </td><td>CONNIE BARBER </td><td><i>Winter Dreams</i></td></tr><tr><td>7 </td><td>BILL WITSBERGER </td><td><i>Marathon Street</i></td></tr><tr><td>8 </td><td>KASEY GERRARD UDY </td><td><i>Peanut Butter Kisses</i></td></tr><tr><td>10 </td><td>PAULENO </td><td><i>Sweet Siren </i></td></tr><tr><td> </td><td> </td><td><i>Strength of Submission</i></td></tr><tr><td>12 </td><td>LAVERNA JOHNSON </td><td><i>She Didnt Wait</i></td></tr><tr><td>14 </td><td>CORTNEY MATHEWS </td><td><i>The Rest of Your Life </i></td></tr><tr><td>15 </td><td>MARILYN L. BALL </td><td><i>Two and the Sea</i></td></tr><tr><td>16 </td><td>MELANIE FLORENCE </td><td><i>Disconnected</i></td></tr><tr><td>18 </td><td>DUSTIN JACKSON </td><td><i>Morning </i></td></tr><tr><td> </td><td> </td><td><i>The Photo Album</i></td></tr><tr><td>20 </td><td>BROCK GRAHAM </td><td><i>Catharsis</i></td></tr><tr><td>21 </td><td>CALEB PORTER </td><td><i>Untitled</i></td></tr><tr><td>22 </td><td>GRANT WILSON </td><td><i>An Hour Before Sunrise</i></td></tr><tr><td>24 </td><td>AMBER JOHNSON </td><td><i>Flowers, An Excerpt</i></td></tr><tr><td>25 </td><td>LEAH GRAHAM </td><td><i>Pink Synesthesia </i></td></tr><tr><td>26 </td><td>VICKI WHEELER </td><td><i>Saddle Music</i></td></tr><tr><td>27 </td><td>JANETTE SILL </td><td><i>Penzance Paradox</i></td></tr><tr><td>28 </td><td>JACOB W. THOMAS </td><td><i>Mi Mundo de Suenos / </i></td></tr><tr><td> </td><td> </td><td><i>My World of Dreams</i></td></tr><tr><td>30 </td><td>JACKIE FLETCHER </td><td><i>Life Support</i></td></tr><tr><td>31 </td><td>GRACE GRAHAM </td><td><i>Spring Meadow</i></td></tr><tr><th>VISUAL ART</th></tr><tr><td>i </td><td>CELESTE THOLEN </td><td><i>Untitled</i></td></tr><tr><td>32 </td><td>MORGAN CLEMENTS </td><td><i>Night Watch</i></td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>CHRIS ONSTOTT </td><td><i>Empty Pool</i></td></tr><tr><td>33 </td><td>AMBER JOHNSON </td><td><i>Jelly Corn</i></td></tr><tr><td>34 </td><td>STETSON HARRIS </td><td><i>Jumpers</i></td></tr><tr><td>35 </td><td>MARIA WILSON </td><td><i>Hands in the Sky</i></td></tr><tr><td> </td><td>MELANIE FLORENCE </td><td><i>Impending Storm</i></td></tr><tr><td>36 </td><td>ROBERT CURL </td><td><i>Save Us</i></td></tr><tr><td>36 </td><td>ANNETTE TRUNNELL </td><td><i>Sharing</i></td></tr><tr><td>37 </td><td>NOVA WAHL </td><td><i>Crescent Moon</i></td></tr><tr><th>PROSE</th></tr><tr><td>38 </td><td>CATHRINE GLOVER </td><td><i>Meggie's Day at the Fair, A Story for Children</i></td></tr><tr><td>43 </td><td>CRAIG GOWANS </td><td><i>Of Sandcastles and Sea Demons</i></td></tr><tr><td>49 </td><td>TONDREA JACKSON </td><td><i>Double Rainbows</i></td></tr><tr><td>51 </td><td>NOVA WAHL </td><td><i>1774</i></td></tr><tr><td>57 </td><td>BRIAN HART </td><td><i>I Hate Chili Mac</i></td></tr><tr><td>59 </td><td>SUE PERSCHON </td><td><i>Unspoken Words</i></td></tr><tr><td>61 </td><td>MORGAN CLEMENTS </td><td><i>Writing Endures</i></td></tr><tr><td>62 </td><td>DIANA STANLEY </td><td><i>Julius Caesar for the 21st Century, A Review</i></td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/05355fe53b30211b4f2434d0c4448768.pdf ff27f91d8cf80bfc306cfe0bdea7f274 PDF Text Text II, I/. u//, t I U[;bi ~olltbertl <!eu ill ~ <!Celrhratfnn of''lLfteraturt antr ~rt I ,,, /I I. I I' 11✓/hr /I '1' //i, 11£/h /i, //i ' I _, Z I I' It I, 11q11117 ,),, 1/, Ir. rr/10 II /1 f ,/ 11/, Ir/, J, 4 I �THE SOUTHERN QUILL Associate Editors: Rachael Ball, Toshi Dietz, Michelene Eno, Allen Huntsman, Ashley Lasater, Lori MacKay Production Editors: Shaylee Bailey, Paul Eno, Brad Harding, Dustin Jackson, Cortney Mathews, JaNette Sill, Ivan Sullivan, Mary Anne Trunnell Cover Design: Shaylee Bailey Visual Arts Editor: Elaina Westegaard Layout Editor: Jenica Maxwell Advising Editor: Stephen B. Armstrong Managing Editor: Ashley White Copyright © 2008, The Southern Quill. All rights revert to author upon publication. �THE ANNIE ATKIN TANNER MEMORIAL POETRY SCHOLARSHIP FUND All poems submitted to The Southern Quill by DSC students receive consideration for Annie Atkin Tanner Memoria l Poetry Scholarship prizes. The Tanner fund was established in November 1972 by Dr. Vasco M. Tanner, upon the death of his wife Annie. Throughout their married life, Mrs. Tanner accompanied her husband on fi eld trips to collect specimens for Brigham Young University's Department of Zoology and Entomology, which Dr. Tanner established and chaired for over 33 years. Annie, a prolific writer, would spend her time "out in the fie ld" writing poetry and stories. As a member of the Pen Women of Utah, her poems and stories were published in the Relief Society magazine, the Deseret News and various literary journals. Many of her poems reflect her love for the physical beauty of St. George, where she was born and spent the early years of her life. For several years the Tanner children have continued to contribute to the fund, which awards three scholarship prizes each year. To determine scholarship winners, our editorial staff reviews and evaluates every poem submitted to the Quill by students. The editors then rank and select the IO strongest pieces from this pool and forward them to members of the Tanner fami ly, who determine the first, second, and third place winners. Though community members are published in the journal, only student poets can win the scholarship money. On occasion, the student editors of The Southern Quill place poems in journal; these student poets are not excluded from competing in the Tanner prize competition. But to rema in objective and fa ir, staff members cannot score or rank their own poems. 2008 Winners First Place: "Because," Jeffrey Ostler Second Place: "New Year Celebration," Dustin Jackson Third Place: "Darkened N ight," Casie McNaughton CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Publish~d annually, ~he ~outhern Quill is the Dixie State College of Utah s student-ed1ted literary magazine. In circulation since 1950, the jo_u~al features poetry, short stories, and artwork produced by D1x1e State College students; it also welcomes material from writers and artists who live in Washington County. SUBMISSION GUIDELINES Contributors may submit up to 5 poems, 3 works of visual art, and 1 short story. Materials should be sent to: The Southern Quill Department of English Dixie State College of Utah St. George, UT 84770 Include a cov~r letter with contact information (phone, mailing a~dress, e-ma il) and a self-addressed stamped envelope; materials will not be returned unless senders state that they want material retum~d and p~ovide sufficient postage. All pieces must be submitted on disk/CD; mclude hard copy versions, too. E-mailed submissions are also welcome; use SUBMISSION in the subject line and send to thes~u~hemqui ll@gmail.com. Please let us know, as well, if you are a D1x1e State student. Deadline is February 2, 2009. �TABLE OF CONTENTS Robin Hampton Poetry Sister: A Dedication to the Virgin River Erin Riggs Dustin Jackson New Year Celebration Palette Royal Donnelly Unrequited D. Gary Christian Buffalo Beans and Buttercups 2 Sprinkles 4 The Vampire's Song 5 Darkened Night 7 Agony and Apathy LEAvE ME ALONe Ears American Haiku Death of My Aunt Kaleidoscope The Man in the Back Room Prose 16 18 19 35 Mary Anne Trunnell The Victim Janae Hawk A Summer's Eve Phillip Evans Tuckett Indifference Defeated Nerrissa Cannon The Day Ahead 61 15 Jon Platten Heroes 32 Phillip Evans Tuckett K. Marrott Family Tree 31 Nerrissa Cannon Robin Hampton 13 30 Jenica Maxwell K. Marrott 12 28 Dustin Jackson Toshi Dietz 10 27 Melanie Florence Waiting at the Las Vegas Airport 8 24 Casie McNaughton Rachel McCausland Hello, Sir Change 23 Krissy Morwood Kristy Hunt Give it Back 22 Myrianne Heaton Jeffrey Ostler Because 21 39 �Dustin Jackson Elaina Westegaard The Black Lacquer Jewelry Box 49 Visual Art New Year Celebration Shaylee Bailey The River Styx Cover Tracy Worthington Light of My Heart The snow fell to the ground 3 In front of the o ld hospital. 6 He was dying. She was beside him. Her hand clasped his, Gary Stanley T he Grid And he wept. Aaron Westegaard Dead Tree 2 14 "I'll always love you when you're Janna Eno Slowly 17 With her. I'll always love you, When you lie to me. 20 I'll always love you, when I'm lying Josh Wilson Turquoise Necklace A lone in our bed. I'll always love you, Mary Anne Trunell Stewing In The Dark 25 Rachel McCausland Don't Look Away 26 Chirs Onstott Spot 33 Diana Stanley Clouds When I see our children's faces asking me W hy you hurt them." But he just told her, "I knew you would," And he squeezed her hand struggling To hold on. But it was over. His wife took down the calendar 34 And placed the new one upon the wall. The year ended, 38 And he couldn't stop it. Jayne R ich Road She told him, Chris Onstott Swan 48 5/lre So.ullwu,, ~ 1 �Tracy Worthington Royal Donnelly Unrequited Forsake not this hold thou hast upon mine core. Destroy not this dream of thee I have cast. Recoil not; I speak to one I adore Tremble not; for thine beauty true shall last Shouldst thou wither in years to come, fear not To mine eyes be true, an angel tranquil Cherished among the stars, these, my thoughts. Never mine, curse the ages, never to feel The dream that haunts my waking days like fire That bums my thoughts whenst I see thou art near. Curse the ages, they douse this burning desire Begging true, though heard, these words thou canst hear Know that thine sweet voice haunts my aching heart And these words for thee, from me just a start 2 5fre So.ulfwui lfuifl 5fre Soulfwu,, lfuifl 3 �D. Gary Christian Jeffrey O stler Buffalo Beans and Buttercups Because Buffalo beans and buttercups were flowers the girls got Because she's known as Pavlov's lover and is conscious of her skill from bashful boys in Frog Bottom and when she's walking through the door she doesn't even ring the bell, when summer nights were cool and soft. she plays mind games to us dogs who think we're sent to make the kill. Darkness oozed along the street, into the groves and down the lane, beyond the sifting waterway where grasses wiggled in the stream. Like a connoisseur of desire she takes the freshest for herself. Then her collector alter-ego walks the antiques to a shelf, while her silver purging eye leaves the dross for someone else. And when the flaming sky was spent, its fiery clouds had turned to ash, Her hellos they mean goodbye, and whisper always wins. the girls sighed like evening's breeze, The lie behind her eyes coincides with an empty grin, love hesitated on its way. but you'll still keep on believing because her smile never ends. We gathered them with anxious arms amid the shadows huddled there, kissed their eyes and then their lips until the hours called them home. 4 5/ie Soutfwtn <2uill, 5/ie Soutfwtn <2uill, 5 �Gary Stanley Kristy Hunt Give it Back Beginnings of chance have reverted into a yearning and churning, throwing my world into chaos. Ambitions and goals begin to take the back burner, to the fee lings that lie dormant. What is this new organ that looks like a heart? It's different, soft and melting: I don't want it anymore. The Grid 6 5freSo.utfwutlfuill 5fre So.utfwut lfuill 7 �Hello, Sir Change Rachel McCausland Hello, Sir Change Hello there, Sir Change How fine you look today So full of pain and time So strange So full of gross decay You seem to be doing well, Sir Change So steady in your walk As you kill the "now" to birth the "soon" While stilling happy talk What now? You say I'm being rude? Well, yes, perhaps I am. But you know I never liked you, sir I never understood for sure Why I've avoided your petty scam Perhaps I did it because I could Because everyone else says that you're GOOD! Oh, come, Sir Change You must surely see Why I cannot love you For what you've done to me! You carry too much sorrow Bring with you too much fear. You represent tomorrow, but... J do not want you here. What now? What's that you say? Well yes, I loved you then, And perhaps when I'm in need of that Dear Sir, I'll call again. But don' t you see? You may bring joy Too often you bring woe. You're idle in your reaping days And careless when you sow! 8 !Jfte Scudlwut l2uill You say you brought me out of darkness But do not mention that You put me there at first! I almost wish it had been you; That our places were reversed ! You take my life by puppet strings And I must act along. You say that ifl do my best That you will make me strong? Well J thank you for your efforts, sir They have not been in vain But I think that I deserve a rest; Let me make myself plain. You're meddling too much This is my life I don ' t appreciate The worry you've brought The struggle, the strife I want to enjoy things As they used to be. Will you even this one thing Cruelly deny me? Must I once again grow bitter And run from your touch? And then I might be long in returning To the master whom I owe So very much. Hello there, Sir Change Let's try this one more time You helped me learn to laugh But now say laughing is a crime I want things back to what I knew To how they were before So for now, Sir Change, I ask you, please To follow me no more. !Jfte Scudlwut l2uill 9 �Toshi Dietz Jayne Rich Agony and Apathy the taste of fog; muffled truths the fear of lies and deceit but the touch of your hand, gently now and your words, so soft and so sweet liquid hate turned solid and thick bonded into chains of forever but the butterflies in my stomach chum at the thought of being together the tears that fall for each pointless fight and the shock from the pain of each word but the way you kiss my cheek so light each action is selfless and pure the harrowing fear of dying alone with no one there to mourn but the pain accompanying living alone leaves me bittersweetly tom Bunny Tracks 10 51ie Scudlwtn Cluiil. 51ie Scud&mi Cluiil. 11 �K. Marrett Robin Hampton Ears Death of My Aunt Did you know That when you lost your ears I lost something too? I lost a precious part of me, Something I will always hold dear. Did you know That without your ears I lost precious you? Fathers and sons are meant to be Together, far or near. At dawn the door spills open to reveal an empty house, no light or sounds to invite me in. A table set for our next meal has waited here for her return despite what happened last night. Curled up, asleep, her cat rests on a knitted shawl, one made by hands assured and strong. I start to weep but know my aunt would wish no tears displayed. Did you know That in your tragic leaving I have lost my ears? I can't hear the pain of others The gift I've always held dear. Did you know That despite our missing ears I still feel it when you Whisper-laugh against my hair, Chasing away my fear? Did you know That though my heart is grieving I'm regaining my ears? I'm hearing fri ends and fam ily, And we w ill remember you for years. 12 5fie Scudfwm (2uil£ Instead I gently lift the cat and place him in my lap. He sighs. In silence now we want to feel her movements fill the space. I close my eyes. I have to let her go. The day turns bright outside the house. Inside we stay. A fai nt meow, a last good bye. 5fie Scudfwm lfuill 13 �Aaron Westegaard K. Marrett Family Tree No one could guess The bounty of a tree Stick figured; merchant class Glance at conical mediocrity. But this is the fir cut by papa's Hand Lit by bright bulging bugs Of his practonomy Which states upon the eyes Of sons, veteran and solo Here I am! Here Dead Tree 2 I am as you can, not will, be Cones in upward rise to heaven See boys upon the sea Grievance is indeed love forgotten Rest my trunk in peace. !ift.e SouJlwm l2uill 15 �Jon Platten Janna Eno Heroes High on a hill in our little town Where our children once had played Today is called a sacred place Where our heroes now are laid. A glorious field with granite shields To mark the graves anew, And each one draped with flag unfurled With the red, the white and blue. These men and women, brave and true For our liberties have died. Mothers and Fathers for sons and daughters A thousand tears have cried. With lives so young and full of hope For a safe and bright tomorrow. Now hearts shattered, so full of pain 'cause the world is filled with sorrow. Slowly Deaths, not in vain but now a hero's throne You've kept our country free. We'll sing your praise with anthems raise For peace and liberty. 16 5/ie So.utfwtn <fuill, 5/ie So.utfwtn <fuill, 17 �Nerrissa Cannon Janae Hawk A Summer 's Eve The Day Ahead The smell of the moon in my midnight hair, When you traunder out your door at morn, Stayware to what occurs. Swirling in the cool breeze of summer, Stars are like liquid diamonds burning bare, Both good and bad can grab you fast I race through flowers in a slumber, If your footing's not secure. Trying to catch twinkling fire fairies, Each sniglet you encounter might Their laughter comes ringing around the night, Confuse you to the core, Little feet dancing on blue wild berries, But there are comradgenial folk Praising the full moon for beautiful light, Who ' ll help if you' ll implore. My ears are lured in by mystical song, And most important to remember Swirling dull colors blur the real world, As you wreeble on your way, They beckon me closer as I sip long, Spring will come when Winter 's gone, On a dainty cup which warms my throat, And budlets bloom each day. They cackle as I drink and fa ll asleep, The morning burns immortally, and I weep 18 5/ie S<udlwu,, l2uili, 5/ie S<udlwu,, l2uili, 19 �Josh Wilson Robin Hampton Sister: A Dedication to the Virgin River In the canyon's dim light she rises out of bed having lain on rolled boulders and willow twigs. She rinses her face. Her body slowly warms, a glow flows up into the dry air. Mid-morning winds tousle her hair. It tangles, whirling around her soft shoulders. The sun's rays comb it smooth. Dippers tip their beaks to take the scraps from her hand. Bank beavers swell in her shoes. Dressed in a gray travel suit she carries a silk scarf. White water laces adorn her neck As she kneels and waits, praying for rain. Turquoise Necklace 20 !Jiu So.ulfwtn lfuil£ !Jiu So.ulfwtn ~ 21 �Erin Riggs M yrianne Heaton Sprinkles Palette Why cloud my eyes w ith talk of rain, Simply white Untouched of dreadful joys but few. Before the colors My spine burns numb yet again; Before they dance along my emotions scattered anew. Relentlessly flow ing I sense tiny candies on my tongue, Bringing intense transformation rising to embrace the sky. And striking the page We've gone through a lot to be so young, With color and purpose. we're skilled enough to fly. 22 5/u Soutfwu,, l2uiff, 5/u Soutfwu,, <2uil£ 23 �Mary Anne Trunell Krissy Morwood The Vampire's Song A dusty dark coffin, empty and bare, but near the window in shadows, a creature stands there. He spreads forth his dark wings in a glorious flight, and soars ever swiftly through the blanket of night. His lover stands closely in the forest below, awaiting the silhouette on the moon's creeping glow. His longing to hold her is overpowered by thirst for the warmth of red blood, by cold death he is cursed. He g lides over the graveyard where creatures of stone, sit petrified statues caught where the light shone. And above the cool swamp lands the lone werewolf sings a song of the vampire and the sorrow he brings. But just at this moment, the night beg ins to fade, and the creature swoops low for the safety of shade. Hiding in the shadows at the crack of dawn, back to his coffin the undead is drawn. There he will sleep till the next fu ll moon rises, and he' ll ride through the night with his many di sguises. Stewing In The Dark 24 5/k So.ulfwut l2uill 5/k So.ulfwut l2uill 25 �Rachel McCausland Casie McNaughton Darkened Night As black as the night crawled the Spotted Koola monster hunting for its prey. Not meat nor plants could feed the hunger of the Kiila, but the life of another. Its heeded forehead glistened maliciously In the moonlight pausing to sniff the air, For the life of its prey made his hunger intense. His pityless eyes were like silver marbles Rolling swiftly in his head. The Kiila swiped at the life! But narrowly missed. Don~ Look Away Gone was the prey he searches for by day in the darkened night. flfre Scudfwur, <2uif£ 27 �Melanie Florence Waiting at the Las Vegas Airport Waiting at the Las Vegas Airport His plane is late. Again. So I sit in a chair in the baggage claim under fi ve pairs of eyes: three gawking Blue Men, that mischievous Toby Keith, and sly Penn, of Penn and Teller. Slot machines babble, looped music plays, and a smooth baritone calculated to soothe or a sexy soprano designed to entice periodically override it all. Suddenly three trumpets toot horns of plenty. Coins clink. Someone won. Then the baggage carousel horn sounds. As it begins to turn, people cluster around it, reach for bags and pull them back, satisfied. 28 :Jfie Soutlwm lfuif£ I watch them stroll away, dragging their bounty. Paunchy white men in Hawaiian shirts, plump vigilant women clutching children, unsteady e lderly couples, amorous young twosomes, buxom women in tight tops, business men clutching cell phones, Eastern Indians dressed to the nines, clusters of smiling middle-aged women, gaggles of Japanese tourists. A mob, stragglers, gone. I check the arrival schedule one last time then return to my seat and sigh, yawn, read, eat and wait, wait, wait under five pairs of staring eyes. :Jfie Soutlwm lfuif£ 29 �Jenica Maxwell Dustin Jackson LEAvE ME ALONe American Haiku this is my po It's not poetry em and in m You' re just proving you can count; y poem I wr Write limericks instead ite how I want t o write 30 flfre S<Udlwu,, ~ flfre S<Udlwu,, ~ 3I �Nerrissa Cannon Chirs Onstott Kaleidoscope Swirling colors tread upon The melody of day, Composing odes of every doubt And scoring every way. The music swells as minutes pass, The Maestro waves his hand; A rainbow forms upon each arc, "Observe" 'twas his command. Wanting Green, an evil thing, I vowed I'd let aloneFor others stumbled on its path, The Maestro's hand had shown. Playful Pink oft made me think Of stones I' d left unturned, Of sunsets as yet never seenF or undone things I yearned. Spot And dismal Blue, each striking hue A note upon my staff; A decrescendo fathoms deep Of hope on my behalf. 32 5/ie So.utfwtn lfuil1, 5/ie So.utfwtn lfuil1_ 33 �Diana Stanley Phillip Evans Tuckett Indifference Defeated Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -- Shakespeare He looked vaguely threatening; the hawk-like beak under a boxer 's brow; thin lips cast in a perpetual frown and a razor-thin serpent's tongue periodically flicking in and out. .. in and out. He Clouds was Robert 0. Dalton, head of the Dixie Jr. College English department and I was a freshman jock. I needed this required course to stay e ligible; he needed to find a way through my academic indifference. He assigned everyone in the class a book to read and write a report on. He handed me William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury. That night I read the first page: The bones rounded out ofthe ditch, where the dark vines were in the black ditch, into the moonlight, like some ofthe shapes had stopped. Then they all stopped and it was dark, and when I stopped to start again I could hear mother, and 34 [jfie Scudlwtn ~ 5fie Scudlwtn ~ 35 �Indifference Defeated feet walldng away fast, and I could smell it. Phillip Evans Tuckett it. The effort and the inexplicable power of those jumbled words Then I read it again ... and a thi rd time. It made no sense to my brought tears to my eyes . . .but if it was that simple to do it wouldn't linear brain. be anything and ifit wasn't anything, what was I ? After class I asked the professor if there had been a mis- Later in the semester, Professor Dalton smiled for the first take. The first page had defeated me. Could I read Tom Sawyer? time when he gave me the grade for my paper, a B+, which he No, he was sure that this was my book, the one I was meant to marked down for spelling and grammatical errors and, perhaps, a read. Try again. Caddy smelled like trees .... few m isinterpretations of the text. The Cliffs Notes for the novel explained that Faulkner I was happy with it. More important, I was no longer indif- chose to tell his story through the stream-of-consciousness ram- ferent to the power of literature. In this case, a line from The Sound blings of a mentally retarded adult, his suicidal brother and an and the Fury signified everything: In the midst ofthe voices and illiterate servant. The narrative jumped back and forth in time, in- the hands [he] sat, rapt in his sweet blue gaze. terweaving the same episodes from different points of view. I tried again: I give the watch to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget Phil Tuckett was a student at Dixie Jr. College it now and then for a moment and not spend from 1964 to 1965. He played on the football all your breath trying to conquer it. team and majored in English. He is now an As- The professor said the book told the story of the decline after the sociate Professor in Dixie State College's Com- American Civil War of a once aristocratic family in the Deep munications department. A n Emmy winning South. Faulkner loved it because he was a Southern Gentleman. He filmmaker, he also serves as Director of DSC's called the novel his "most splendid fa ilure." Student Media Center. I was starting to get the point. So I sweated through that book like two-a-day workouts, alternating between hating the experience and being transported by 36 5/ie Soulfwut l2uill 5/ie Soulfwut l2uill 37 �Jayne Rich Mary Anne Trunnell The Victim The sun above me shone silvery yellow in the cloudless sky. I was eleven years old and playing with my army men in the backyard, preparing them for another day of battle. Over near the fence at the end of our backyard, I stabbed my metal trowel into damp, brown soil-soon to be the latest trench for the soldiers. That's when I heard a soft voice from behind the fence. It had to be the new kid who lived in the house behind ours. He was a thirteen-year-old named Terry Vernkins who'd moved from California only a couple days earlier. I still hadn 't met the kid face-toface yet. I stood up and abandoned my trench. My face pushed into the sun-baked fence. The rough surface scratched and caught at my cheeks, lips, and nostrils. I slid my face across the crusty wood to the side so my right eye could look through the slit. The odor of dirt and dead wood drifted past my nose. I rubbed small pieces of earth and wood from my eye and cheek as the pieces fell away from the fence. Terry made his way across his backyard, holding something small and alive, a black puppy. I noticed how much larger he was than me. I was skinny and short and Terry was basically the width and height of two of me. His hair was fairly short and a dull black. He had small, blue eyes against a chalk-white face. Those eyes reminded me of the sky on a cool, cloudless day. Road 38 5fte Souilwm (fujff, There wasn't any grass in his backyard, j ust a lot of weeds, rocks, and dirt that looked like tan concrete. He took that wriggling ball 5/ie Souilwm (fujff, 39 �The Victim of fur in his muscular hands and hurled it into a cloudless sky, Mary Anne Trunnell Terry's foot hovered over the pup. I was ready to scream laughing like a deranged man I once saw in front of Harmon's. The little thing shot up past his elated face. The soft dirt again-to stop him. He lowered his foot and sat down silently under my shoes sprung up around me like fireworks as I jumped content smile curling his thin white lips. The pup rasped wetly. I back in bewilderment and fear. Realization plummeted sickeningly, like that body, into my stomach. I wish the fence hadn't been cringed inwardly and outwardly at the noise as tears seared behind my eyes, and vomit burned the bottom of my throat. I fought the sensations. there, but my feet couldn't move anyways. Terry stepped back, and the blur of color fell to the dirt with a soft fl.ump that I'll never forget. A small cloud of dust :floated like a smoky halo above the body. My body shook harder than it ever had. The noise that came out of that quivering, blood-stained muzzle seemed from one of those late night horror movies with the same high-pitched woman screaming her last scream, the creaky next to the dying creature. He sat there and waited tranquilly, a I didn't understand-dido 't want to or couldn 't. How? How can he sit here and watch this animal die? Why'd he do it?! Struggling, the puppy raised its tiny head. A glassy eye focused dimly on Terry's still face. The puppy cried abrupt, wheezing breaths, then the head dropped back to the dirt-the body still. I couldn't move. That body glued me there in horrified terror and shock. I had never watched something die. I'd smashed plenty of doors opening by themselves, and the stalking shadows drifting in slow-motion across walls. Every part of that animal became one ants, spiders, and mosquitoes with my foot-but never like this. long, shrieking noise. I wanted to scream out with it, but I couldn't get my mouth to utter a sound or even open. You can't hear or feel an insect's pain like you can a pup's. It becomes your pain, your screams. Terry stopped laughing abruptly. He nudged the helpless animal sharply with one of his dirty sneakers. The animal cried piercingly into my body, cried its pain to me. I watched its dirty side heave. The cry grew slower, softer. Terry lifted his shoe over that broken body, then I heard agony. "No!" My voice was high and broken. As loud as I was, I heard only the pup wailing and so did Please die, little thing. Please die. I heard myself pleading in my head. The thought made my heart pound and my breathing difficult. It wasn't ready to die. That body on the ground wasn't going to give in yet. I kept urging that trembling thing to let go. The body in agony, like me. I forgot about Terry and tried to climb over the faded brown Terry. I couldn't see clearly anymore, tears streamed down my face. My legs wanted to take me inside my house where my mom wood- my fingertips and fingernails scrabbled painfully into the splintery surface- my shoes scuffed and slid uselessly against it. was doing laundry downstairs, and my sister was putting on another doll fashion show for her. The creaking of the aged wood and the scraping of my shoe's soles made Terry's head jerk up. 40 :Ifie Soutiwtn ~ 5fie Soutlwtn ~ 41 �The Victim "Who's there?" I froze as tears pricked the comers of my eyes. The side of my fist rubbed automatically to wipe the tears. Now my body could move. I began sliding silently, defeated, onto the dirt. My shirt caught and ripped on a sharp piece of wood as I did. I couldn't do it. My eye pressed to the narrow hole again. The dead Mary Anne Trunnell I didn 't want to leave. I could feel my feet at last ungluing from the dug-up earth-I felt something small and hard beneath my shoe. The tiny puppy sprawled behind the fence kept moving, but only slightly now. I heard familiar rubber soles slap noisily across our back fence clawed at my eyelid, chin, and cheek. " Who's there?!" Terry's white face appeared suddenly, his patio behind me, "Hey, Andy!" I looked up, it was Jeff, my best friend. Terry's breath came out in a slow, soft hiss behind me. too-bright blue eyes looking at me. "Get away from the fence." I didn't move. Jeff trotted eagerly across the grass. He was thin like me, but somehow it didn't make him look weak. Somehow it made him more threatening. He had grey eyes and coffee-colored hair cropped "Get away! Now!" My lips and tongue struggled. " W-Why' d you do it?" "It ain't dead yet," he said slowly, quietly, and, to my aston- close to his browned skin. Jeff was so tan because he spent all his time outside-avoiding his parent's constant fighti ng and screaming. It irritated and infuriated Jeff so much because they took it out ishment, serenely. "l know when they' re gonna die. This one's got only on him. He grinned bemusedly at me crouched and flattened against ' bout five minutes." I begged my feet to carry me away. " Leave it alone! Please!" A terrified boy, one I hadn't heard the fence, "What're you doi ng?" My best friend was sporting another dark blue black bruise, since I was five, poured from my throat. Terry started laughing, so faintly, it could 've been from inside a neighbor 's house. Then he this time over his entire left eye and a bloody cut on each lip. They'd obviously ganged up on him this time. I hated his parents. imitated me- fake sobbing with his jaw flopping grotesquely. I wanted Terry Vernkins to cry out like that animal. "Get away from it!" my voice hollered. l chanced a look back at Terry, his mouth became a dim slit- his eyes indifferent, blank. I watched his jaw tighten more He smirked. I held my ground, but not out of nerve; my feet had frozen to the ground again. " Ifl was you, I'd get my stupid little face offa this fence right now." His eyes glinted brighter. 42 !ifie Soulfwtn <2wi£ and more, like he was biting down on something big and alive. He stood motionless next to the dying pup. " Hey, do ya' mjnd if my men join yours in battle?" Jeff asked me, prodding my shoulder. "l just swiped the new combo pack with the tank and jeep from Albertson 's. I got it stashed be- !ifie Soulfwtn <2wi£ 43 �Mary Anne Trunnell The Victim hind the rosebush. Wanna see?" I looked back through the slit, not even aware of w hat Jeff was saying. Terry looked past me, focusing only on Jeff, sizing him up, like a dog watching a trespasser. Jeff was shaking my shoulder hard and shouting something, but Terry's eyes staredclutched and held on to my own. I wondered if he cared that Jeff was here, that I' d tell Jeff. There was the fence. It gave some protection, but I knew Terry could get over it. Then one of the pup's glazed, distant eyes focused on me, suffering. What was I supposed to do? Terry'd decided. He held his foot over that body again, daring me to make the wrong move. If I told Jeff, the pup would suffer more, but maybe Jeff could think of what to do. If I didn' t tell him, the pup would continue to suffer, but less. Maybe it'd finally die if Terry stomped on its tiny body again? I hated myself for thinking it. "Hey man, what's going on? What're you looking at? Andy? Andy?!" I turned around frustrated, confused- furious. He chose that moment to look down and stooped and plucked an army man at my feet. "Ouch, looks like he' ll be sitting out the next few battles. Where's the medic?" He laughed. I looked at the man in Jeff's hand, caked in dirt with a busted arm, the man's neck snapped back against his spine. It was Reggie, my favorite out of the entire group. I p icked up the ruined piece of plastic and stared at it. Most would see this broken army man as a toy, but I had always admired him as General Roger Mortimer Withington: an excellent marksman, a dedicated father, and a true, fearless leader. I felt 44 5/u Soulfwut ~ Jeff's eyes on me. " I don't care anymore. It's just a stupid toy!" My hands and legs trembled. Jeff didn't ask anything. He knew me, my voice, too well. Something was wrong, he could tell,- really wrong. He tossed the dark green plastic into the abandoned trench. Jeff's eyebrow's furrowed, "Andy, what's wrong?" He didn't sound like an eleven-year-old anymore. "Look through there." I quavered, pointing where I knew Terry stood. Jeff pressed his eye to the slit. Jeff's body shuddered and froze. I heard an odd hushed noise escape him; it could've been a curse. He suddenly j erked back and snapped his head in my direction. His face transformed. Those famil iar, wise eyes dimmed so much, I almost forgot they belonged to my best friend. I felt something infinitely powerful and yet more terrifying scald and scorch the insides of my body- anger, pain, hate. "We'll get it." That's all he said. Jeff strode around the fence and into Terry's backyard. I followed, dazed and in awe of what was trying to claw- break free- from inside of me. Terry stood in front of the twitching paws, his face stiff, emotionless. He wasn't scared of me or even Jeff. Why couldn't it die? "You didn't listen to me, kid. See what that's gonna do?" Something inside me transformed. I wouldn't let Terry touch that poor thing ever again. Before his shoes could graze the trembling side- I was there. My hands rose and I dove into Terry's old white t-shirt, 5/u Soulfwut ~ 45 �The Victim Mary Anne Trunnell swinging my fists mechanically. Vernkins down. Sharp white knuckles bit again and again into my skull and ribs. I howled. I've never heard myself that way, like that dying body. I waited as long as I could, coughing and feeling my blood slide hot and slow down my face and mouth. I could only taste Jeff was yelling. He wanted to know what to do. Jeff never did that, I did. It was always me. He was scared. Jeff, the leader and hero of the school and neighborhood, was scared. I didn't understand, didn 't care. I hit harder. My knuckles felt broken and stung. Terry backed away slightly. My head reeled in anguish at the deep bruises throbbing and burning through my scalp into my skull, and my knuckles screamed out as I bruised all ten of them harder and harder against Terry's marble body. Terry wildly lunged at me and grabbed my head with his fingernails, dug them in unbearably, then pulled down and away from my scalp. Red streamlets flowed down my cheeks and forehead. I jumped into him, blindly swinging my right fist. That white, cold body fell, hard. Jeff darted forward to help me as I struggled to get up. My head shook side-to-side. "Save it." I told him. He looked at me and couldn't speak or move. Terry tried to slam me into the ground, I managed to roll out of his reach. "Get it!" I pleaded, dodging Terry's fists. Jeff ran past me with a wailing, black body cradled in his and smell a metallic bitterness. My green shirt was stained in reddish black blots. Then I heard Jeff call to me from behind the fence. Springing off Terry, I ran for the other side. He didn 't lunge after me. His white body lay on crimson-spotted earth, silent, staring at me- hard and cold like that ground. My body urged me to collapse as air tore at my exhausted lungs. I ran. On the other side of the fence, I held that suffering body against mine. It quivered faintly and fell limp-cold and stiff in my arms. Jeff ran to my parent's garage and returned with a shovel. He dug a deeper hole in the unfinished trench where Reggie lay. I set that empty body in the hole. No words entered my mind or left my lips. It was dead. I knew it. I saw it, yet one of those staring, filmy eyes found me from that hole-once a bright chocolate brown. I pushed dark brown soil over the tiny body. All I smelt now was stale dirt and dog hair. Jeff remained silent, kneeling next to me. "Nothing should die alone," I croaked. I don't know if he really understood. arms. I held Terry down. My body and mouth shrieked as Terry rammed my ribs repeatedly with his knees and shoes. I held him down. My ribs were ablaze in agony, but somehow, I held Terry 46 !Jfre Soullwu,, <2uil£ 5fre Soullwu,, <2uil£ 4 7 �Elaina Westegaard Chris Onstott The Black Lacquer Jewelry Box I swept my fingers across the mauve sunset that sat between lime colored bamboo trees and a bubbling water fall on the face of the worn black lacquer box. This box was the prize pig among the herd of jewelry containers that adorned the dresser's top, and I was immediately stammered by its remarkable splendor. I held my breath as I popped back the lid and gasped in excitement, for inside the box a small pink plastic ballerina jumped up on a spring and twirled with delight to a faint lullaby: Tura-Lura-Lural. I knew I was alone, but I looked around the bedroom, and peeked around the door frame just to be sure. When I finally felt at ease, I slid my hand into the red velvet lining and pulled out a small piece of treasure. The ring was an odd shape and had been tarnished green with age. A clear diamond, no larger than a popcorn kernel, was plopped atop the center of the silver band. I licked my lips and tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry in anticipation. Finally I built up the courage, I plunged my left pinky finger into the center of the ring. Its unique beauty hypnotized me and I couldn't look away; even when the jewel caught the light from the humming florescent lights above, I kept them open, allowing the glare to bum my eyes. This wasn't the first time I'd seen the ring, but it was the first time I 'd seen it without the Old Lady lurking over my shoulder and examining my every move. It was my favorite, and as far as I could tell, the Old Lady's favorite as well. During my weekly visits I often asked to see it. The Old Lady always com48 5fie Soat!wu,, C2ui££ 5fie Soat!wu,, C2ui££ 49 �The Black lacquer Jewelry Box Elaina Westegaard plied with a bright smile; however, she would only let me hold it ger than a fifty cent piece--of a little brown ceramic owl was the for an instant before she would snatch it from my hands in anger. clock; his other eye was closed as if he was winking and he made She would stand over me staring for a moment; then, with a tear me uncomfortable. The numbers were small roman numerals and in her eye, she would disappear into her bedroom, and return the there were no minute marks between them. The minute hand was trinket to its formal resting p lace. When she reemerged she was broken and was only about the same length as the hour hand, but pleasant and we would have a cup of instant coffee, with hazelnut eventually I made out that it was 3:22. The Old Lady would be home in eight minutes. cream, and burnt toast as we watched reruns of the Golden Girls. Last week when the Old Lady vanished into her room, I I tried not to panic, but all the pulling and prying at the ring strained my neck to see where she hid her beloved possession. On had plumped my finger to the size of a baby dill pickle. My little her chest of drawers she rearranged boxes until she found the one finger was cold and turning a pale color of turquoise. I continued she was looking for. She dropped the ring into a black jewelry box, to cry knowing that when the clocked ticked over to 3:30 the Old then placed the box under a wooden jewelry box, and then put both Lady would place her key in the lock, open the door, and find me the boxes snuggly behind a large silver jewelry box. I wasn' t inten- here in her room with her ring on. Surely she would cut my finger tionally trying to spy, but the ring lured me in like a soft whisper off! She was kind, but untamed, and before she 'd ever dream of wafting upon a summer breeze- I often joked to others that the taking wire cutters to her adored ornament, she would take a meat ring should be given to hobbits and thrown into the depths Mora- cleaver to my plump little finger. dor-and in that moment, I decided I needed to see the ring alone; Still crying, I stomped across the one bedroom apartment to free from the Old Lady's gaze. I made a plan to arrive early on my the bathroom-all of about fifteen steps. I turned on the faucet, and next visit, before the Old Lady came home, and I would get to hold before dropping my hands under the facet to feel the cool water I the magnificent charm as long as I wished. noticed a small string attached to the ring. Funny I never noticed After a long moment I grasped the ring between my thumb it before. I followed the string to a tag. A dingy yellow tag that and forefinger and pulled gently, then hard, but the ring did not reminded me of tags found attached to teacup handles at antique budge. Helplessly, I stood twisting, turning, and tugging the ring, shops. In smeared gray ink the name Sam was scribbled on the but still it did not move. As tears began to flow down my cheeks ticket. I never once heard the Old Lady mention the name Sam- I glanced at the clock on the nightstand; an awkward sight to see, let alone any man. For all I knew it could have been the Old Lady's and almost a little ugly. Nestled in one of the eye sockets-no big- name; for the last year I'd been visiting her she demanded that I 50 5/ie Soulfwtn l2ui£t 5/ie Soulfwtn l2ui£t 5 l �The Black Lacquer Jewelry Box Elaina Westegaard call her Grammy; even though- to my knowledge-she had never week, I was surprised to see her carrying several bags. One was married or had any children. I was able to un-loop the tag without particularly awkward and she refused to let me take it. She shoved much trouble, and put the label in my pocket while I ran the frigid the entire bag into the fridge. I didn't ask if she might want to take water over my swollen finger. the items out of the bag first, simply because every time I offered I waited a moment before trying to remove the ring, and a suggestion she would get angry at me and ask me to leave. She while I waited I noticed that the bathroom was the sweetest smell- scooted her feet along the floor and made her way to the toaster ing room in the entire apartment. While the rest of the abode where she dropped two slices of Wonder bread into the slots and smelled of burnt toast and coffee, the bathroom smelled of roses. prepared the kettle on the stove. When the hot water was ready and And not in an overwhelming, covering up another smell kind of the toast was burnt we sat down on the sofa. way, but just like I was standing in the middle of a garden on a I admired the Old Lady; she was wrinkly and tired. But she warm afternoon. The intoxicating aroma lingered in my nostrils was also very striking. Her silver hair was curled tight against her and rendered me without thought. scalp, and her olive skin stood alone without makeup. Her cheeks Just like before I clasped the ring between my fingers, but were naturally rosy and her lips a perfect shade of cherry. I barely this time I slipped it right off. Holding the ring tightly in my hand, watched the Golden Girls; mostly I just watched her. We talked and walking back toward the bedroom I retied the tag. I gave the ring for a moment and then I decided to leave a little early. I noticed a one last glance before opening the black lacquer jewelry box. I no- hint of sadness in the way she fo llowed me to the door, and when I ticed a small envelope resting on the inside of the box. I picked it up; gave her a hug she held me longer than was typical. I didn 't ask her oddly it was still closed. There was no name on the front so I held it to see the ring; maybe that's why she was sad. But maybe because up to the light to try and see what was inside, but I was unsuccessful. she didn't want me to leave; maybe she didn't want to be alone. I Just then I heard the click of the key in the lock, and I slammed the was the only visitor she ever had, and at times I felt sad when I had box shut and put it back where it went, under the wooden box and to leave her, but tomorrow was the last day before Thanksgiving behind the large silver jewelry box. I leaped to the living room, and break and I had to study for a midterm. I knew she would understand. situated myself in my usual spot on the flowered powder blue couch. The Old Lady flung the door open and struggled to lug I met the Old Lady about a year ago at a small corner her grocery sacks to the table. I rushed over to help her. She and store-the only one left in our town-one day during my lunch I go shopping together every other week, and since we went last break. The store is small and usually doesn' t have what I need, 52 !Ifie Sou1fwtn ~ !Ifie Sou1fwtn ~ 53 �The Black Lacquer Jewelry Box but it's close to the college where I attend classes. On that day I Elaina Westegaard I already knew that the Old Lady would look at her ring was there for a can of Campbell's split pea soup, coincidently, so this evening and notice the missing letter, and she would know was she. Her frail little figure stood in the soup aisle staring up at it was me. I knew I could never go back. My heart broke at the the top shelf: like a puppy begging to be pat. When I arrived she thought of the Old Lady's disenchantment when she figured out quickly grabbed me by the arm and desperately asked if I could what had happened. As tears welled in my eyes I held the letter get her a can of the split pea soup on the top shelf. I kindly agreed; tight in my hand wrinkling the paper. I boarded the bus avoiding however, I was met with disappointment when the can of split pea eye contact with the driver. Most days I sat in the front seat and I grabbed for the Old Lady was the last. I left her in the aisle, and talked with the driver, but right now I didn 't feel much like social- decided on a sandwich from the deli instead of soup. izing. I sat in the back, in the darkest seat, and farthest away from anyone else. Once in the parking lot I again noticed the Old Lady hauling a small metal personal shopping cart. I offered to help her to her car, I continued to clench the letter in my hand, and I came to but she explained she didn't have a car and only lived around the the conclusion I had to open the letter. I had to know what I had comer if I could help her. Although I was in a hurry, I helped her taken from this quirky, lonely old lady. I gently tore open the side to her house for some reason, and then I did the same again two of the envelope and dumped out the letter. It read: weeks later, and every other week after that until it had become routine, and she began inviting me every Tuesday afternoon for November 26, 1944 refreshments and entertainment. To Samuel on our.first anniversary, I walked down the steps of the apartment building and out I miss you terribly and know that you will soon come home the front door into the crisp winter atmosphere. I headed toward to me. Every time I glance at my wedding ring I'm reminded of my bus stop and only paused once to admire the way the sunset you and how much I need you to come home. I walked to the park flooded the snow covered sidewalk with an orange sparkle. My today to feed the ducks and as I sat on the bench the sun caught my hands began to tum red and the tip of my nose was cold. As I ring just so. I giggled as the light skated across the diamond and I decided to write you a poem: dipped my hands into my pockets I felt the poke of paper. And there, in my right side pocket, was the unopened letter. I must have This Ring flung it in my pocket when I rushed to put the ring and boxes back An obvious love That was so hard to see in their places. [;fie Soutfwtn ~ 55 �The Black Lacquer Jewelry Box Now, no secrets to hide Love sets me free Elaina Westegaard center of the table was a bouquet of flowers; roses, an empty bottle of wine; Smoking Loon Pinot Nair, and several black and white pictures. I fingered through them and figured out they were wed- Still I get butterflies Every kiss just like the first Time will not take away ding pictures. The woman in the photos was Dolly and the man in the uniform must have been Sam. As I continued to rummage, I picked up a letter from the US War Department: This happiness that feels rehearsed 16 November 1944 Before I met you I loved you Dear Mrs. Pechtel: You are my true love, my king For you I'd give my life It is with profound regret that I confirm the recent telegram i,iforming you ofthe death ofyour husband, Private Samuel T All in the name of this ring Pechtel, 56,571,954, 1,ifantry, who was previously reported missing in action in Hofland on 28 March 1944. Please write soon. Your Loving Wife, Dolly Sam, where is Sam? I wonder why she doesn't wear the ring anymore, and why she never talks of him, and why this letter has remained unopened all these years? I rode the entire bus route until I was back in front of the I realize the burden ofanxiety that has been yours since he was first reported missing in action and deeply regret the sorrow this later report brings you. May the knowledge that he made the supreme sacrifi.ce for his home and country be a source ofsustaining comfort. My sympathy is with you in this time ofgreat sorrow. Sincerely yours, comer store. The entire trip I thought of how I can find out more Thomas Juno Major General about Sam, but more importantly how I would return this letter to The Adjutant General Dolly. I walked back toward Dolly's. I could see the clock tower; it was l 0:07 PM. It was late and I knew she would be asleep. I took my time walking, thinking of what I would say if she caught me. Finally I climbed the steps to her door and unlocked it as quietly as possible. I tiptoed in to find what I expected: darkness. In the 56 !Ifie Scu.dfwut l2uil£ I wanted to wake her. I wanted to ask her to tell me more about Sam, and that I would stay a while longer on my weekly visits. But I didn't. I left the letter I had taken on the table and once again began my journey back home. !Ifie Scu.dfwut l2uifl 57 �- - - ---- - - - The Black Lacquer Jewelry Box The next day as I sat down for my midterm I noticed anoth- Rachael Ball Something in the Water er student reading a local newspaper. As he held up the paper my heart sank. On the front page was a picture of Dolly and a headline that declared: War Widow Dies in Sleep on What Would Be Her 64th Anniversary. The paper reported that she passed at l 0: 15 PM. My head sunk into my hands and I couldn' t bear to look up. If only I'd known; if only I'd stayed longer, or checked on her before I had left that night. While I was waiting for the bus the second time I again saw the university clock tower; it was 10: 12 when I boarded the final bus route for home. I had been sitting in her kitchen while she lay dying in her bedroom. I will never forget the time I learned what an "expression" is. I was 9-years old when my mother announced we had a new baby on the way. About a week later my mother was having some adult time with my next door neighbor. I didn't want to disturb them, but my evening chores required me to enter the room to put the last of the dishes away. My mother was so happy when Linda told her the news that she was also having a baby. I congratulated her and told them my teacher also was having a baby. They both said there must be something in the water. I was confused by this, but went to my room. The next day I told my teacher that my mom and Linda were pregnant, and she too blamed it on the water. I always thought that being someone's mom would be fun. I played house all the time with my friends, but I never thought about how much work it was. I decided I would not like to be a mom when I saw how miserable my mother was in the morning. I swore off water for good. It wasn't hard at first, but as the week went on Gym class became a nightmare. I ran as fast as I could and sitting in class for the agonizing two hours before lunch was almost unbearable. I even asked my teacher if I could bring in an extra juice box, but she said food was only allowed in the cafeteria. I was doing well on my no-water vow, all the way up to the night of the jump rope competition. Every year my school participated in ' Jump Rope for the Heart', which raised money for the Heart Association. I was already into the second round with plenty of my friends who had 58 :Jiu Souilwtn {fu]£f, :Jiu Souilwtn {fu]£f, 59 �Rachael Ball Phillip Evans Tuckett given up already cheering me on. I even practiced my criss-cross The Man in the Back Room jumping all week. I was jumping my heart out. When the end of round two came we all got to stop for a break. I had never been so The man in the back room died last night, thirsty in my life. But I wasn't going to break my vow. My mother Still and straight in the stiff grey sheets. however kept telling me to drink some water. I got so annoyed Quietly; not wanting to bother the rest. with her and I yelled, "I don't want to get pregnant!" My teacher, my mother and several others stared at me. My mother asked why I would think that and I told her three adults Without a sound to mark his passingSave a sigh. told me there was something in the water that got them pregnant, The man in the back room died last night, and all three of them go to the school a lot so it must be especially Though his soul stopped breathing long ago. dangerous to drink the water at school. At that time the buzzer rang for round three and I got right back to it. That night my mother had a talk with me and explained the word "expression" to me. She managed to escape "The Talk" with me. As long as I couldn't get pregnant by drinking the water I didn't care. Veiled windows and dusty treasures Keep wistful watch; bearing silent w itness. To the loss. The man in the back room died last night, His mind walled in; emotions shuttered. The air heavy with diseased dreams. So many yellowed memories missingEven a leg. Once he perched like a curious bird At the kitchen table; head tilted, Sharp eyes taking in the world. Secret rocks hidden in the basement. Books devoured. 60 5fte Soutlwm l2uif£ 5fte Soutlwm l2uif£ 61 �Phillip Evans Tuckett A stiff painted pony that won a prize. This bespectacled Blue Ribbon Boy Driven deep inside himself by God knows whatGod knows why. The man in the back room died last night, Screams of fear and joy and rage Frozen firm ly in his throat, Held inside so long they turned to poisonSuch a waste. The man in the back room died last night, Love and laughter checked at the main gate. Passion and pain kept under lock and key, Safely stored, perhaps, for another time and placeSuch is eternity. The History of The Southern Quill: Year Editor(s) Advisor(s) 1950-51 1951-52 1953-54 1953-57 1957-58 Loraine Taylor Loraine Taylor Rose Workman No magazine published Karen Vawdrey Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Rose Esplin 1958-59 1959-60 1960-61 1961 -62 1962-63 1963-64 1964-65 1965-66 1966-67 1967-68 1968-69 1969-70 1970-71 1971-72 1972-73 1973-74 Karen Vawdrey Barbara Larkin Titine Spillsbury Joan Esplin Joan Esplin Ilene Harmon Emily Cottam Kay Lichtenwalter James Force James Force Linda Sue Hunt Linda Sue Hunt Roxanne Schmidt Michelle Thomas Gordon J. Peterson Connie Gifford 1974-75 Cathy Pam Heaton 1975-76 1976-77 1977-78 1978-79 1979-80 1980-81 No magazine published Michael Perry Janice F. DeMille Marilee Camp James Force Bill Batzlie Pansy L. Hardy Laura Lee Graff Pansy L. Hardy Kurtis Crist Ace G. Pilkington Linda Hendrick & Aderianna Smith Melanie Madsen Ace G. Pilkington 1981-82 62 g,re Soullwut ~ Juanita Brooks & Betty Allen Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Reed Blake, Jr. Robert 0. Dalton Robert 0. Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Robert 0. Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking 5Pre Soullwut ~ 63 �1982-83 1983-84 1984-85 1985-86 1986-87 1987-88 1988-89 1989-90 1990-9 1 1991-92 1992-93 1993-94 1994-95 1995-96 1996-97 1997-98 1998-99 1999-2000 2000-2001 2001-2002 2002-2003 2003-2004 2004-2005 64 fjfie So.utlwtn ~ D ianna K. Kearney Ace G . Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Dawn Houghton Ace G. P ilkington Julianna Burton Ace G. P ilkington Janae D ale Ace G. Pilkington Bonnie McCowan & Kris Shipp Karen Hansen Ace G. Pilkington Stephanie Ch idester Ace G. Pilkington & Chris Metcalf Ace G. Pilkington Stephanie Chidester & Chris Metcalf Tiffany Durrant Ace G. Pilkington & Joni Jones Christian Arial Ace G. P ilkington Jandi Jones, Natalee Ace G. Pilkington Nilsson & Chris Pellew Jandi Jones Ace G. Pilkington & Natalie N ilsson Ace G. P ilk ington Dina Gerhauser Ace G. P ilkington Aubree Howard D iana L. Blakley Ace G. Pilkington & Bart Jay Mitchell April Davis, Ace G. P ilkington Amber Hyde, & Kelly Leatham Heidi Madsen Ace G. P ilk ington Darryl Barfuss, Liana Ace G. Pilkington Kempton & Cindy Lee Wallace Cindy Lee Wallace Ace G. P ilkington No magazine published John F. Cartier Daneen Deuel & Cami Cox Brad A. Barry Katie O'Connell & Leesa Ricci Brad A. Barry Gordon Bangert, Charlotte Emett, Derick Empey, & Dustin Jackson 2005-2006 2006-2007 2007-2008 Gordon Bangert C had Lee Ashley White Brad A. Barry Brad A. Barry Stephen B. Armstrong CONSIDERING A 4-YEAR DEGREE? A degree in Eng lish is extremely versatile. English majors develop writing skills prized by numerous professions, including: business, law, marketing, advertising, journalism, film production, public relations, public affairs, and teaching. Students in our program also broaden their understanding of the complex relationship between the aesthetic and intellectual aspects of literature and the cultural milieu in which important literary works were produced. English majors at D ixie State College of Utah can choose from three emphasis options: L iterature, Professional & Technical Writing, and English Education. For more information, check out: http://new.dixie.edu/english/ or contact Dr. Sue Bennett (Department Chair) at 435-652-7815. 5/ie So.utlwtn ~ 65 ��I I• 'I1/, ,, I fj 'I /. ,Iu11ul, 4' ·, n, 1,1,f, 1/, ,-r✓///, ,,jlh If' II J/lrl✓j f.WN.I' 1 Ith ,/; (, /, I /4y th, '/' ,1,1,,, { /,-tm /1 //,, /II I a n, 11 1/,, ✓1, I h u ,,/ r,;11/ 1;, 1 h , I 1 ,;, ✓11,, THE SOUTHER QUILL IS AN ANNUAL PUBLICATION COMPILED AND DESIGNED BY DIXIE STATE COLLEGE STUDE TS. '/' � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2008.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2008 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2008 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>TABLE OF CONTENTS</th></tr><tr><th>Poetry</th></tr><tr><td>Dustin Jackson </td><td>New Year Celebration </td><td>1</td></tr><tr><td>Royal Donnelly </td><td>Unrequited </td><td>2</td></tr><tr><td>D. Gary Christian </td><td>Buffalo Beans and Buttercups </td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td>Jeffrey Ostler </td><td>Because </td><td>5</td></tr><tr><td>Kristy Hunt </td><td>Give it Back </td><td>7</td></tr><tr><td>Rachel McCausland </td><td>Hello, Sir Change </td><td>8</td></tr><tr><td>Toshi Dietz </td><td>Agony and Apathy </td><td>10</td></tr><tr><td>K. Marrott </td><td>Ears </td><td>12</td></tr><tr><td>Robin Hampton </td><td>Death of My Aunt </td><td>13</td></tr><tr><td>K. Marrott </td><td>Family Tree </td><td>15</td></tr><tr><td>Jon Platten </td><td>Heroes </td><td>16</td></tr><tr><td>Nerrissa Cannon </td><td>The Day Ahead </td><td>18</td></tr><tr><td>Janae Hawk </td><td>A Summer's Eve </td><td>19</td></tr><tr><td>Robin Hampton </td><td>Sister: A Dedication to the Virgin River </td><td>21</td></tr><tr><td>Erin Riggs </td><td>Palette </td><td>22</td></tr><tr><td>Myrianne Heaton </td><td>Sprinkles </td><td>23</td></tr><tr><td>Krissy Morwood </td><td>The Vampire's Song </td><td>24</td></tr><tr><td>Casie McNaughton </td><td>Darkened Night </td><td>27</td></tr><tr><td>Melanie Florence </td><td>Waiting at the Las Vegas Airport </td><td>28</td></tr><tr><td>Dustin Jackson </td><td>LEAvE ME ALONe </td><td>30</td></tr><tr><td>Jenica Maxwell </td><td>American Haiku </td><td>31</td></tr><tr><td>Nerrissa Cannon </td><td>Kaleidoscope </td><td>32</td></tr><tr><td>Phillip Evans Tuckett </td><td>The Man in the Back Room </td><td>61</td></tr><tr><th>Prose</th></tr><tr><td>Phillip Evans Tuckett </td><td>Indifference Defeated </td><td>35</td></tr><tr><td>Mary Anne Trunnell </td><td>The Victim </td><td>39</td></tr><tr><td>Elaina Westegaard </td><td>The Black Lacquer Jewelry Box </td><td>49</td></tr><tr><th>Visual Art</th></tr><tr><td>Shaylee Bailey </td><td>The River Styx </td><td>Cover</td></tr><tr><td>Tracy Worthington </td><td>Light of My Heart </td><td>3</td></tr><tr><td>Gary Stanley </td><td>The Grid </td><td>6</td></tr><tr><td>Aaron Westegaard </td><td>Dead Tree 2 </td><td>14</td></tr><tr><td>Janna Eno </td><td>Slowly </td><td>17</td></tr><tr><td>Josh Wilson </td><td>Turquoise Necklace </td><td>20</td></tr><tr><td>Mary Anne Trunell </td><td>Stewing In The Dark </td><td>25</td></tr><tr><td>Rachel McCausland </td><td>Don't Look Away </td><td>26</td></tr><tr><td>Chirs Onstott </td><td>Spot </td><td>33</td></tr><tr><td>Diana Stanley </td><td>Clouds </td><td>34</td></tr><tr><td>Jayne Rich </td><td>Road </td><td>38</td></tr><tr><td>Chris Onstott </td><td>Swan </td><td>48</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/ed38864a783e5018901da46c3faa7a5e.pdf ea41a33ba7c6be54dcb10d3a66829da1 PDF Text Text Tbe Southern Quill �The Southern Quill Editor Chad Lee Assistant Editors Keia Blake Annie Bundy Carpenter Stefani McKenzi Staff Kristy Hunt Lindsay Ingram Sheri Wilkes Advisor Dr. Brad A. Barry All poems, stories, and artwork are contributed to The Southern Quill by students of Dixie State College and/or residents of Washington County. Each work is jointly copyrighted by the writer/ artist and The Southern Quill. ©2007 �Contents The Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Scholarship Fund This scholarship fund was established in November 1972 by Dr. Vasco M. Tanner, upon the death of his wife Annie Atkin Tanner. Throughout their married life, Annie would often accompany her husband on his field trips to collect specimens for the BYU Department of Zoology and Entomology, which Dr. Tanner established and chaired for over thirty-three years. Annie, a prolific writer, would spend her time "out in the field" writing poetry and stories. As a member of the Pen Women of Utah, her poems and stories were published in the ReliefSociety magazine, the Deseret News and various literary journals. Many of her poems reflect her love for, and the beauty of St. George, where she was born and lived the early years of her life. For many years the Tanner children have continued to contribute to the fund, which awards three scholarship prizes each year to student poets of Dixie State College. To determine scholarship winners, the Southern Quill editorial staff takes approximately ten of the highest scoring student poems that have been submitted, and sends them to members of the Tanner fami ly who are involved w ith the scholarship fund. The Tanner family then determines the first, second, and third place winners-which are then presented along with the many other fine poems in each edition of The South- Fluttering Mary Anne Trunnell ....................................... 8 Lofty Inspiration Betty J. Vickers ................................................9 Haiku Gordon Bangert ............................................10 Atomic Sidewalk Carter Vaughn ...............................................11 Tears Conrad S. Cardinal... ..................................... 12 Autumn Christie Jackson ............................................13 All Hallows' Eve Chad Lee ........................................................ 15 My Hidden Monster Sylvia Johansen .............................................17 Wingless Angel Mary Anne Trunnell ...... ............................... 20 The Runaway Place Sheri Wilkes ..................................................22 Pulling Weeds Jeanie Robe rts ................................................24 2 3 �Seasons Yukiko Takeuchi .................................25 Reaching for the Light Melody Dick ....................................... 50 Winter's Sugar Every Day April Jones ..........................................52 Stefani McKenzi ..................................26 Disguise Non Tragic Kathrine Thomas ...............................53 Carter Vaughn ........................ .............28 The Creation Conrad S. Cardinal.. ............................ 29 An Old Guitar and a Capo Sarah Tritsch .......................................54 Ex-Con Sea Story Aaron Otto Jepsen .............................. 55 Betty). Vickers .......................................30 The Great Wall August Day D. Gary Christian ................................ 56 Chad Lee ...............................................31 Dream Catcher Flame Joan Runs Through ............................ 58 Minnie Benson .....................................41 Confession Meditation Ashlee Koller...................................... 59 Donna Stickley .....................................42 Stream Three Magic Words Kristen Shimomiya .............................43 Star Strewn Riddle April Jo nes ...........................................44 Joseph Seeley ...................................... 69 Fantasy Donna Stickley...................................70 Recycling Cinderella Girl Paula deAnda ..................................... 71 Jesse Laws ............................................45 Snow in the Desert Sheri Wilkes ........................................ .46 Carcross in the Yukon D. Gary Christian ................................72 Alone Life at 3 Lindsay lngram ................................... 73 Christie Jackson ..................................4 7 Selfish Pride Truth vs. Reality Wendi Epps .........................................48 4 Wendi Epps ........................................ 74 5 �Over You Kristy Hunt ....................................................75 (Untitled) Jesse Laws ......................................................76 My List by Lindsay Ingram ................................................. 32 Never Grow Out of It Annalee Bundy-Carpenter ............................ 77 The Faded Blue Ribbon by Justin Sharp ...........................60 The Storm Royal Donnelly ..............................................78 Locks of Love by Tel St ewart............................ Front Cover A Different Type of Death in the Family Janae Hawk ....................................................79 Stand Strong by Kristen Shim omiya ................. Back Cover A Ghostly, Frosty Night by Tel Stewart ............................ 14 On the Beach at Eden Jeanie Roberts ................................................81 Lightning Strike Joan Runs Through .......................................82 Untitled by Rebecka Cooper ............................................ 16 Untitled by Rebecka Cooper ............................................. 19 Old Man Tree by Janae Hawk ...........................................23 You Are There Lindsay Ingr am .............................................83 Crunching Snow Untitled by Gor don Bangert.............................................25 After Night Life by Janae Hawk ........................................27 Mini Benson ...................................................84 Pines Cones by Bryaun Skinner ....................................... 40 One Annalee Bundy-Carpenter ............................85 Imagine Untitled by Rebecka Cooper .............................................49 Kiln by Bryaun Skinner. ................................................... 51 Angelica Rodriguez .......................................86 Racers by Mike Preston ...................................................67 Haiku Gordon Bangert ............................................. 89 The Stick by Bryaun Skinner .......................................... 68 Untitled Rebecka Cooper ................................................. 80 History of The Southern Quil/ ............................................90-92 Red Berries by Tel Stewart.. ...............................................87 Cedar Flowers by Annnie Bundy Carpenter ..................88 6 7 �~ by Mary Anne Trunnell Lofty Inspiration by Betty J. Vickers A flutter deep in myself will arise, like trapped winged insects searching to evade. His eyes glance over me; I peek into his eyes. My gaze falls from his own, I look while his fades. Never notice me, nor my secret thoughts, but think of me and see me standing there. I'll not touch this sickly sweet web and get caught. Still I'm tempted to cling to those barbed hairs. There is plenty more than a reddened cheek, or irregular beating of the heart. My voice and thoughts w ill cease to be meek; not now, though some day my weakness w ill part. The long trail winds steadily upward. I rest on a flat, chair-like rock, use my hat as a fan and prop my aching feet. The early morning rays crown the distant mountain peaks standing guard over the meadows and valleys; curious chipmunks beg a handout and cheeky squirrels chatter nearby. Red-winged blackbirds dart and plunge and ravens call. Meadowlarks reply. I raise my face to the sun and breathe deeply of the sweet alpine air- suddenly, pinnacles are possible and the path shortens. For now, I will rely on fake endings, until I feel the divine cupid's sting. 8 9 �~ cf':.clc.,ua.lk by Carter Vaughn Hail<u by Gordon Bangert Increase your knowledge, so that you shall know how much you have yet to learn. I walk these streets In contemplation Of the obvious And disguised Amidst fools The sacred limits And no knowledge Of the skies The reflections Change in accordance With the cornea of The observer's eyes Some passersby, They strike me With the brilliance Characterized By the infinite, A beauty that Can be seen As both Simplistic and intricate We are a mass Of realities Crossing paths At every junction Performing random Acts that depict Some sort of Symbiotic malfunction I picture bacteria Dancing green In the gutter I hear them collide To the sound of Techno music And it seems absurd that all this action this huge conglomerate of mind, space, and matter could ever be exhausted it seems absurd that it will all one day end. t=ir-§t Vlace Winner-Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Scholarship Award 10 11 �Tears by Conrad S. Cardinal Some men grow up believing they should never show a tear. They believe it's a sign of weakness, or perhaps a sign of fear. Many go through life never showing, what it is they feel. Controlling their emotions rarely allowing themselves to be real. When I was young, I also believed that men didn't cry. All that changed the day I saw my dad with a tear in his eye. Now I've come to realize, tears have a special place. They bring our sadness to the surface, then wash it off our face. by Christie Jackson The Autumn leaves fall gently from the trees and are swept up into a dance by a North Eastern breeze. As frost starts to creep crawling silently though the air, the ground all turns brown, the fruit trees all bare. But before that a sunset reflected in the earth, while couples move inside to sit by the hearth. Children's gaiety and laughter is muffled by the wind and bright patch-work quilts are being tied off and pinned. Scents of cider and spices are swirling around the room Their soft warmth staves off impending winter gloom. Rosy cheeks blossom the colder the weather turns. Part of me always Yearns For AU TU MN Without the tears to float our hurt and dislodge it from our heart, We may never be able to heal our wounds and make a brand new start. 12 13 �by Chad Lee Who are these wraithlike nomads that smother my village in fright? Why have these fiends come knocking who've ruined my evening's respite? Door by door house by house they travel in cavalcade. What is it they want from their one eve jaunt? It's candy and warm t reats homemade. The Citizens of Sleepy Hollow were haunted by the horseman's ways But he doesn't compare to these ghoulies who've anticipated this night for days. These demons are cruel and cunning, their spitefulness knows no bounds To fool the unwise, they don a disguise as angels, Power Rangers, and clowns. Appeasing these sugar-fueled phantoms isn't as easy as one may suppose. My uncle once handed out pennies, which they skillfully crammed up his nose. And don't give them pencils or bookmarks for that is a stupid mistake. Your dog they will tease as they pee on your trees and then throw your cat in the lake. A Ghostly, Frosty Night by Tel Stewart 14 Soon my neighbor was gnashing after giving out toothpaste and combs, The Banshees obliterated her begonias and disemboweled the quaint garden gnomes. My offering of chocolates however, seemed to keep the creatures at bay And from my neighbor's curse word I assume what occurred will be remembered a year from today. 15 �My Hidden Monster by Sylvia Johansen I never thought this monster would Consume me as it has Convinced myself I knew its face But yet, I'm in its claws The world around me only sees Facades I want them to For no one is aware of this Trial I'm going through The torture felt in running long Past bones and joints can stand Trying to erase the guilt That binging late demands Standing in the mirror makes Me hate myself some more Why? Since I a m disciplined Can this, I not control? The voice inside my head yells "YOU ARE FAT, AND YOU KNOW WHY!" Spiting, loathing, permeating Every second of my life untitled by Rebecka Cooper What I'd give to look at food Not knowing all its stats On fat grams, carbs, and calories And say "I can't eat that." Continued on next page... 16 17 �Others I confide are Convinced that I am fine So I retract my openness Still deepening the lie Perfection I cannot attain I know this ...yet I make The exception for myself My soul it starts to take Sucking all the life and joy I used to feel and know Twisting thoughts and thinking food Is all I'm living for It's on my mind when I awake Again when I lie down As I'm sitting in my class Or driving into town I'm frightened deeply to admit This weakness is in me That I've let a monster kill My hopes, my goals, my dreams I know I'm sick, I know I'm ill But embarrassment prevents Me from allowing myself to Give me another chance untitled by Rebecka Cooper At living life free from this guilt That's barely classified Yet I know it's real, and hurts, And shredding my insides. 18 19 �by Mary Anne Trunnell Little one, you're finally here. You are so perfect, Your bright eyes so clear. Doctors can fix anything, So why can't they fix you? Dear one, sweet little one, Why are your cheeks so cold? My vision is only a blur. Why is your shining, alert gaze Become a clouded, vacant one? How can I say good-bye? I only just met you! I love you, oh how I do. How could I ever not? You were supposed to Grow up with me. Your velvet hair so new. It's already time. I watch as you're laid Down in your small casket. I see your soft miniature Hands clench and feet kick. You are a blessing. You are perfect. You are a wingless angel. You are mine. It's not true. They must be mistaken. A snowy, lacy Dress is wrapped around Your still, white body. As you are closed off From the world forever, I look into your closed eyes. You are perfect! You are perfect. I remember when they were Open and full of sparkling life. Is this why you stopped breathing As you lay in your crib? You were so perfect, My little angel. Tell me. Please tell me this can be fixed. 20 Yet, I guess you've already earned your very own set of wings. 21 �The Runaway Place by Sheri Wilkes Close your eyes and count to ten, like we did when we were young. Hide in that dark place and be afraid, to breath as if it was poison. 0 little brother that tagged along, we made you cry and run away, back home to your mother, who watches and waits for you still. Had I only known that you were lost, I would have come to find you. The trees and branches we used to climb, bound and held you from our sight. But you wanted to win the game! To beat us all and be the first to shout "0 ly-olly-ox-n-free" ...and so you did. But you cheated the game, and ran home too soon! You made us all cry like children, so we won't run and hide anymore. I don't want to peek and see you there. I will hide my eyes and count to ten, before walking up to find you hiding in your wooden box. Old man tree by Janae Hawk And now you are "Scott-free"! You thought the world would be a better place, but you were wrong, and ran to hide, to the run-away place ....when you died. §econd Vlace Winner-Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Scholarship Award 22 23 �by Jeanie Roberts by Yukiko Takeuchi From the three borders where winter froze midsummer flowers, all day I excavate the ivory roots of knapweed and hoary cress, assert my will against convolvulus and shovel-stab starthistle until late in the afternoon, rejoicing in my modest victory over the last blue-green mesh of birdeye speedwell, I am placated by one final strain and snap beneath the spade. Here, they blame you, Eve, for noxious weeds all stemming from that apple affair women recall as coercion in the garden. We are never sure how forcefully you pressed that perfect fruit into t he open palm, his first taste inevitable, desire swelling the seed peren nial as spring. I close my eyes and dream and dream I see the springtime flowe rs bloom All the valley is pink and white Spring has touched the earth again I feel the heat of the sun's rays Children playing on summer days Summer is on the earth again I pass the fields of gazing grain Fall time harvest has begun Fall has touched the earth again The earth is cold from the setting sun Snow is falling from above Winter is upon the earth again After all those millennia, working familiar earth with dirt on my skin, in my nails and hair, I thank you for that, Eve, for germ and impulse in this wilderness, and for the pure necessity to plunge my fingers into damp soil, the infiltration of their s lender shoots pungent with the promise of fertility. unlilled by Gordon Banger/ 24 25 �Every Day by Stefani McKenzi You woke up and took four aspirin Just like tomorrow and yesterday Fake a smile and walk out the door Hide behind the eye shadow It'll calm your nerves All day you're someone else Can't figure out which person to be But you can fake it around anyone So at night you're able to sleep Bad dreams haunt you As you curl up with your favorite pink sheet Wake up in tears Can't quite figure out why Then it hits you He's dead and you're not quite alive Internal struggle Can't figure it out You're happy sometimes And then you cry Ever said a nice word and meant it? Probably not. Just down some vodka and close your eyes. Eventually it'll all turn out right. You woke up this morning and took four aspirin Just like tomorrow and yesterday Cell phone Laptop Silk sheets Prada All the lovely things you hide behind Trying to find happiness in material things How about you look in the mirror and don't cry Then see how badly you need them After Night Life by Janae Hawk 26 27 �Non Tragic by Carter Vaughn I met a man once On the sidewalk He asked for a cigarette. I handed him one And realized A gigantic purple balloon For a hand. "Jesus, what Happened to your hand?" I asked. "You know when you Get sumthin' stuck under Your nail and you just Keep puttin' it off, Gettin' it out?" "No." "Well they'll probably Have to cut it off. Right now I'm waitin' For an ambulance." He was utterly indifferent. This rotting man Somehow came into existence And whatever force pushed him Into this hallow world Was slowly dragging him out. His ambulance came. He said, "Thanks for the smoke," And climbed in like it was a cab Then I stood there And watched them Drive off to the place Where they cut off hands ... 28 The Creation by Conrad S. Cardinal Have you looked at God's creation, beauty all around? The trees that grow abundantly In the fertile ground. The sky so blue and the clouds so white. So peaceful to the eye, making things all right. Rolling hills with grass so green, like walking on a cloud. Flowers growing everywhere, standing straight and proud. Their fragrance so pleasing to savor. You can almost taste their flavor. The wind as it moves among the trees, singing its song. It calms the restless spirit as one walks along. Indeed God has blessed us in a very special way. The sun that rises each morning and warms us through the day. How about the moon that lights the night? The stars in the midnight sky, shinning oh so bright? The rivers, streams, lakes and oceans, magnificent to see. All of this God created, just for you and me. 29 �~ia ~tory by Betty J. Vickers When you look away to sea where the hazy blue-gray melts into the winter rose of sunset, you look into the very heart of God. The waves that ceaselessly touch the shore are no more than the rippling of His robeeven as the rose sinks finally beneath the gray, one might think, He sleeps. Not so. All through the changing night of time He remains: ever bluish-gray and softly hazy rose, the hem of His robe blessing the trembling shores of His world. 30 4~,0~ by Chad Lee 'Tfie safes ofmyfeet k,iss tfie sun-scorcfiedeartfi as I tread 6etween sentind trees. Sudden{y tfie 6reeze sets tfie feaves dancing and tfiey wfiisper... as tfiougfi someone is watcfiing... ... fiiding somewfiere unseen. %.e supp[e murmur caresses tfie [eaves and cfii{[s my 6Cood witfi paranoia. I gCance 6efiind me, 6ut notfiing is tfiere :Notfiing 6ut tfie rumors ofautumn. 31 �I went to the local animal shelter, and behind the main / Li,st office were the kennels. There were about twelve dogs there, all barking for my attention and I wanted to take them all home with me. I walked down the rows of dogs till in the last A short story by Lindsay ln9ram kennel I saw this small little puppy, a golden retriever about fou r months old. I adopted her and name her Millie. I fell in- Death has a certain power to make others value life more. stantly in love with her, and I crossed that off my list. **** 3 months. That's about 90 days. Pancreatic cancer spreads fast and there's little hope for recovery. **** This is it. I am standing on the edge of a bridge. If I take one more step in front of me I will fall 500 feet towa rds the "Do you want to start radiation therapy?" the doctor asked. "What's the point?" earth. I start to hesitate. Do I really want to do this? I've been "Well in some cases the cancer can react to radiation and planning on doing this for three months now. Am I about to minimizes the chances of metastasizing and then we can go in ... " change my m ind, or let fear take over? Would I let the thought of falling, of dying here, now, like this make me pause? I won- What was the point? **** When I was e ighteen I made a list of everything I wanted to der what my sister would say if she knew where I was. What would s he do? Would she even try to stop me? **** do before I died, a lthough that was back when I thought I'd live forever. I dug out that old list, embarrassed that I hadn't been keeping 76 days le~ up with it. Back then I wrote down fifty things I've always wanted #9 Get a tattoo. to do and I had done some of them. Eleven in fact: I've been to the I said goodbye to Millie, and hopped in my car. I drove Grand Canyon, I've been kissed in the rain, and I've graduated from to Joe's Tattoo Parlor. I've always been hesitant to get a tattoo high school. And s ince I've done eight more: I've gotten my degree, before because I was scared that I would regret it later in life. I don't worry about that anymore. seen the Golden Gate Bridge and milked a cow. I crossed those off. I had 3 months to do the other 31 things on my list. But I already knew what I wanted: a long stem rose down there were some things I just couldn't do in that time, I couldn't the side of my abdomen. I waited while a guy in full sleeves have a baby, or spend a summer backpacking through Europe so taped saran w rap over the new dragon on another guy's back. Now it was my turn. sadly 1crossed those off. I got down to 25. I had 3 months to do all 25 things left on my list. **** I followed Mr. Full Sleeves into a back room and told him what I wanted. My nerves were unsettled, but I was too excited to change my mind. The needle started buzzing, heard #4 Adopt a dog. My mother never let me have a dog when I was growing up; she never liked animals. But I've always wanted one, so I put it on my list even over AC/DC's "Hell Bells." The needle pierced my skin, tracing the flower. I didn't cry. I d idn't scream. I just felt the pain. The artist told me I was all done so I stood to see my new self. I smiled, left the parlor, and crossed that one off my list 32 33 �**** Cancer occurs in the body when some cells uncontrollably divide to form tumors or invade body tissues. There's no magic remedy to prevent from getting it, no special tool to tell who will get it and who is safe. Pancreatic cancer causes severe abdominal pain and back pain, fatigue and often fever, jaundice, loss of appetite and consequentially weight loss, nausea, and sometimes anemia. Pancreatic cancer metastasizes or spreads, usually to the liver or the lymph nodes. I didn't even know what the pancreas did four months ago. * ** * 59 days left #12: Crash a party I went to lunch with a friend of mine from work one Saturday, and she was depressed and crying because her ex-boyfriend was getting married that night. "And at the Garden View Hotel, you know how I've always wanted to get married there. He was the one who didn't want to get married. That's why we broke up!" She paused to blow her nose. "He said he didn't see why I needed a piece of paper to tell him how he felt; well I guess that little blonde changed his mind." "At the Garden View Hotel, you say? That's on Tenth Street, right?" "Yeah, and apparently not only is she gorgeous, her parents are loaded! They've invited almost everyone they've ever even spoke to. I should go. Don't you think I should go? For closure?" "No, you shouldn't Because even though you're beautiful, smart, and funny, he's not going to take one look at you, call off the wedding, and ride off with you into the sunset." 34 "Well... I never said I needed a sunset." Luckily she changed her mind. If she saw me there, she'd blow my cover. I showed up at the Garden View Hotel, and causally strolled into the reception. I put my gift-wrapped blender on the table with the other presents (original I know, but I didn't have that much time). I walked around, helped myself to the hors d'oeuvres, even danced a little. "How do you know the bride and groom?" "A friend of a friend," I replied, which wasn't a total lie. 1saw the happy couple standing by the cake they had just cut and tasted. "Congratulations" I kissed her cheek and smiled at the newlyweds, walked out of the hall and crossed another thing off my list. **** Under my feet, under the bridge is a rushing river. I wonder how many lives the river has taken before. How many people have come here, desperate and hopeless thinking there's no way out of their depression? How many have come here hoping someone will find them and stop them in time? How many people will see me here today, and wish they had the same courage it takes to jump? I shake the questions from my mind and focus on why I'm doing this, why I am standing here. Time is running out. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. **** 41 days left. # 17 Send a message in a bottle I sat down at my kitchen table and began to write. I wrote that I'm trying to cross off everything on my life list. I wrote why. I wrote about the pancreatic cancer. I wrote my thoughts, my personal mission statement. I wrote down quotes that have always inspired me. I wrote about hope and love. I signed my name at the bottom, folded it up, and stuck it in a glass bottle and plugged it 35 �with a cork. I called to Millie and we headed to the beach. I watched the sunrise as I drove to the ocean. I love the smell of the beach and the salty crisp air tickled my nose once again. Because of the early hour the beach was deserted, save for a few runners down the shore. I walked with Millie down to the end of the pier and I looked out at the horizon. As hard as I could, I threw my message into the water, and Millie and I turned around to go home. I wondered who, if anyone, will get my message. And will they even care to read it? Despite all my questions, I smiled and crossed another thing off my list. *** * I never wanted to waste away. I never wanted to become a burden, a victim. I wanted to die when I was ready, when I felt like I had accomplished something. I remember when I was a little girl, nine I think, my mother told me my great aunt had passed on and we had to go to the funeral and pay our respects. I sat in the pew of a dusty old church with itchy tights on and listened to what the pastor, a man who barely knew her, had to say about her life. He called her things like 'respected' and 'beloved.' The only thing I remembered about my "great"- aunt was the time she made me sit in the corner and, as a punishment, read the bible because I had told my mom I wouldn't eat stinky old green beans. 32 days left. #21 Try oysters I took my sister to dinner, somewhere nice because we deserved it. I looked at the menu and saw that one of the appetizers was 'oysters on the half shell.' I didn't plan on crossing off #21 today; I didn't plan on having oysters tonight, but this wasn't an opportunity I was about to pass up. I looked at my sister. "We have to order these!" 36 She looked at me like I was crazy. "No way am I eating oysters!" she grimaced. "Come on, when are we ever going to get this chance again?" She looked at me with her sad brown eyes and I knew what she was thinking. "Well, I'm trying them!" I announced. The waiter came and b rought out my oysters. They really did look rather disgusting, but I picked one up anyway. They were topped with red wine vinegar and chopped shallots. My guess was to hide their real taste. I tipped my head back and let the meat of the mollusk slide into my mouth. I chewed slowly, waiting to be grossed out. But no! It was surprisingly delicious. I had another. My sister never even touched them. But I just smiled at her and crossed #21 off my list. ** * * Why do we do it? And we all do. We procrastinate our lives away. We have piles of newspapers we swear we'll read someday, stacks of unopened envelopes, the next great American novel in the back of our heads we know we'll write someday, the dreams we wish we had the courage to accomplish. Eventually. * *** 20 days left # 23 Throw a dart at a map and then drive there. I got out a big map of the states and tacked it up against my wall. I took a dart, spun myself around a couple times and threw. I opened my eyes and found that I had to drive straight to the middle of Lake Erie. I tried it again. Dedham, Massachusetts. 37 �To get ready for my vacation, I went online and tried to find a local tourist attraction there. I found the perfect thing to see, the Museum of Bad Art. I hopped in the car. The drive was long and I got lost a couple times but I just cranked up the tunes, sang loud and off key, looked out at the passing scenery and drove too fast. Finally I saw the sign: Welcome to Dedham. After I checked into a local motel, and took a much needed shower, I headed over to the museum, which lived up to its name! There was a mosaic piece of a man on a toilet, a badly proportioned naked woman with dark under arm hair, a blue Jesus, and a bunch of other paintings that looked liked blobs and shapes. I laughed at the work but appreciated the artists' efforts. I couldn't help but smile as I started the car to drive back home and cross that off my list. * ** * 3 months later, actually 84 days since that frightened girl sat in a cold doctor's office and was told she only had three months till pancreatic cancer would take over. The cemetery was crowded with people all gathered to mourn the loss of their friend, sister, daughter, lover. The priest said a final prayer as the casket was lowered into the ground. That was it. She was gone now. She won't suffer anymore. Everyone agreed she'd lived a full life, and everyone promised to miss her. **** So I jump. The wind rushes against me, my body feels weightless and I can barely breathe. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. For the last time I wonder what made me decide to stand on the edge of a bridge about to let myself fall 500 feet below. Then I remember. 3 months ago, I was reminded that life is too short. You never know when it will end. You can step outside and be hit by a car, you can be eating and choke on a carrot, or you can be sitting in a doctors office and be told you have cancer 38 and only three months to live. Death has certain power to make others value life more, when faced with death or when someone around you dies. I didn't want to waste what was left of my life anymore. # 25 Go bungee jumping. The last thing on my list. As the instructor pulls me back up, I say a prayer for my sister. The reason I am here. The day my sister told me she had cancer, started out like every other ordinary day. I didn't wake up thinking my world was going to change; I didn't have a feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach. I woke up groggy, cursing my alarm clock, drank some coffee and went to work where I sat chained to my desk like I had every day. When my secretary told me that my sister was on the phone I almost didn't even pick up. 'Tm busy; tell her I'll call her tomorrow." "She says it's important." "Of course it is," I mumble under my breath. "Hello" It was November 11 th _ On that day, in that moment, everything important to me changed. I didn't care about my job, about expense reports or the Direct Install file. I didn't care about my car or about the price of gas, or even that that guy from the market who kept calling me ma'am. I cared about my s ister, my family, my life. I finally realized how precious life is and how much there was I wanted to do before I die. I guess you could say my sister saved my life. To honor her memory I go back to the list of things I couldn't do in three months; those are the things I will cross off next. 39 �by Minnie Benson Pine Cones by Bryaun Skinner 40 Love is a flame that lights my heart. It's small or slight when we're apart. It flickers 'n flares when you appear, inevitably increasing as you draw near 41 �Thrii magic words by Kristen Shimomiya Some things happen for reasons Good or bad and I wish for a good reason But it doesn't work out always ... I still wish on a bright star Meditation by Donna Stickley I climb within where safety lies-----familiar feelings--Tangible memories spaces filled with truth Free to be----yet private A haven where only I can cry I climb within to rest in silence-----renewing my strength Far away from prying eyes Getting in my car, it is really cold Turn up the radio to my favorite song Make sure no one is looking at me Screaming in a dark car I feel emptiness ... regret it Who is wrong? Not me, my parents Car .... a place to have peace But I am still not ready at this moment To say three words " I am sorry" Who is wrong? Of course not me I will run away, far far away So they can never find me So they will regret what they have done Attitude Standard Moral Positive Values Chaos Think, think, and think above my head Don't worry it is not my fault I don't care I will be here until they call me Telling me the three magic words I don't want to say them, especially today! I turn up the volume and start to sing again Even if I will say it eventually I still want to think that I won this time 42 43 �by J esse Laws by April Jones Lost twixt sky and water below On and on forever we go With silver wings suspended in flight We fly on through eternal night Though we seek our true destiny Fate's cruel hand still keeps it away And so we still continue our flight We will sour on silver moonlight With a tail of silvery mist We will fall but will we be missed? When stars fall does all the world mourn, And celebrate when one is born? 44 I don't call because if my ache subsides, I'm left wanting, and willing, it back to me. I welcome the deep chill of separation if only to remind me. So this is love A Cinderella dream from before A high: released in my epi-pores Until I'm in a hazy winter but I'm warm. So this is love To wait, to pretend, to fate Maybe to move on but To wait So this is love And yet I can regret Those follies Those fakes I thought I loved Before but I never this ache So this is love mmm Cinderella girl this is love. 45 �Snow in the Desert by Sherri Wilkes Life at 3 Like soft white feathers floating down by Christie Jackson It begins. First as a surprise, then like a ballet, Swirling where red dust dervishes twirl, Until the coral cliffs are covered with frosting. Winter solstice breaks through its fleece blanket of gray, The frozen ground sage sparkles with nature's diamonds, And just as soon as it came---- it melts away ... racing rapidly rushing recklessly happily hoping for life to be fun prancing playfully parading proudly watching with wonder he loves everyone learning longingly laughing loudly sleeping soundlessly his day is now done Like a secret. 46 47 �Truth vs. Reality by Wendi Epps I shall become who I've always thought I was And speak my mind no matter what. I shall remember to forget my place And do exactly what others tell me not to. I shall stay up late and be obnoxious all night And watch movies until morning. I shall listen to disco or Disney tunes as loud as I want And turn it off only when I'm too tired to keep on dancing. I shall buy $75 jeans that look the same as my $25 ones And wear them to my ceramics class. I shall do impressions of Beavis and Butthead And memorize all of the words to Grease. I shall streak my hair purple and blue And paint all of my bedroom walls black. I shall cut off my hair and pierce my tongue And wear white shoes after Labor Day. I shall wear tall platform shoes everywhere I go And buy only the ones that make me six feet tall. I shall go outside in a tank top and play in the rain And whine when I'm sick with a cold. I shall play with kittens every day And favor the ones who let me paint their nails. I shall drive fast and coat my car with rubber So it won't be damaged when I crash. Painting by Rebecka Cooper I shall call my friends during peak daytime hours And order silly things off of the Internet. I shall drink nothing but Martinelli's Sparkling Cider And sing at the top of my lungs while in the shower. But for now I'll tone it down a bit And speak my mind only on occasion. I shall always forget my place And try my best to do what others tell me not to. 48 49 �Reaching for the Light by Melody Dick Thoughts rush, emotions pull for comfort My pleading soul demands I cannot face alone Trials I so long have tried to endure. Knowing to whom I must turn, I find reverence in an untroubled room. Kneeling with heaviness of heart, Tears begin to stream. My heart knows what I wish to speak, But my lips tremble as I form words Veiled so long in the back of my mind. Rev~rent gratitude encompasses all inner thoughts and feelings, Pullmg my eyes heavenward, as tears again roll down my cheeks. I bow my head in overwhelming love. Sincere gratitude escapes me As I speak to my greatest friend Knowing his light and comfort will forever guide me home. I pray for help, comfort, strength beyond my own, Speaking to my greatest friend. My heart pounds with emotion, Tears roll down my burning cheeks. Pleading with more humility than ever before, I offer the deepest desires of my burdened heart. Whispers filled with heartache Escape my tear-soaked lips. Pausing-I breathe, Hoping to feel the lightness of comfort. I know no longer what words to speak. They have all escaped my lips. Attempting to utter words once more-Heavenly silence intercedes. Light pierces the inner chambers of my heart and soul Growing in its gentle embrace. My whole being is encompassed with warmth Peace consumes my body, Lifting me to weightless serenity. Through a breath of light my heart soars free. I know from whom this gift was given. 50 Kiln by Bryuan Skinner 51 �Ol$fft0$tJ by Kathrine Thomas Winter's Sugar by April Jones Perfectly symmetrical Nature's masterpiece Laying serene Winter's blanket Blown by wind Faeries vessel Caught on my tongue Winter's sugar Shrouded in the guise of an angel Sitting there so patiently Waiting for the day that someone would fall Well you got your lucky day with me Quick drawn with your pretty lies Watching for your way in You make the worst debauchery Hardly seem like a sin The way you sit so calmly How I feel like I can glow It's all down to your one disguise We never see till we know That the pretty face you wear with pride Is nothing but your mask We see you all the way now Afterglow is fading all too fast Your glory has been dusted You can't again deceive You know this love is true Because I still want to believe That the 1-love-you's were genuine That you handled me with care But all the lies burned through And I can no longer have you there 52 53 �An 0.ld ~ 11.rJd a Capo by Sarah Tritsch An old guitar sits against the wall Covered by ages of dust and neglect Yearning to play the songs Of times long past and forgotten. A time of love and happiness Where the most important thing Was where the party was Or who was courting who. It played the songs of love Songs of elation Funny songs, sad songs, But no songs -- anymore. It just sits, Waiting among the scattered picks, Mountains of tabs, chords, music, And one old capo. Silently screaming For the magic touch To make them alive and whole, And more importantly, useful again. Just waiting and waiting To make the house alive with music, With the tales of love and warmth Happiness, sadness and much, much more. EX-CC)N by Aaron Otto Jepsen I see you look at me, judge me. Vox populi, I hear your pusillanimous din decrying me, labeling me. Excuse me Mr. and Mrs. America, where shall I put the bar code? For six years my number, designation, interpretation, sedation has been 9089399. A whole person in 9089399. ls my humor in the nines? My morality, my wit in the 3 or maybe the 8? Surely my mind, my consciousness is in the 0 The chains of education are broken but I see the shackles of "societal responsibility", and "adulthood" snapping, writhing in the future dark. I w ill not let them take me alive. Abandon your preconceived notions! Wrench them loose from your fossil minds! I do not fit them, will not be bound by them. I am not a statistic, a potential anything, a test subject, or a good or bad citizen of the republic... I don't know who I am, so how can you? All we need to cure their ails Is to pick it up, Brush off the years of dust and neglect And begin to play. 54 55 �The Great Wall by D. Gary Christian I stand beside a stubborn wall, palm pressed against its ancient stones that guarded China's sovereignty when swirling hordes came like gusts out of the north. It gropes along the treeless heights and writhes through valleys, a dragon slithering to Gansu Province and caravans that inched through errant wastes and hesitating hours. The Great Wall slouches in the wilderness where no one goes. Men among the stars look down and see its footprints on the earth. Only blowing sand has breached the barrier and rides on rushing ponies of the wind. Prisoners, and peasants soldiers, and farmers, took sand and stones from where they lay, built an endless barricade with sinew and with wicker baskets. Men who died from effort or from illness were entombed in their achievement. Emperors willed it so but not the gods. Qin nodded his approval. Buddha, stony- faced, sat in his pagoda tiered and incense-laden. Awed by his presence, believers lighted candles, bowed their heads, kissed his toe Monks gave him voice with enigmatic chants and mystery of gongs that reverberated in the holy place. 56 57 �Confession by Ashlee Koller Dre am Catcher by Joan Runs Through Cruising blind toward the morning light Black shadow cast by webbing tight Dangling from a mirror looking back No time to sleep, no dream to track Dancing man, stand with pride Traditional wand, catcher hoop tied Southern accent yellowed with age Dream of power, dream of rage Newly-weds' crystal dream weave A life to live, a life to leave Above the bed on the western wall An ivory reminder that night will fa ll Sacred hoop, sandman's snare Cradled hands touch plumes with care A hope, a wish on a northern star To dream and travel his Red Road far Dream catcher, Chief Seattle said We did not weave that sacred web in life's great hoop, we're just a strand What lives on Earth, walks hand in hand 58 To be frank, I have a confession to make. Before I met you, I hated you. I hated the praise you got, I hated the very sound of your name. Oh, how they loved you, All my friends, All our teachers. It's always glorious you, Handsome you, Intelligent you, Artistic you, Sophisticated you. The very thought of you Brought us to our knees. Them in admiration, Me in antipathy. Oh, how I abhorred you. Then we met, And, unfortunately, You were not what I expected. You were silent and shy. Awkward and backwards. Not at all fu lsome Nor attention seeking. Oblivious to your admirers You went on about your way, Not at all the hated enemy I have made you up to be. No, you are more human than god. Someone that could be called comrade If Time admits us the time to find out. 59 �The Paded Blue Ribbon A short story by Justin Sharp Over my shoulder, I heard him scream wildly. I turned in time to see Trey, my little brother, flying down the hill as quick as his t iny green Huffy would carry him. His feet were a blur as they struggled to keep up with the rapidly moving pedals. He was a sight to see in his white, oversized Styrofoam helmet, with his flaming red hair licking the base of his helmet as he screamed with delight. This was no hill when we were kids. This was a mountain. It was the tallest hill in our neighborhood. It was our mountain and Trey was conquering it fearlessly. He had started his descent at the top of the mountain, higher than me or any of our friends had ever started. He careened past me, faster than I had ever dreamed either of us could go. Towards the bottom of the mountain Trey even ventured to raise both hands toward Heaven and scream "Look at me! No hands!" He was twice as brave as I was. As I watched him fly down the hill I knew he was destined for greatness. Towards the bottom of the hill I watched in horror as his little feet finally missed a beat and brushed the pavement. With Trey's hands and face still groping for Heaven, he was unable to catch himself as he glided over his handle bars. I couldn't breathe. I just watched in shock, my mouth open, my eyes wide and frozen on his small body which grasped I threw my carefully shined and polished bike to the road like I had never cared for it at all, and ran as quick as my ten-year-old legs could carry me. When I reached him I realized that he was not crying hysterically, as I would have been, but instead looking up at me with a wide smile. "Did you see me Trevor? I went from the top! THE TOP!" he said. "Are you okay?' I asked, instantly regretting letting him ride from the top of the hill. "I said, did you see me, Trevor? I went with NO HANDS!" he squealed in his childish voice. "I saw you, I saw you. You're the toughest kid I have ever seen, you know that! Now, let's get you home." I eased him to his feet and he beamed up at me with a broad gap-toothed smile, elated at my compliment of his toughness. I looked at his arm that he held, clenched tight to his chest, and I knew I needed to get him home quick. We walked the three blocks together, our bikes forgotten somewhere on our mountain. While Trey was at the hospital with mom, getting his cast put on, I found a blue ribbon that I had won a year earlier in the school Olympics for the high jump. I nearly set the ribbon on fire trying to erase my name from the card board tag on the back of the ribbon. I scribbled in Trey's name in place ofmy own, and now, instead of High Jump, it read "The Bravest Little Brother In The World Award. Get Better Soon." When Try got home I scrambled to give him my little gift. Trey was excited and you could tell he thought he had really been presented with a major award. Mom snapped a picture to remember the moment: Trey with his tiny green cast which kept his arm bent at the elbow, and me, presenting him with my old blue ribbon. wildly at the air for anything to stop his unwanted flight. In my mind my eight-year-old brother was headed for a certain death. The pavement thudded with the impact of his balled-up body. I cringed at the sound of his tiny a rm breaking in two. His little body rolled another ten feet down the hill and he slid to a stop, giving him a nice case of road rash to match his freshly broken arm. 60 It's funny, the things you remember at one in the morning. I had been roused from sleep by a midnight phone call from Trey. He was at the police station, again, and needed me to pick him up. I kissed my wife and told her I was going to the police station to get Trey. 61 �Even without any lights on in our small bedroom I could sense a familiar look of fear and worry cross her face, as well as a puzzled look as she wondered just what my wild little brother had done now. I told her not to worry and that I would be back soon. As I walked down the hall, a graduation picture of Trey and I made me smile, and I remembered how much fun we had as kids together. As I drove to pick him up my mind was swimming through the sea of good and bad times that we have had together, and how some things had spiraled so far from when we were kids- and more important, when we were friends. Why couldn't it be like when we were kids again, back before any of this trouble started? When had the trouble started? This was a question I always asked myself, but never found an answer to. Was it something I did or did not do that drove him away and into the welcome arms of drugs? Almost by instinct, I followed the road to the police station. I know this trip so well that I made it just fine in my half-awake, halfasleep state. My mind drifted back to when we were in high school. We were playing basketball together after school at the park near our home. Trey and I were playing a game of H-0-R-S-E, in which I had H0-R-S and Trey, as usual, had only H. I had just tried to imitate Trey's reverse dunk when, hampered by my lack of athletic ability, I was rejected hard by the front of the rim. It echoed a loud thud across the park and I landed hard on my back, only to then be hit in the head with the falling basketball. Trey almost died with laughter, as he literally rolled in the soft green grass and pounded his fist on the ground with laughter. I glowed red with embarrassment and tried to hurry after the ball, hoping no one had seen my little incident. The ball rolled quickly to the other side of the court where a th ree-on- three game was in progress, with some of the meanest looking kids I had ever seen grace our little park. 62 The ball rolled in between one of the bigger player's legs, causing him to twist unnaturally while he was running, tripping him, and sending him face first to the asphalt. With an embarrassed smile on my face, I walked over to get our ball back and to apologize to the other player. The fallen player was obviously more embarrassed by his friends laughing at his fall than I was about my own mishap. He rose up quickly from the ground and kicked my basketball as hard as he could out into the park. With the nastiest glare I could muster, I looked at him and shook my head with disgust. I turned to chase after my ball only to find myself being pushed to the asphalt by the fallen player. After being hurtled to the asphalt yet again, I tried to stand and face my opponent hoping with all my might that I would only have to take a beating from the angry one, and not all six of them. I rose slowly to face them, but before I even made it back to my feet, that familiar streak of flaming red hair flashed in front of my eyes. When the blur stopped I realized, in horror, that it was Trey, and his fist had just connected hard with the obscenely large assailant's nose. One of the player's friends came to his defense, flying with balled fists at Trey. Trey's hands were again quicker than his foes and he connected a hard right hook to the attacker's nose, splitting it instantly at the bridge between his eyes. His face erupted like a small volcano covered in crimson blood. Trey's second punch found the guy's jaw, sending him to the ground next to his hurting and bloodied friend. Both had rivers of blood coming from their noses and one had a lump the size of a golf ball on his chin. No one else attempted to jump into the fight and Trey, convinced that they were finished, now helped me to my feet. He looked frightening as anger flamed in his eyes. His hands only left their clinched fists position long enough to help me up. I saw true fear in the eyes of those on the ground and still standing, staring wide-eyed at Trey. I grabbed my ball and we walked the few blocks home in silence, both still brooding over what had transpired at the park. 63 �Even though I never told him, I was ashamed that Trey, my little brother, had fought my fight for me. Even though I would have ended up bleeding on the ground, I thought that might have been better than what actually happened. To this day I can still smell that park's freshly mowed grass, and feel that heat on my face from the hot asphalt. I later told Trey how great he was and how thankful I was, while I quietly resented him for the strength and courage for which I was praising him. He was always the best, and I was just me, second best. Trey was so tough I thought he could overcome or handle anything set in his way, but I would always need his help, and he never needed mine. The headlights coming toward me on the road brought me back from memory lane to face the present, and then I drifted back into memories as the car passed me by. I remembered the first time Trey had called me from the police station, two years earlier. It was another midnight call, only this call made me realize later just how weak Trey, my superhero brother, really was. "Trevor, I need you to bail me out" Trey had said on the phone that night. "What did you do?" I asked, still trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes. "They arrested me with drugs, but they weren't all mine. I only had a little, the rest was for my friends. I know what you're thinking and I know how stupid it was. Believe me, it was the first time I ever bought or used drugs, and it will never happen again. I promise," he sobbed on the other end of the phone. What could I do? The thought ofTrey in jail scared me to death. I drove to an ATM and emptied my account. Then I took a large stack of twenty dollar bills on my first drive to the police station. My wife knew some lawyers and we had them help in court so that he could avoid a felony. He ended up with community service. He said he was sorry for the trouble he had caused, and I thought he had meant it. 64 My next midnight phone call came two months later and I let him spend time in jail to think about what he was doing with his life. The felony could not be avoided this time. His health was quickly deteriorating. He was, again, apologetic and remorseful. However, not six months later he was once again back in jail and I went, once again, to pick him up when he was done serving his time. The short time of his drug use had already changed him. He was sickly looking, always pale and tired. We grew apart. He would always call me and tell me he needed help, but I would answer "You can get yourself out of your own mess" and hang up on him. I made the left at the stop light and chills went down my spine. I can't believe I had left him to fight that battle alone. He actually needed me for once in my life, and I had walked away. I can't ever forget the hell that I let him walk through alone without feeling the waves of guilt drown me in an ocean of despair. I wiped the tears from my eyes and drove on toward the jail, still thinking of how wrong I had been in leaving him alone in his battle. I had thought he wanted to keep going back to the drugs, until the day I visited his little apartment to "check on him" for our worried mother's peace of mind. The day before, he had called me for help and said he needed me to help him stop using, that he was ready to quit for good- but couldn't do it alone. I gave him some half-hearted words of encouragement and hung up the phone. I soon realized how right he was when I stood at the door. When I knocked on his door the smell of vomit hit me from inside the apartment. I went in when no one answered. I will never forget what I saw next. In a puddle of his own vomit, lay Trey, half naked and shaking on the floor with pain. His face was dirty and soaked with tears. Clutched in his hand was the tattered blue ribbon and the picture of me presenting it to him as a kid. The picture was worn and creased and Trey now clung to it for dear life. The memory of us as kids was the only thing keeping him alive. I spent the rest of that night and the next two days holding him and trying to get him through the tremors that come with withdrawals. 65 �-= I watched through teary eyes as he screamed with pain and cried out for the drugs that would ease it. At the end of the third day he was able to eat again, and stand on his own. The tremors did not cease completely but were separated long enough apart to be bearable. We had made our first journey together through a self-detox. It would take three more of these nightmare sessions, over the next eighteen months, to finally get Trey clean. Each time from then on out we tackled it together. Sometimes it meant my wife, Trey and I playing Monopoly and Uno all night to keep his mind off of drugs. I had made two more trips to jail to get Trey during those last eighteen months. Each time I reassured him that we were going to beat his addiction together. I think at times he thought the cycle of addiction and recovery would never end, and to tell you the truth, sometimes I felt that same way. But we stuck to it. After the last detox we did together, he gave me the blue ribbon. I took it with tear-filled eyes and tried to read the back. Where I had once scribbled Trey's name in pen, it now bore my name. Instead of reading "The bravest little brother" it now read "The Bravest Older Brother" and just below that, in all capital letters, it read "THANK YOU TREVOR!" We embraced and I squeezed him so tight I could have broken his frai l body, but he didn't mind. He simply returned the bear hug. We both cried for a while and stood there, understanding that it was over. We had walked through hell together. When Trey thought he was finished, 1 was there to lift him up and I realized that we needed each other more than we would ever understand. "Sorry it's so late, Trevor. Those guys I've been counseling were really listening tonight, and I couldn't just cut them off when they were finally seeing where I was coming from." Trey smiled when he saw my own smile aimed at him. As we pulled away, I asked Trey "So how long have you been clean now? Is it six or seven months?" I knew exactly how many days it had been since he last used, but it made him smile wider every time I asked him. "It's been eight months and you know it!" Trey laughed. "It's good to have you back, little brother" I said with pride. "It's good to be back!" he said as he glanced at the picture of us as kids. Trey's long journey downhill had again led him back to the top of the mountain. We both envisioned in our minds the two of us standing as kids together, in our Styrofoam helmets, staring out over the horizon of our world-the world that we had conquered together. I pulled into the jail parking lot and my headlights illuminated Trey. In a small plastic frame dangling from my rear-view mir ror, I could see the tattered picture mom had taken those many years ago. A smile crossed my face as Trey got in my car. The dome light illuminated Trey's slightly plumper face as he sat down. The volunteer badge on his jacket made him look important. 66 Racers by Mike Preston 67 �Stream by Joseph Seeley Bubbling, babbling, Bouncy sprite, Young child of the River, loves to play Its sweet serenade As it dances o'er Stone and branch The Stream The Stick by Bryuan Skinner 68 69 �J~ by Donna Stickley Recycling by Paula deAnda You are only a dream my beautiful love-----Who crosses my path so often With joy in your eyes and peace in your heartYou smile But daylight comes and we are both forgotten For someone I can't hold or even catch your eyes---- Burn off the labels of the past Refocus Recreate Eliminate That which has served its purpose Discover The unused parts or the parts that can be used a different way Options Opportunities For the aging soul. You drain my heart of love----- leaving me to die Dream sleep comes again tonight and in my path you'll be But touching you and loving you-------1 know is just a fantasy 70 71 �Carcross in the Yukon by D. Gary Christian Carcross, a hollow place in Yukon emptiness, decays amid the ruins of its expectations. September chases leaves away, hangers-on that whirl like dervishes dancing in the wind. The Caribou Hotel is boarded-up, and with it the only eating place in town. A satellite dish clings to the building, assurance that it was in touch with the outside world when guests gathered in its stark lobby, for there was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Streets are narrow gauge. Burdened with tourists in the season, they are bereft of feet that shuffle in a crowd when tours are finished in the fall. The White Pass & Yukon Route Depot, railroad-red and t rimmed with black, looks like it did when it was new. It is open to the public but trains seldom strain their way to White horse or brake to Skagway in the rain. Relics of its bawdy past degrade beside the tracks. A metal sign showing caribou pick their way across a stream is the promise of a time the present does not know. And on the mountain tops, snow with wind and clouds rehearse a winter pageant. 72 Cllcure by Lindsay Ingram I know this cigarette is just another vice Just something I've put in place of you Something to take my mind off you A foolish fix to forget my fears Of going on alone. I know this drink won't fill the void Just something to get me through the day Something to make my pain go away A destructive descent when dealing with Going on a lone. I know this sweater you left behind isn't really you Just something that brings back the burdensome memories Something to keep me warm in your absence. A wretched reminder that I need to Go on alone. But I cling to my vices Because I'm too scared to consider the thought Of what if I'm happierGoing on alone. Third Vlace Winner -Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Scholarship Award 73 �Selfish Pride Over You by Wendi Epps by K11.sty Hunt How can you be proud of me? What have I accomplished? I struggle to swim upstream And not be bloodied by the rocks. When does the time come when I can say Without fear of reprisal or punishment That my life is mine and only mine I don't want to give any more. Time is said to heal all things So why am I still hurting? They say it will get easier My heart is torn between: Giving up, or holding on I'm trying to decide I see your face in my mind And I analyze: As much as I hate you Is how bad I want you Emotions so wrong You hurt me bad Drove me insane So why can't I move on? How do I find my self-respect When it's so deeply rooted in perception? How do I control your feelings When I cannot control my own? Expecting you to be like me Honest in all things Yet I found your hidden truth Why was I so naive? I long to strike down everything To vanquish the obstacles in my way But to stir the confidence asleep in my heart May make me a different personAnd I like who I am. Feeling weak Only speak ... How can I be proud of me? What makes me deserving? Always putting the needs of others first Is really quite exhausting. The stench of suffocating repression The object of hostility How can I hold myself responsible For what you think of me? How can I hold myself responsible For what I think of me? 74 About you ... I spend my sleepless nights Trying to ... Forget you ... Time is said to heal all things Pretend the sky's not blue Maybe someday I will say I am ... Over you. 75 �NEVER GROW □ UT OF IT by Annalee Bundy- Carpenter Untitled by Jesse laws There are oily smudges on the window where I rested my chin nose forehead I was staring through the glass, into open air, in search of you, who I knew wasn't there, was never there. Now snow pours down, constant but nothing is really constant, and I smear the smudges with the bottom of my t-shirt, exposing bare stomach to an empty night, but only for a second. Even though this feeling Is hard to describe with words. It only gets harder the more that you fee l it. It's kinda like jumping into a swimming pool Too late at night Completely clothed With a smile and wet jeans. It's like that warm feeling that ripples across your chest When the hot chocolate runs down your throat. It's like waking up with A smile on your face Each day of the week. No matter the morning breath. It's like jumping into a puddle, It's like rolling down a hill, It's like the sun kissing your skin. It's every feeling of happiness That has ever existed. Yeah, it's a lot like love. 76 77 �The Storm by Royal Donnelly Silvered ice, chill wind blows Electric lights, lightning crashes Charged air, the night breathes life Biting cold, with winter here Shadows dark, storm clouds above Heavens call, when thunder rolls Ech oes roar, heaven to earth Blinding flash, light touched down Sirens howl, North wind comes Battle fought, storm front grows Skies white, sheets of fire alight Serenity soon, rage fades into night 78 A Different Type of Death in the Family by Janae Hawk Her old self dies, Leaving all those who knew her to mourn, It is a different type of death, They are unsure how to handle it, Do they bring flowers, Or just stand by and watch her transform? She knows there's a change, But feels helpless, To control the cruel shell of a person she's become, People she once loved are hurt, By her poisonous words and actions, One by one she loses them all, And slips out of her manic mood, Into a deep sleep of depression, With dreams full of death and despair, Her old self dies, Over and over again. 79 �On the Beach at Eden by Jeanie Roberts Now the man called his wife's name Eve [Chavah] Genesis: 3:20 "To the Men in Her Life" Chavah is the sea, Painting by Rebecka Cooper 80 a sanctuary t hat creeps inland toward unstable coasts and erodes the cragged cliffs of your utopia. Ribs still wounded from her first exodus, you ease into the shallows' early chill, electric instability fusing bones to the ground. In fl ux, she feathers the barred sand, neap tide's foamy residue a breach in virgin shores, and nurturing green the bloom of every swollen wave, she inundates the sinews of your shoulders and channels their moist flesh, her fluid moonstone awash in salt and spume. But this is never enough. The golden apple baits your tongue; seduced beyond the breakers, you are drawn into a void whose ocean floor you cannot touch, feast and fare for the undertow. It always ends this way in the constancy of change with your capitulation and her subsidence timed by the moon's phases. The pelican dives to consummate existence while harbor lights simmer, and through the sough of her retreat a warning buoy at sea chimes discord through the night In tide pools beyond your reach, low water discloses her, moonlit mother of pearl, the fan of an open oyster shell anchored between stones. 81 �Lightning Strike by Joan Runs Through 'lfeullu5fwre by Lindsay Ingram Behind our house, his tipi poles explode, a violence exposed by the strobe lit night. Shards of wooden shrapnel fly, as nature blazes a trail across lodge pole pine and desert bloom. A singed oleander testifies beside the cold eternal fire which, impatiently longing for the inipi's heat, is nearly rekindled by a dark cloud's tlame. His heathen heart soars at the Thunder Beings' Blessing. My gentile soul quakes at God's great anger. Wh en the winter winds blow Or the I o n g day ends And I fina lly crawl into bed You are there for me. When my heart is breaking Or when my head aches I turn to you for solace. You are there for me. The touch of you against my skin Keeps me warm through the night. You are always there for me. With your blue arms around me You offer me quiet comfort. And I'm glad that You My airplane blanket, Are there. *inipi is a Sweat Lodge ceremony 82 83 �by Annie Bundy Carpenter Crunching Snow by Minni Benson Soft white snow fell throughout the night blanketing branches and limbs. Bushes wear billowing bonnets, while cars sport strange, kooky, caps. Swings and slides have grown too tall, they sleep in the deep white silence, waiting for the tiny tots, waiting ... to watch them wallow. Crunch, scratch, scritch, screech, a wonderful sound of many feet. Laughing and giggling, hear them approach all wanting to crunch and squeeze. Snowmen, angels and forts emerge, by youngsters, meeksters and boldsters. They sculpt and scoop the livelong day, heading home for dinner all s niveled and spent. Ignored are the wet clothes, cold hands 'n feet, can't worry 'bout sneezing, or sniffles. Warm up by the fire, or take a hot bath, cause days like these are delightful, but rare. 84 One stands a Little taller than me, One encloses. One can't take his eyes off me, One can't see me at all. One a letter away, One a call. One sweet kiss that I can remember, One goodbye that I can't forget. One of my hands stretched out to each. One ready and willing. One scared and confused. One faithful. One strong. Two hearts to love. But there's only one of me. 85 �...,. Imagine by Angelica Rodriguez Just imagine and close your eyes And become hypnotized By the dancing flamingos in disguise As you lay in field of weeds motionless and realize This is real: this is life Just imagine and shut your mouth Examine the exotic swans on the tip of the snout Of the wild magician that seeks you out In an attempt to release the feeling of complete doubt as you Just imagine and take a taste Then swallow the belief that you could escape from the place Of horrid nature that breaks down your grace Where the mundane become insulted and the detectives will solve t he case To the mystery to why you have such an unsure face About the woman across the street wearing lingerie of expensive lace Just imagine and take a ride On the self-conscious sea horses that can help you hide From the radical rulers who want you to decide Whether to replace your true insecurities and expose fake pride Just imagine and self worth is what you'll gain Success is what you'll obtain To pursue the dreams to entertain Creating silent films with kissing scenes in the rain Red Berries by Tel Stewart Just imagine and open your hands Look closely and you will see a microscopic band To better help you understand The tiny ensemble that plays by command Just imagine and count to fifteen Begin to listen to the sitars and tambourines They follow chords and beats like miniature marines Confident creatures equal automatic machines Just imagine and fall asleep in the middle of the day Lose all panic from the labor force coming your way Because your attention becomes distracted as you miss the bouquet And you just end up in a field of weeds lying there motionless Imagining everything is okay 86 87 �Haiku by Gordon Bangert Never-ending love, it is waiting there for you. Enjoy, while it lasts. Cedar Flowers by Annie Bundy Carpenter 88 89 �The History of The Southern Quill: Year Editor(s) Advisor(s) Year Editor(s) Advisor(s) 1979-80 Laura Lee Graff Kurtis Crist, Pansy L. Hardy 1980-81 1950-51 1951 -52 Loraine Taylor Juanita Brooks Loraine Taylor Juanita Brooks 1953-54 Rose Workman Rose Esplin 1953-57 1957-58 No magazine published Karen Vawdrey Ace G. Pilkington LindaHendrick & Aderianna Smith 1981-82 Melanie Madsen Juanita Brooks& Ace G. Pilkington 1982-83 Dianna K. Kearney Betty Allen Ace G. Pilkington 1983-84 Dawn Houghton Ace G. Pilkington Julianna Burton Janae Dale Ace G. Pilkington 1958-59 Karen Vawdrey Juanita Brooks 1984-85 1959-60 Barbara Larkin Juanita Brooks 1985-86 1960-61 Reed Blake, Jr. 1986-87 1961-62 Titine Spillsbury Joan Esplin Bonnie McCowan & Kris Shipp Ace G. Pilkington 1962-63 Joan Esplin Robert 0. Dalton Ilene Harmon Pansy L. Hardy 1987-88 1988-89 Karen Hansen 1963-64 Ace G. Pilkington Stephanie Chidester 1964-65 Emily Cottam Pansy L. Hardy Ace G. Pilkington 1965-66 Kay Lichtenwalter Pansy L Hardy. 1966-67 James Force Robert 0. Dalton 1967-68 James Force Pansy L. Hardy 1968-69 Linda Sue Hunt Pansy L. Hardy 1969-70 1970-71 Linda Sue Hunt Roxanne Schmidt Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy 1971-72 Michelle Thomas Pansy L. Hardy 1972-73 Gordon J. Peterson Pansy L. Hardy 1973-74 Connie Gifford Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking 1994-95 Dina Gerhauser 1974-75 Cathy Pam Heaton Pansy L. Hardy & Ace G. Pilkington 1995-96 Aubree Howard J.G. Hacking Ace G. Pilkington 1996-97 Diana L. Blakley Ace G. Pilkington Robert 0. Dalton 1975-76 No magazine published 1976-77 1977-78 Michael Perry Janice F. DeMille Marilee Camp James Force 1978-79 Bill Batzlie Pansy L. Hardy 90 Ace G. Pilkington & Chris Metcalf 1989-90 Stephanie Chidester Ace G. Pilkington & Chris Metcalf 1990-91 Tiffany Durrant Ace G. Pilkington 1991-92 & Joni Jones Christian Arial Ace G. Pilkington 1992-93 Jandi Jones, Natalee Ace G. Pilkington 1993-94 Nilsson & Chris Pellew Jandi Jones Ace G. Pilkington & Natalie Nilsson & Bart Jay Mitchell 1997-98 April Davis, Amber Hyde, & Kelly Leatham Ace G. Pilkington �Year Editor(s) Advisor(s) 1998-99 Heidi Madsen Ace G. Pilkington 1999-2000 Darryl Barfuss, Liana Ace G. Pilkington Considering a 4-Year Degree? DSC now offers a baccalaureate in English! Kempton & Cindy Lee Wallace 2000-2001 2001 -2002 Cindy Lee Wallace 2002-2003 Daneen Deuel 2003-2004 2004-2005 2005-2006 2006-2007 Ace G. Pilkington No magazine published John F. Cartier & Cami Cox Katie O'Connell & Leesa Ricci Gordon Bangert, Charlotte Emett, Derick Empey, & Dustin Jackson Gordon Bangert Chad Lee Brad A. Barry Brad A. Barry Brad A. Barry Brad A. Barry Did you know that a baccalaureate degree in English is one of the most versatile college degrees? A graduate with an English degree possesses the analytical and communicative skills highly desired in numerous professions, including business, law, marketing, public relations, and (of course) teaching. Also consider an English degree if you enjoy the "life of the mind" - stimulating ideas; the aesthetics and power of language; and the beauty and complexity of human thought, values, and expression. Engl ish majors choose from two emphasis options: Literature or Professional & Technical Writing. For more information: Go to www.dixie.edu and click on the bachelor of English link Or contact the Department Chair, Dr. Sue Bennett: 435-652-7925 bennett@dixie.edu 92 93 �Frequently Asked Questions: ⇒ How does Tl,e So11t'1ern Q11ill determine which submissions get published? Publication decisions arc, for the most part, chosen by the DSC student staff. After each submission is scored by each staff member (and the faculty advisor), all of the scores are then added up, and then each work is g iven a rank order. The top-ranking submissions are the ones that get published. ⇒ How arc the scholarship awards determined? The staff takes the top scoring student poems ( IO or so in number), and sends them to members of the Annie Atkin Tanner family (who continue to support the scholarship fund). From those top poems, the family then chooses the top 3 scholarship winners. Though community members can be published in the j ournal, only student poets can win the scholarship money. Also, Southern Quill staff members can be published (and also win scholarship awards); however, to remain objective and fair, staff members cannot score o r rank their own poems. ⇒ Interested in getting published in Tl,e Soutl,ern Quill? After Sept. 1, contact the English department: 652-78 15 94 �- 2007 Dixie State College of Utah � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2007.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2007 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2007 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>Contents</th></tr><tr><th>Poems</th></tr><tr><td><i>Fluttering </i> </td><td>Mary Anne Trunnell </td><td>8</td></tr><tr><td><i>Lofty Inspiration</i> </td><td>Betty J. Vickers </td><td>9</td></tr><tr><td><i>Haiku</i> </td><td>Gordon Bangert </td><td>10</td></tr><tr><td><i>Atomic Sidewalk</i> </td><td>Carter Vaughn </td><td>11</td></tr><tr><td><i>Tears</i> </td><td>Conrad S. Cardinal </td><td>12</td></tr><tr><td><i>Autumn</i> </td><td>Christie Jackson </td><td>13</td></tr><tr><td><i>All Hallows' Eve</i> </td><td>Chad Lee </td><td>15</td></tr><tr><td><i>My Hidden Monster</i> </td><td>Sylvia Johansen </td><td>17</td></tr><tr><td><i>Wingless Angel</i> </td><td>Mary Anne Trunnell </td><td>20</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Runaway Place</i> </td><td>Sheri Wilkes </td><td>22</td></tr><tr><td><i>Pulling Weeds</i> </td><td>Jeanie Roberts </td><td>24</td></tr><tr><td><i>Seasons</i> </td><td>Yukiko Takeuchi </td><td>25</td></tr><tr><td><i>Every Day</i> </td><td>Stefani McKenzi </td><td>26</td></tr><tr><td><i>Non Tragic</i> </td><td>Carter Vaughn </td><td>28</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Creation</i> </td><td>Conrad S. Cardinal </td><td>29</td></tr><tr><td><i>Sea Story</i> </td><td>Betty J. Vickers </td><td>30</td></tr><tr><td><i>August Day</i> </td><td>Chad Lee </td><td>31</td></tr><tr><td><i>Flame</i> </td><td>Minnie Benson </td><td>41</td></tr><tr><td><i>Meditation</i> </td><td>Donna Stickley </td><td>42</td></tr><tr><td><i>Three Magic Words</i> </td><td>Kristen Shimomiya </td><td>43</td></tr><tr><td><i>Star Strewn Riddle</i> </td><td>April Jones </td><td>44</td></tr><tr><td><i>Cinderella Girl</i> </td><td>Jesse Laws </td><td>45</td></tr><tr><td><i>Snow in the Desert</i> </td><td>Sheri Wilkes </td><td>46</td></tr><tr><td><i>Life at 3</i> </td><td>Christie Jackson </td><td>47</td></tr><tr><td><i>Truth vs. Reality</i> </td><td>Wendi Epps </td><td>48</td></tr><tr><td><i>Reaching for the Light</i> </td><td>Melody Dick </td><td>50</td></tr><tr><td><i>Winter's Sugar</i> </td><td>April Jones </td><td>52</td></tr><tr><td><i>Disguise</i> </td><td>Kathrine Thomas </td><td>53</td></tr><tr><td><i>An Old Guitar and a Capo</i> </td><td>Sarah Tritsch </td><td>54</td></tr><tr><td><i>Ex-Con</i> </td><td>Aaron Otto Jepsen </td><td>55</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Great Wall</i> </td><td>D. Gary Christian </td><td>56</td></tr><tr><td><i>Dream Catcher </i> </td><td>Joan Runs Through </td><td>58</td></tr><tr><td><i>Confession</i> </td><td>Ashlee Koller </td><td>59</td></tr><tr><td><i>Stream</i> </td><td>Joseph Seeley </td><td>69</td></tr><tr><td><i>Fantasy</i> </td><td>Donna Stickley </td><td>70</td></tr><tr><td><i>Recycling</i> </td><td>Paula deAnda </td><td>71</td></tr><tr><td><i>Carcross in the Yukon</i> </td><td>D. Gary Christian </td><td>72</td></tr><tr><td><i>Alone</i> </td><td>Lindsay Ingram </td><td>73</td></tr><tr><td><i>Selfish Pride</i> </td><td>Wendi Epps </td><td>74</td></tr><tr><td><i>Over You</i> </td><td>Kristy Hunt </td><td>75</td></tr><tr><td><i>(Untitled)</i> </td><td>Jesse Laws </td><td>76</td></tr><tr><td><i>Never Grow Out of It</i> </td><td>Annalee Bundy-Carpenter </td><td>77</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Storm</i> </td><td>Royal Donnelly </td><td>78</td></tr><tr><td><i>A Different Type of Death in the Family</i> </td><td>Janae Hawk </td><td>79</td></tr><tr><td><i>On the Beach at Eden</i> </td><td>Jeanie Roberts </td><td>81</td></tr><tr><td><i>Lightning Strike</i> </td><td>Joan Runs Through </td><td>82</td></tr><tr><td><i>You Are There</i> </td><td>Lindsay Ingram </td><td>83</td></tr><tr><td><i>Crunching Snow</i> </td><td>Mini Benson </td><td>84</td></tr><tr><td><i>One</i> </td><td>Annalee Bundy-Carpenter </td><td>85</td></tr><tr><td><i>Imagine</i> </td><td>Angelica Rodriguez </td><td>86</td></tr><tr><td><i>Haiku</i> </td><td>Gordon Bangert </td><td>89</td></tr><tr><td>History of <i>The Southern Quill </i></td><td> </td><td> 90-92 </td></tr><tr><th>Short Stories</th></tr><tr><td><i>My List</i> </td><td>by Lindsay Ingram </td><td>32</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Faded Blue Ribbon</i> </td><td>by Justin Sharp </td><td>60</td></tr><tr><th>Art</th></tr><tr><td><i>Locks of Love</i> </td><td>by Tel Stewart </td><td>Front Cover</td></tr><tr><td><i>Stand Strong </i> </td><td>by Kristen Shimomiya </td><td>Back Cover</td></tr><tr><td><i>A Ghostly, Frosty Night</i> </td><td>by Tel Stewart </td><td>14</td></tr><tr><td><i>Untitled</i> </td><td>by Rebecka Cooper </td><td>16</td></tr><tr><td><i>Untitled</i> </td><td>by Rebecka Cooper </td><td>19</td></tr><tr><td><i>Old Man Tree</i> </td><td>by Janae Hawk </td><td>23</td></tr><tr><td><i>Untitled</i> </td><td>by Gordon Bangert </td><td>25</td></tr><tr><td><i>After Night Life</i> </td><td>by Janae Hawk </td><td>27</td></tr><tr><td><i>Pines Cones</i> </td><td>by Bryaun Skinner </td><td>40</td></tr><tr><td><i>Untitled</i> </td><td>by Rebecka Cooper </td><td>49</td></tr><tr><td><i>Kiln</i> </td><td>by Bryaun Skinner </td><td>51</td></tr><tr><td><i>Racers</i> </td><td>by Mike Preston </td><td>67</td></tr><tr><td><i>The Stick</i> </td><td>by Bryaun Skinner </td><td>68</td></tr><tr><td><i>Untitled </i> </td><td>Rebecka Cooper </td><td>80</td></tr><tr><td><i>Red Berries</i> </td><td>by Tel Stewart </td><td>87</td></tr><tr><td><i>Cedar Flowers </i> </td><td>by Annnie Bundy Carpenter </td><td>88</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/6313bb7ffe3ea4ee8a7e131563277826.pdf 0739f05c671a7676b82100b278af3a12 PDF Text Text The Southern Quill �Dixie State College's English Department is proud to publish the poetry, short fiction and artwork of its students and community members. This fifty-five year old tradition has encouraged writers to develop their craft and to share their work in a public forum. ► Interested in publishing your work in The Southern Quill? - Students and non-student residents of Washington County can submit work for possible publication. Please contact Professor Brad Barry (barry@dixie.edu or 435-652-78 19). ► Interested in taking a creative writing course? Contact either Prof. Ace Pilkington (pilkingt@dixie.edu or 435-652-7809) or Professor Brad Barry (barry@dixie.edu or 435-652-781 9). ► Interested in taking a literature course? The English Depa1tment offers the following: Introduction to Literature Science Fiction/Futurism World Literature Poetry Short Story Novel Children' s Literature Mythology Literature of England Shakespeare' s Comedies Critical Intro to Literature Shakespeare's Trag/Hist Folklore Intro to Drama Introduction to Western American Literature For more information about our literature classes, contact the chair: Professor Dari Biniaz (biniaz@dixie.edu or 435-652-7813). For more Information about Dixie State's English program, please vlsltwww.dixie.edu �The Southern Quill Editor: Gordon Bangert Staff: Jerry Gardner David House Front Cover Photograph: Amy Cox Back Cover Photograph: April Subashe Advisor: Brad A. Barry All poems, stories and artwork are from a broad spectrum of Dixie State College students and/or residents of Washington County - and each work is jointly copyrighted by its individual creator and The Southern Quill. © 2006 �Contents ()1/,cn · I 1,1u11, Tabitha l'cnu11u/ /?c/lc< 11011, For You Rachel Crosby ............................. I The A1tist Elizabeth Carter ........... . ..... . ......... 21 Visiting Grandma Cindy Mackert ................... . ........ 22 My Nurse Kathleen Flood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ....... 2 Melanie Florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Nails Against Jerry Gardner ........... . ........... . ... . . 3 Serene What is the Answer? Beth Brown .............. . ........... . .... 4 Iraq Paradise Untitled Dustin Cummings .. . ............ . . ........ 25 David House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..... 26 Cindy Mackert .............. . . . ... . ........ 5 Tom Eno ...... . ................ . ......... 27 The Poet's Show and Tell Jerry Gardner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .....6 Untitled Choice Gordon Bangert ... . ................... . .... 7 Daily Journaling Ellen Mortensen .... . ... . ............ . ..... 29 Cloudplay April Subashe ... . . . .........................8 Mona Lisa Gordon Bangert ............................ 31 One Fry Short ofa Happy Meal Melanie Florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Brothers Taylor Nichole Sanders ..... . .... . ......... 28 Kathleen Flood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Pilgrimage Logan Manning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ........... 33 �Untitled AprilSubashe ............................ 34 Point of View Kathleen Flood .......... . ............. . ... 63 Jerry Gardner ... . ........................ 35 Boxer Rift The Lost Beauty Amy Cox .............................. 53 Houston Trueblood ......................... .64 Untitled Harrison Begay .... . .............. . .... . .. 65 The Woods Rachel Zentmyer .................. . ....... 55 You Live Too Much Houston Trueblood . . ....................... 67 A Spring Desert Dawn Nathan Cowlishaw ........................ 56 Lights Dust the City Martha Ann Hill . .. .. . .......... . .... . .. . ...68 Counter Weight Logan Manning . . ... . .....................57 The Tea Pot Rachel Crosby . ...................... .. ....69 Haiku Sunshine Black David House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 David House .............. . .............. 58 Random Conversations with a Fallen Leaf Nicholas Jacobsen ....................... 59 Untitled Guampa McKay Adams.......... . .. . .............. 61 The Search, for Meri J. Lucas Brinkerhoff ......... . . . ....... . .. .73 Staves ofa Sigh Logan Manning ... . .. . ... .. .. .. . . .. . . . .... 62 History of the Southern Quill .........................82 Kristina Dover ...................... . .... 72 �Personal Reflections "Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement." - Christopher Fry �Fo•Yo11 The Artist By Rachel Crosby By Kathleen Flood Inside of me, the saltymist of a late night You're here somewhere. No matter how tight I close my eyes, no matter how hard I try to get rid of you. But I lit?e you here, lostwithinme I shouldn't want to remember the little bit of your face still in my mind, And I shouldn't want to feel the place in my heart where your soul still resides Yet you deserve it, thisunrelentingaffection And though I can't hold you now, it will always come bacR to you. Lit?e a wave beats on the shoreline. Love is a can of paint Open the lid and exude the aroma. Dip your paintbrush in. Spread the lush colors across the wall Smear, spill, drip and blend Wait! It's too much for me Wipe some of it off. It's too strong, too much, too thick. Lightly, softly, slowly Move the brush from side to side Stop after the first coat. When it's finished drying you'll Have the opportunity to start over again. - Staff & Editor's Choice 2 �What is the Answer? Nails Against By Jerry Gardner By Beth Brown I stand here before you naked dressed only in a false sense of security the imagined world is theirs and you'll take it while the real world remains a mystery. I will I will I will With not wear your blinders. not eat your words. not populate your worlds fear. I will not be below you. I will not hide under your robes When it is my time for judgment; My legs will carry me. Pieces don't always fit And I'm left Holding a gun to my head Working out who I am Do I stop? Or do I go? I'm too afraid to answer And I'm left With tears streaming down my face With only one decision My heart aches to know What decision my brain Will finally make. I will not acknowledge the cancer you suffer upon society. I will not grant you power over me. 3 4 �Paradise By Cindy Mackert Red, yellow, and orange are etched across the sky in a splash of glorious color and as the sun dips low on the horizon and is overshadowed by the giant mountain with snow on its peaks, I watch the driver as he stares out across the vast stretch of road with cautious deliberations. I watch him continually until he notices my gaze and smiles back at me, taking a momemt to kiss my lips and tell me he loves me as we drive home. The Poet's Show and Tell By Jerry Gardner It is a vile and vulgar thing, this ever elusive passion. Step closer as I spill worlds forth onto blank canvas of paper, leaving not a drop on the pallette. What's that you say? The art is inspired? Well, show me yours, I'll show you mine. Not an inch left hidden to your probing eyes. My soul splayed out, the pliable ooze readied for the sensation of your fingertips. Fully exposed, I wonder: Will you respect me on the morrow? 6 �CHOICE By Gordon Bangert My body and clothes are like those of everyone else, but my ideas and thoughts are not like that of others. Finding new ways to perform. Achieving diverse results. Others may deem my ways as disrupting, conflicting or odd. They may view my action as not the way they would choose due to habits formed long ago. Their path is right for them. My choice is the lonely road followed by examining my options; exploring different ways to achieve my purpose. Not awaiting others to follow. My course is a lonesome one. Age and experience gives pause to consider tradition, and the thought that conformity may be an easier trail. Rapport with others is important. Loneliness is a factor. A promise awaits those who seek a serene life with a mate. Harmony means blending styles with the ways of another. Endowing a new path of unity that escorts them to eternity. Cloudplay by April Subashe 7 8 �One Fry Short of a Happy Meal By Melanie Florence I was lucky I found him on such a bitter cold January night. I had been driving around downtown Denver for hours with the heater on its hottest setting, studying park benches and alleys. Then something about one of the homeless men looked fami liar. Perhaps it was the way he curled up under the garbage-bag blanket with his hands tucked in prayer position under his cheek. Perhaps it was the paint-splattered work boots hanging out from under his coverings. Or perhaps it was the battered cardboard sign lying next to the discarded Thunderbird wine bottle on the sidewalk near the bench. I pulled over and my tires crunched on the sand and gravel buildup next to the curb, a reminder of the last snow storm. Exiting the car, I stood over the sleeping man. Yes, it was Mitch all right. Leaning over him, I shook his shoulder. "Mitch. Mitch. It's Donna. Wake up." He turned over and squinted up at me. Then his eyes slackened with recognition. While he blinked the sleep away, I reached for his hand. "Come on," I said, pulling. " It's too cold to be sleeping out here tonight. Let me take you home and tuck you into a nice warm bed." I was surprised; he didn't resist like he usually did9 probably because he was too drunk or too cold. "But what about Tony?" he asked through chattering teeth. His voice came out gravelly with sleep and alcohol. Then he sat up and coughed a deep ragged cough. "Tony doesn' t want you to freeze to death, either. So come on," I said. He tottered, so I took hjs elbow for support and steered him to the idling car, smelling the fam iliar stale alcohol drifting in his wake. I opened the passenger door, nudged him onto the seat then belted him in like a chi ld. "There you go," I said, closing the door. When the weather was this cold, I couldn ' t bear the thought of having a homeless brother. But God knows now I've tried to help him. Years ago I took him in after Dad kicked him out, then used my contacts to search for potential jobs for him. Occasionally Mitch followed up on my leads, but then he'd find some way to sabotage himself. Either he'd dress improperly for an interview or show up late or mjss days or work at the job halfheartedly and get fired. Most of the time, though, he ended up in front of our TV with a beer in his hand. My husband, Tony, didn't understand why Mitch couldn' t pull himself together. He also told me repeatedly that Mitch's behavior set a bad example for our two children. Tony made is clear that he wanted Mitch out. Over the weeks, our whispered arguments built up into thunder clouds of animosity hanging thick in the air. But no matter bow stormy it got between us, I couldn' t ask Mitch to leave. After two months of tension, even my dense baby brother 10 �sensed that it was time to go. He announced over dinner that he'd try living at big brother Ernie's for a while. It wasn't until much later that 1 heard, in a roundabout way, that Ernie didn't take him in. But I have to hand it to Mitch: he never came back to us. Too proud I guess. Anyway, that was years and years ago. Since then Mitch has been on his own, surviving, thanks to shelters, parks and his own strong will. As I pulled away from the curb, Mitch's sour smell of sweat and dirt and urine and exhaust fumes filled the car. I turned the heater on full blast and angled the vents to blow the smell back. In return, he shed his wool hat and gloves, then draped an elbow on top of the seat back, releasing a renewed bouquet of dankness. Breathing through my mouth so not to smell him, I asked, "How about if I take you out for a hot meal?" He shook his head. "I know how grungy I look. And by the way you' re acting, I probably stink, too. Who's gonna want me to sit in their restaurant?" We could sit in the smoking section, I thought. No one would smell him there. "It's two in the morning, Mitch," I said out loud. "Nobody's going to care." While traveling the few blocks to Denny's, I recalled the last time I saw Mitch. I was driving my sales associate, Dorothy, to a meeting across town. At a stoplight, I saw Mitch standing across the street, babbling to himself, holding up a barely legible sign that read: "One fry short of a Happy Meal. Anything will help. God bless." Dorothy laughed at the sign, but I slouched down and stared straight ahead, praying that Mitch wouldn't recognize me II or my car. If he did, he made no move. I put him far behind us, never giving Dorothy an inkling that he was my brother. "With Arlene there and everything, Dad wouldn't talk." Mitch 's gruff voice broke into my thoughts. "You know the last time I saw dad? Last summer at Larimer Square. He was with that conniving Arlene. Well, I planted myself right there in front of 'em. They simply couldn ' t ignore me." He slapped his hand on his thigh. "Hot damn is Dad getting old. You know how puffy his red face used to be? Well, now it sags. And his hands, they're all covered with liver-spots. He looks so old." He snorted. " And the way he walked ... all hunched over his big belly like a sumo wrestler stomping around the ring." I gripped the wheel. My stomach always tied itself in knots at the mention of dear old Dad. It still hurt when I thought about how he had thrown us all away like soiled tissue after marring Arlene. Ernie and I were solid enough to bounce back, but Mitch wasn't as resilient. In fact, I don 't think he ever recovered. I tried to talk to Dad about it, to force him to face what he had done to us. But Dad, like a mirror, deflected my comments without taking them in. I couldn't penetrate his cold surface with my words. "He must have gained some weight," I tried to say nonchalantly as I turned left into Denny's parking lot. "Did you two manage to get anything worked out?" He blew out a gust of air. "Of course, not. I mean, with 12 �Arlene there and everything, Dad wouldn' t talk. But he must have a heart in there somewhere, because he took me to McDonald's." I parked the car and turned to Mitch. "You ready?" He nodded and unhooked his seatbelt. We walked into Denny's together and slit a hazy atmosphere of hot grease and secondhand smoke. After sliding into a back booth, a bosomy black waitress slapped down menus in front of us. "You two want coffee?" "Sure, thanks," I said, nodding. She turned our cups over and poured. "Be back in a few minutes," she said before scurrying away. Mitch stirred two packets of sugar into his coffee and stared with wide eyes into the cup. "Magical, shiny, steaming, black." He picked it up with both hands. "And wann." In better light, I could see how Mitch had aged since I had last seen him. His straggly hair and long beard had turned almost pure gray, and the lines around his eyes had multiplied and branched. His cheeks were sunken, but I couldn' t tell beneath his multiple layers of clothing whether he'd lost weight or not. I dropped my gaze to his hands. The tips of his fingers had become club-shaped, his ragged fingernails shone a bluish color. Hadn't I read somewhere that club-shaped fingers is a sign of lung cancer? And the bluish color, is that a sign of oxygen deficiency? I sighed. Whatever he had, it didn't look good. I poured cream into my coffee and sipped. I hopped the smooth wannth would sooth my guilt and regret as it slid down Like two jaws of a steel trap, we closed in... my throat. But it didn ' t. Nothing could override the fact that I had contributed to Mitch's homelessness. I set my cup down, recalling my complicity in it all. After Dad had gambled away his savings, all we thought about was saving the family home. Ernie and I threw out the options and Mitch came out on top. We decided to talk to Mitch into selling his condo and moving in with Dad to help with the house payments. After all, Mitch was single, often needed extra attention and was chronically short of money. The logical choice. We met at my house and sat around the dining room table. Ernie's spiel had stressed familial responsibility while I took the guilty conscience approach. Like two jaws of a steel trap, we closed in. Mitch just couldn 't refuse. How were we to know that Dad would meet Arlene? Returning to the moment, I pushed the menu toward him. "You want to order something?" "Yeah. Cheeseburger and fries." " What about eating something good for you?" He frowned and the lines between his eyebrows deepened. "Lay off, Donna. Don't t to be Mom." "Dad should have died instead of Mom." At the thought of our late mother, I bunched up my napkin and dabbed up a coffee drip, pressing my grief onto the table. He pointed at my balled-up napkin. "Look at yourself, wiping up someone else's mess. But you probably can't help it. I mean, it's in the genes." I tried to chuckle the pain away. "Come on, M itch. I'm 14 �not that bad." "Remember how she'd clean up after us? How she'd whisk our plate away if we took too long at the table?. And ~,ow she'd run to the bathroom as soon as we left to scour 1t out? I nodded. "Yeah. She used to scrub that kitchen floor clean enough to perform surgery. Why, I didn't even know what dust bunnies were until I moved out on my own." I lowered my hand, still clutching the napkin. "I miss her, though." "Me, too." He clucked his tongue. "Too bad she ha? to clean herself into an early grave, trying to fill up all the time Dad was away gambling." Against the background of clanging silverware and plates, murmuring conversations, the cook calling out orders and_ an occasional sharp laugh, Mitch smoothed his hand down his beard repeatedly, appearing to comfort himself with those caresses. "Dad should have died instead of Mom. At least Mom cared about us." J shook my head. Although Mitch blamed Dad for Mom's stroke, I knew that Mitch had contributed just as much stress to her life as Dad had. After Mitch entered his second year of community college, his personality began changing into what I later learned was schizophrenia. At the same time, he began drinking with Dad. And when he drank with Dad, discussions turned into biting criticism, and criticism turned into rage. As Mom cowered in the kitchen and Dad screamed in fury, Mitch spiraled into action. Once he dragged the living room furniture out to the front lawn and set the couch on fire. Another time he kicked a hole in the living room wall. 15 I caught a movement in the comer of my eye and looked up to see our waitress poised above us with an order pad. Speaking for both of us, I ordered a cheeseburger and French fries for Mitch, and a piece of apple pie for me. After she left, I noticed his grimy hands. Pointing to the restroom sign behind him, I said, "You want to go wash your hands?" He didn't turn. Instead, he held his hands out and rotated them in a beauty pageant wave. "Nah. All this dirt keeps me from getting sick, you know. You gotta expose yourself to germs to get immunity." He grinned, showing me gray gums and a few more missing teeth than last time. " I haven't been sick in years." "And if I can't use 'em, I'm not going to do anything." I decided not to push him into getting a checkup or ask him if he was taking the medication he was supposed to get at the drop-in clinic. He'd just get angry. So I went back to my other common theme: prodding him to get a job. "There's going to be a vacancy in the mail room at my office in a few weeks. Do you want to give it a try?" The blast of air out of his mouth was so forceful that my napkin almost blew off the table. His breath ended in a long, raspy cough. When he recovered, he said, "I'm not gonna work in any stinking mail room. I have classes below my belt, remember? And ifl can't use 'em, I'm not gonna do anything." Leaning forward, he poured out his recurring complaint, "It's all Dad and Ernie's fault, you know. They're the reason I'm 16 �living on the streets. And have they tried to help me?" Pursing his lips, he shook his head. "No-o-o. You' re the only one left in this fami ly who cares about me." I didn't answer, knowing that half of my so-called caring was out of remorse for my part in causing him to lose his condo. "Shh now, Mitch. That was a long time ago." " Especially that backstabbing, sanctimonious Ernie," he continued, spit flying. "How well he used his salesman's skills that Saturday night at your house." He shook his finger at me, imitating Ernie. '" After all Dad's done for us,' he said. So after I give up my cat so Dad's Dobennan won't eat it and spend all my money paying Dad's rent. Then he meets"- he held his fingers up in quote marks- ' Arlene.' He dropped his hands. "They kicked me out and I had to stay at your house. Well, you know how that went. So finally, I go to Ernie. Holier-than-thou Ernie. His BMW's parked out front, but does he answer his door?" Mitch slammed his fist on the table, shouting, "Course not! I pounded and pounded on it but he never answered his goddamn frigging door! " 1 reached across the table and cradled his dirty tight fist in my clean, manicured hands. "Shh now, Mitch. That was a long time ago. Maybe you should try to let it go." I glanced over my shoulder but no one seemed to have noticed his outburst. Turning back to him, I took a deep breath and removed my hands. His fist was tighter than ever. Thinking a diversion will calm him, I said, "l still have some of your art supplies in the 17 attic. If you want, you can use our garage for a studio." He shook his head. " And cause more fights between you and Tony? No way. Besides, I tried that at Dad 's, remember? Then he kicks me out." He crossed his arms in front of him. "Lost all my artistic motivation on that one." His face began to pucker up and I feared an explosion. Thank heavens the waitress came at that moment with our food. I watched him turn his bitterness and anger to his plate; he attacked his cheeseburger with both hands, tearing off enormous bites and swallowing them half-chewed like a ravenous dog. After gulping coffee to wash it all down, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked up to me with watery eyes. "Area 't you gonna eat?" I shrugged. Watching him devour his food with such rage and desperation had evaporated my appetite. I pushed my pie plate toward him. "Here, you take it." But I couldn 't let the matter go. As he started in on his French fries, I said, "We can get you into a program, Mitch. To help you stop drinking and get you employed. I'll pay for it. Then you can live somewhere warm. How does that sound?" He picked up the last few fries and squashed them into a ketchup puddle. "Thanks but no thanks. I like my freedom, Donna. And there's shelters if I want 'em. Just let me be, okay?" Sighing, I watched him pick at the pie. What' s happened to our family? After Mom died, we fell apart. And no matter how hard I try, I can' t put it back together again. Soon Mitch 's plates were cleaner than Mom's kitchen floor used to be. As he wiped his hands on the napkin, leaving behind dull black 18 �smears, I tried one last time. "So, are you going to let me take you home with me, or not?" He shook his head. "Donna, you golden soul, you made me happy. You warmed me up and fed me. What more can I ask? But no. I like the park." Defeated, I signaled for the waitress. All I could do was stare at him, thinking about how sick he was and how I had wasted twenty years worrying and immersing myself in guilt over him. At that moment Mitch had finally made it clear. Or maybe it was the first time I was ready to see. I no longer needed to right my past wrongs with him; he forgave me a long time ago. What I needed to do was forgive myself. Others' Visions "The poet' s gift is to soothe and harass." - Sergei Yesenin 19 20 �Vltltln9 G,andn1a By Cindy Macl~ert Tabitha By Elizabeth Carter Young and Innocent Bald yet Fair Curious and Bold She has the world ahead of her Not certain what's next to come With every passing day Learning something new With every new word And every person she meets Is a love for the world that cannot be surpassed In admiration for her I sit back, just watching Hoping some of it will rub off on me 21 Visiting Grandma is lil?e traveling bad~ in time My dad hauls bucbets of water from the well that fills when it rains for sponge baths and coobing. We sleep in antique beds that creab when we move in an unfinished attic that frightens me with its shadows. My grandma's bathroom is an outhouse. There is a half moon on the door, a picture of a lighthouse on the inside wall, and it reeRS as only an outhouse can. I put off going to the bathroom until my stomach is bloated and throbbing. At night I clutch the flashlight My only linb to the twentieth century and beg my mom to accompany me. When I feel lazy There are the "slop jars" by the beds that later I will see priced highly in an antique store and wonder what became of my grandmother's. Wild blueberries grow abundantly in my grandmother's bacRyard. Red juice squirts all over my chin when I sneab a handful of blueberries from my basl?et as I help my mother picbthem. We carry the big basl?ets of blueberries to the house to be made into jam and pie. My grandmother's bitchen fills With the delightful aroma of fresh blueberry pie While we play Sbipbo and paint by the numbers Asa family. 22 �MpNu,se By Melonie Florence My nurse is lil~e a slender porcelain pitcher, tapering up from solid feet to upper lip. On one side, she tucbs her hair up under a no-nonsense white cap, while hints of mischief sparl?le from pecan-green eyes, and caring, continuity and capability shine through her ready smile. Turn her around and, from her sturdy base to narrow top, her life is a collage of vegetable gardens, a compact bric!? house stuffed with furniture, and the oft-mentioned secret room crowded with dried herbs and unfinished paintings. Dancing around my nurse's foundation, her elfish son grips pen and paper, her sandy-haired husband wears a bocl? brace, and me, the elderly woman in the hospital bed, is weighed upon by a pastel pile of sweet torts, an insulin pump, and a cigarette whirling smol?e, connecting, in a hazy gray, the circle of her life melding with mine. continued next page... 23 Aging and past rough treatment have chipped my nurse's rim, and I watch o long, thin cracl? grow daily, from top to base, between her face and her memories. But in spite of this fracture, My nurse does not lea!?. Fulfilling her purpose, she allows herself to be filled up with my pressing needs, both hot and cold. While she silently bears the expansions and contractions that deepen the fissures lining her insides and widen the crocl?, my feeble hands grasp her easily and I pour out the specially-made balm, a mixture of coretal?ing, sharing and companionship, that she hos tenderly held for me until I was ready to tal?e it. In tum, I try to handle my nurse gently, to loo!? beyond her function into the beauty, fragility and hidden treasures she carries deep inside. And I hope, in this late hour, to give bocl? in the only way I con: by complying. Perhaps then she'll release to me some unmet needs of her own. 24 �Iraq By David House Power is the spoken wordSpoken once And after echoes Power is the desert heat, Do you see it? Waving the horizon Power~theoozeofoil Dripping Slipping dirty hands. Power is the tank tread Tearing, Crushing lines of people' s feet. Power is a pungent thingA decomposing Human corpse. Serene by Dustin Cummings Power is an americaSmalJ and dark In her air tight coffin. Power is dot in a book, And War and Peace Will turn its page. 25 26 �Unllllecl by Tom Eno Love is a tidal pool with times of warmth and times of cold, times of holding on and times of letting go, times of gaining and times of losing, times of being refreshed and times of drying out. Love is a bit of seaweed living in the tidal pool, with times of growth and times of dying bad?, times of being smashed about by the waves and times of floating easy in the gentle foam. Love is a small crab living in the tidal pool, with times of feasting and times of starving, times of hiding and times of warming out in the sun, times fighting off competitors and times of sharing a find, times of lying dormant under a rod? and times of dancing forth all over the rocl:?y circle of its life. Love is a man coming to sit beside the tidal pool, who has lmown times of giving and times of ta~ing, times of being alone and times of being close, times of hoping and times of despair, times of sadness and times of joy. Love is a woman come to sit beside the man at the tidal pool, and together they have ~nown times of cooperation and times of wal~ing alone, times of being one and times of feeling so misunderstood, times of sharing and times of selfishness, times of rejecting and times of forgiving. Love is a place at the bottom of the tidal pool, where two gold rings lay beside each other, from two hearts that were once one but now are pulled apart. 27 Untitled By Taylor Nichole Sanders 28 �Daily Journaling By Ellen Mortensen Snatches of conversation return Descriptions become more detailed A blade of grass, a weed, a face There's Fred walking up the one step of B of A It's not hair Not the clothes. It's the walk It's not the slight stoop Or the shuffle It's an essence of being It's uniqueness It's style Who am I? Who is Fred? Why does the rain fall? Why is the grass green? Pick up a pencil and write The answer travels from the mind to the fingers to the pencil to the paper How warm and reassuring you are. I feel like a writer in hour presence Even when I think about you And your desk cluttered with All those nurturing writer's things Like books and food and utensils in cups And shagady ragady doll with all the blues Sprawled in a comer A miniature home in an institution And your joy of writing Of other people's writing And here you are Stashed in a little Shack in the mountains Surrounded by ferny grassy glades Of wild flowers Waiting for pencil toting hikers To lighten their load To sing a song of words Of twenty six letters rearranged Into myriad's of feelings. We are joined for a lifetime In the memory of meeting Deepening the meaning of life. continued next page ... 29 30 �Brothers By Kathleen Flood Mona Lisa By Gordon Bangert Mona Lisa. Your eternal being is assured. Flesh parades by while you endure time. Made from nature's worth by living beings. Your infinite being is affirmed. Your visage aped and defiled by the inept, Galleries afar unveil a mystic gleam to all. Your endless smile endures war, envy, time while once kings, dukes and czars all sleep. Though this planet has indeed evolved, your perpetual image remains unchanged. Your never-ending persona is assured. The divine above must have inspired Leo, and grateful are we for beauty bestowed. Your eternal being is assured. Whenever I steal his food It must be quickly eaten Little brothers are the best Especially after they're beaten. Why does mom get so mad When I put sand down his pants? Or when I tell him how delicious Are the squashed and sun-dried ants. So I threw a bucket at his head And tied his shoes in knots. Ok, I ran over his toes with a bike And stuck him in flower pots. Who cares if he ate my scabs? Or picked the dog' s nose. I didn' t know I'd hurt him when Showing my karate chop pose. I didn't tell him to say that word! Or to stick beans in his ears. He's just an ugly little brat So how come anyone cares? I swear I didn't do it mom, I'm sorry his arm's in a sling. You always say that it's my fault, But you can't prove a thing. 31 32 �Pilgrimage By Logan Manning A fleeti ng shudder in the wind his shoulder shook, his breathing thinned. The veils of cloud remained at day, at dawn, the sky was utter grey. He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands and squinting at the distant lands his chapped lips named the mountain range but even it would fall to change. A year ago today he came and looked upon this sight the same, his youthful home a decade lost to college, work, and Autumn frost. The place of life, or place of birth, or elsewhere in the lands of earth, we men are wont to name a home and thither cast our hearts to roam. There used to be some friends around-stiII were, but all by e-mail bound. The faithful music that was sung had long ago his spirit wrung. A girl he loved, in younger days, yet knew their paths were separate ways. When life was not an aging game-he wondered if she knew his name. Untitled by April Subashe A year from now he'll come again The world will not be different then The rest is Else when youth is spent The way is shut, all paths are bent. Fint Place Winner -Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Award 34 �Rift By Jerry Gardner "Brush your teeth and I'll tuck you in." Owen quickly changed directions and headed to the bathroom. He watched himself in the mirror above the sink as he brushed his teeth, the lighting made his hair appear to be the exact color of a new penny, which was a strange contrast to the freckles along the ridge of his nose. After rinsing, he examined his teeth in the reflection. He stuck out his tongue and examined the bumps and spots on the pink surface. Placing a finger from either hand into the comers of his mouth he began pulling faces and laughing at himself. Owen yawned. He realized he was tired and made his way to his room. His mother sat waiting for him on his bed. She had his covers turned down and his bed looked warm and inviting. "Got your p.j's here." Owen grabbed the Star Wars pajamas from his Ten days into the month of September seemed an odd time of year for a horror movie marathon, especially when the audience consisted of one nine year old boy. Yet, this is how Owen, on the sofa, surrounded by video tapes, had spent the entirety of his Friday afternoon. The line-up had started with Bela Lugosi's Dracula, followed by Vincent Price in an Edgar Allen Poe story. Owen now watched as Boris Karloff and a young girl plucked petals from flowers. Owen felt a hand touch his shoulder and he jumped. He was so involved in the movie that he did not even hear his mother enter the room. "Crap! Mom, don't scare me like that" Owen exclaimed as his mother sat next to him. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's time for bed." Her breath smelled of cinnamon. "Mom, can't I please just stay up? Just for a little while longer, please. It's almost over." "You need your sleep." She tickled him with one hand as she wrestled the remote from him with the other. "You can finish tomorrow. Now, are you going to go to bed?" Owen was laughing and kicking his legs. "I won't stop tickling until I get a 'yes'." "Okay! Yes! " He struggled to catch his breath. "Just stop tickling before I pee my pants." Owen hopped from the couch and started for his room. Owen's mother pushed stop on the remote control and said, mother's hands and ran to the comer with them. He turned to his mother to make sure her eyes were closed. She smiled at him, took the hint, and covered her eyes with her hands. "Ready." Owen turned and pulled a wooden chair across the hardwood floor and scooted it finnly against the doorknob of the closet. This was a nightly routine; Owen believed that one could never be too careful when it came to creatures and closets. Owen jumped into bed and pulled the blankets up under his chin. His mother was still seated on his bed. "ls the nightlight on, Mom?" he asked. "Yes." 35 36 "Will you check under my bed?" �"Are the doors locked?" "Uh huh." "Are the windows shut?" "Yeah, and the burglar alarm is set too." Owen sat up abruptly. "We have a burglar alarm?" His eyes were wide saucers of surprise. "No, of course not." She gave Owen her famously crooked grin and winked at him. "Oh." He picked up an Etch-a-Sketch from the table beside his bed, turned the knobs without looking, shook it to clear it, and set it back down. "Can we get one?" he asked hopefully. "I'm not so sure we need one." His mother said. "Are you afraid the devil is gonna come in and steal your soul?" She playfully clawed at his ribs as she asked this, tickling Owen once agam. "Mom, no."Owen said, trying to move away from her fingers. "Besides, if there were a devil, people would scare the hell out of him." This statement caused his mother to stop tickling him. "You watch your language, young man." She said in a state of mild shock. "That's what Dad always says." "Well, it sounds like Dad and I are gonna have a long theological discussion." She stood and headed toward the door. " Goodnight Owen." "Mom?" "Yes Owen." "Will you check under my bed?" 37 She rolled her eyes. "And just what is it I am checking for?" she inquired. "I don 't know," Owen replied. "Nuthin' ." She dropped down and looked under his bed, if only to humor him. "And that's exactly what I see under the bed besides dirty socks, is nuthin' ." She stood and headed toward the bedroom door. "It's all those scary movies you insist on watching that's got you spooked." "It's not the movies, Mom, I promise." " What is it, then?" Owen had no reply; only shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. From the door his mother looked back at him. "Goodnight, Owen. Sweet dreams." "Mom?" "Yes, Owen?" "Aren' t you gonna tell me you love me?" "Of course I love you, Owen. Why would you ask that?" "'Cause what ifl fell asleep and something happened to me in the midd_le of the night and you never got a chance to tell me you loved me. You'd be sorry for the rest of your life." She returned to Owen's bedside and kissed him gently on the forehead. "Nothing is going to happen to you, sweetheart. You' re gonna wake up tomorrow and it will be a Saturday just like any other." She stroked his cheek. " I love you, Owen." Owen laid down, rolled to his side, and mumbled, "I love you too, Mom." 38 �He slipped into slumber and dreamed. * * * A circle of covered wagons . .. people huddle in the center among their cattle and horses. They are scared. A couple of the men are bleeding ... dying from gunshot wounds received from protecting the travelers during a gun battle with the war-painted Indians that surround the valley. The women and children-and one or two of the men-are crying. From the crest of a hill ride two men in a wagon. Men within the circle raise their rifles but do not fire because they see the white flag the newcomers carry. The men in the wagon speak to some of the men from the party. The group pass their rifles to the newcomers. The rifles are placed into the wagon. The injured among the group are placed into the wagon, along with the younger children who won't be able to keep up. The people from the group cautiously climb from the circle and form a single file line, relieved and grateful to the wagon men. The acrid smell of gunpowder hangs thick As the group walks, armed men approach and surround them, assuring them that they are there to protect them from the Indian attackers. They point to the forms ducking in and out of the juniper trees. Men, women, and children, grateful to their rescuers, walk out of hann, directly into tragedy. The leader of the rescuers, a stout man in a bowler hat, gives the order. Each of the rescuers become the executioner as they turn to the traveler nearest them, draw their weapons, and fire. 39 The initial shots end the life the men in the group. The acrid smell of gunpowder hangs thick throughout the valley. The next shots target women, and anyone old enough to tell the tale. Children in the wagon scream as they watch their parent's die. Those who still can, flee. Indians from the surrounding hills come down with knives and pistols; only one or two are real. The rest are white men in costume. Bullets fly throughout the valley, rending the unarmed travelers. Young mothers carrying their babies are shot through, killing both mother and child. A young lady of thirteen tries desperately to hide in the brush, but her screams give her away. She hears footsteps and gunfire closer to her, then pops up just in time to see her mother's face explode at the impact of a bullet. She runs down a small ravine and through the stream. She comes up the other side and a shot rings out. There is pain like a bright flash and then numbness. She is hit through the chest but does not stop running. The bullet is lodged in her lung. The strain from running makes breathing hard. She nears the base of a hill and ducks through an outcropping of scrub oak. Behind the bush is a small, narrow cave in the rock face. The opening angles downward, and is just large enough to squeeze through. She crawls several feet into the narrow passage. Blood seeps from her wound onto her hands; it's sticky. The cavern opens into a larger room. She leans back against the cave wall, coughing and sputtering blood through her mouth and nose. The metallic taste is overpowering. She finds her head starting to droop and she is extremely tired, all she wants to do is sleep. 40 �* * * "MOM!" Owen awoke, drenched in a cold sweat and panting. "MOM!", he screamed again. A light came on and tired, dragging footsteps tromped toward his room. His mother poked her head into the door, the light from down the hall surrounded her like an aura. She seemed angelic. "Owen, what' s the matter?" she fought to keep her eyes open and her hair stuck out in all directions from her head. "Mom, there were these people ... and these Indians .. . and they shot 'em... and the girl. .. Mom, she's dead!" Owen spoke swiftly. "Oh, honey, it was just a bad dream. There's no girl." "But it was so real." "I know, honey, you' ll be okay. Won' t you?" Owen thought for a moment and reluctantly nodded his head. "Good, you need your rest. Try to go back to sleep." Owen nodded again and whispered a good night as his mother left his room for her's. The night outside was still. A waning moon hung in the sky in the shape of a fingernail and cast very little light through the window. Traffic motored by on the highway infrequently. The bulk of the night-noises was generated by the chirping of crickets. The noises, comforting, were lulling him back into slumber. Before he could reach sleep, the noise was punctuated by a shri 11, mournful howl of a coyote from a peak above the house. Then: silence, complete and encompassing. His room grew cold and his breath was visible in 41 bursting clouds from his mouth. The door to his bedroom was open halfway, as it was every night, and the hall nightlight illuminated the outline of the door. Owen heard the click and rattle of a doorknob. He lifted his head off of the pillow and looked around his room. The sound of wood scraping against wood verified that the sound was the closet door and the chair was being forced from its appointed position. Owen laid his head back down quickly, hoping that it was only his imagination, and if he concentrated hard enough it would stop . Owen heard the click and rattle of a doorknob. His heart was pounding, he could hear the blood whoosh through his ears. Daring another look, he saw that the chair was now an equidistance between the closet and his bed. Every hair on his body stood on end and the copper taste of fear was strong in his mouth. He pulled the blankets over his head and began to sob. He heard the chair scrape across the floor one more time. He lowered the blankets from his face. The chair was where he knew it would be (right next to his bedside), and seated in it was a misty, pale figure of a young girl. .. the girl from his dream...dark circles around her eyes and blood dried in the comers of her mouth, she was dressed in a long black skirt and a billowing white blouse. Owen was paralyzed by a mixture of curiosity and fear. She stood from the chair and touched his forehead with ice water fingers, and kissed him on the cheek with frost bite lips. Owen screamed and glanced at the door to his bedroom, gauged the distance, 42 �and sprinted out of the room and into his parents'. He crawled between the still sleeping couple. "Mom. Mom," he whispered. She stirred and groaned. "Mom, can I sleep in here?" She mumbled something incoherent that Owen hoped was a 'yes'. Owen spent the night there rubbing his cheek and forehead to try and bring warmth back to them. * * * Sleep had not visited him for the remainder of the night. Every time he closed his eyes he could picture the face of the nightly visitor, and it reminded him of the coldness of her touch. His mother snorted once, stretched, and rolled over to look into her son' s sleep deprived eyes. "What on earth are you doing in here?" she asked. "I don' t even remember you coming in." He wondered for a moment if she would believe him, but he thought that she had to; she was his mother after all. He made his decision. "I think there was someone in my room." "Owen, it's just your imagination. How could anyone get in your room?" "Mom, it was a little girl. Somehow she moved my chair and she kissed me on the cheek." "What on earth are you doing in here?" "Owen, that's impossible. You must have been dreaming." "Will you come with me to look?" "Why, are you scared?" Owen nodded; the look in his eyes let her know that he 43 was being serious. "Honestly, kid, you have the wildest imagination," she said as she swung her legs over the bed and stood up. Owen climbed from the bed behind her and they walked together down the hallway to Owen 's room. The chair was still sitting next to the bed and the blankets were strewn across the floor, creating a trail toward the door. "Why were you dragging this chair around in the middle of the night?" she asked incredulously as she gripped the back of the chair and placed it against the wall. As she did this she glanced at the night stand and saw the Etch-a-Sketch. The screen contained an intricately crafted message: MoThEr F AtHEr FINd mE. "What the heck is this, Owen? How long did you stay up doing this?" "What is it?" Owen asked. "You know, this message on this thing." She handed the toy to Owen. Owen turned white and dropped the toy. It hit the ground with a heavy clatter. The image faded slightly. "I didn' t do that, Mom," he said. "Somebody had to have done it. It didn't get there by itself." He was staring at the toy as if it were a rabid, snarling animal. "Come on, Owen," she said, "you gotta quit. We both know there was no one in here. But, I gotta hand it to you, this is quite an elaborate joke. Pretty original." "Mom, I swear. .. " Owen started to regret having told her. He should have known that she would not believe him. It was an incredible story after all. He swallowed hard to fight back a batch of tears. His mother patted him gently on the shoulder. Owen 44 �pulled away from her touch. "I'm gonna get dressed," he said, colder than he had expected to. "Go ahead," his mother said. "I'll go make you breakfast." She left the room. Owen grabbed a set of clothes and dressed quickly. The thought of being alon~ in t~e ro?m was like a thousand electrified fingertips explormg his spme. He pulled his shirt over his head, noticed it was on ~ackward, but left it the way it was. He did not want to spend time enough in the room alone to fix the problem. As he entered the hallway he was greeted by the smell of frying bacon. His mouth watered. He pulled his chair from the kitchen table ~nd sat down heavily. The morning sun was warm through the wmdows behind him. A glass of orange juice waited for him and he gulped deeply twice. The pulp sluic~d down ~is throat and he wiped his top lip with the back of ?is hand. Ht_s m~ther sat a_ steaming plate of scrambled eggs m front of him. Bacon will be up in a sec," she said. "Do you want toast?" Owen nodded as he stabbed at his eggs with a fork. He did not raise his eyes from his plate. "What's the matter?" she asked, "Cat got your ~q~" . Owen was familiar with the expression, but could not recall ever hearing anyone use it. He did not have an answer so he shrugged. , . ,, "Owen, I'm serious. Why aren t you talkmg to me? "Because you think I'm playing a joke on you!" he shouted. He felt his face flush. She threw an arm around his shoulder in a half-hug. 45 "I'm son-y, honey, but you gotta admit that your story is pretty unbelievable." Owen didn't pull away this time, but sat in an obvious Owen felt the hairs on his arms stand straight up. stony silence. "Just eat your breakfast. Maybe we'll talk when you're done." He ate his fill. The food was good but he was not going to let his mother know that at the moment. He rose from the table. "Where ya goin '?" his mother asked. She sipped a glass of orange juice. "Brush my teeth," he replied, barely audible. She followed him as he walked toward the bathroom. "Don' t feel bad, Owen. Are you gonna ignore me all day?" Owen shrugged as he stepped in front of the sink and reached for his toothbrush. He had to admit to himself that some small part of him enjoyed the play between himself and his mother. It seemed a perfect way to punish her for her disbelief. He grabbed the well-flattened tube of Crest from the medicine cabinet and unscrewed the cap. "I thought the mother was supposed to punish the child," she said, only half joking. Owen still said nothing as he squeezed a bead of toothpaste onto the brush. Before Owen could lift the tip of the tube from the bristles of the brush the room grew cold. A sound seemed to swirl through the air before reaching them. It reminded Owen of the time his father had shown him how to play records backward on an old turntable. The sound grew louder and the 46 �walls shook. Owen felt the hairs on his arms stand straight up. The sound layered on top of itself as it grew in intensity and somewhere beneath the layers, a child's scream was audible. The mirror above the sink picked up the sound and seemed to briefly hum. It shattered with a sharp crack, but none of the pieces fell to the floor. Cracks in the glass fonned together to create words much like that on the Etch-a-Sketch: jaNie MAE FanCHEr FinD mE. . "See, I told you I wasn't lying!" he screamed at his mother. It was his mother's tum for silence. Her mouth was a big "O" of surprise in a face that was void of color. The glass of juice slipped from her hand and crashed onto the hardwood floor. Shards of broken glass made tinkling sounds as they scattered, then settled in the liquid. Owen dropped his toothbrush-unused-into the bottom of the sink. His mother turned and walked back down the hall into the living room. Owen followed. She sat gingerly on the couch and grabbed for a pillow which she clutched tightly to her chest. "Do you be lieve me now?" Owen asked. She said nothing. Color had still not returned to her face and her eyes seemed distant. Owen looked out the bay window and down into the valley below. Instantly he recognized the stream and expanse of sagebrush below him as the valley in his dream. He could envision where the wagons had been circled and realized that the hilltop where the house sat was the same hilltop that the mock Indians had watched the travelers from. The dream 47 followed him into waking and he spoke: "Mom, I gotta go. I think I got things to do." His mother broke from her trance-Like state. "Don 't you dare leave me in this house alone," she said, rising from the sofa. Owen went to the closet for his shoes and jacket. "I gotta go, Mom." "Where do you gotta go?" she asked. Owen pointed out the open front door toward the stream. "Down there somewhere, I think," he said. There was a tone in Owen's voice that let her know that there was no talking Owen out of whatever he had planned. His mother slipped her own shoes and jacket on. "I'm not staying here," she said. Owen thought she Looked silly with her shoes poking out from underneath her nightgown. They walked down the hill in silence. Owen ' s mother followed him intently, not sure as to their destination. The smell of sage and rabbit brush was prevalent in the dewy morning air. When they reached the stream Owen plodded through it, not paying attention to the water seeping through the seams of his tennis shoes. His mother tried to jump the water, clearing it with one foot, but the other foot splashed mud and water up the back of her nightgown. She cursed under her breath. They worked their way up the opposite hillside, stumbling against the steep incline and loose dirt. Against a rock protrusion from the hill was an outcropping of scrub oak. "Amazing it's still here after all these years," Owen said. 48 �"What's still here?" his mother asked. It seemed odd for a child to make a statement on the longevity of an object. Owen didn't answer. She watched as he crawled behind the brush and disappeared into the narrow entrance of a cave. "Owen, I really don't want you going down there. Stop this instant, " she said as she followed him, contorting and squeezing her body through the passageway. They entered into the cavern. It took a moment for their eyes to fully adjust to the slight amount of light funneling through the tunnel. Owen turned a complete circle; though he had never been here, everything was completely familiar. He wasn't aware of his mother behind him until she spoke. "Owen, be careful, there might be snakes down here." "It's alright, Mom," he said. "What are we doing down here, anyway?" "Dunno for sure," he replied. He turned his attention to his task. He was sure that she was down here-somewhere; he had watched her. The light was dim and he could only make out the shapes of objects. He found the wall and felt his way around the circular room. Beneath his fingertips, the walls were damp and slimy. Rocks littered the floor making sure footing something to work for. He stumbled and crashed to the floor. His head hit an object and the sound from the meeting was a hollow thunk. Owen groaned and rubbed his head where the pain was blossoming. His mother exhaled a startled gasp. "Owen, my God, I said to be careful. Did you hurt yourself?" He reached forward ... and picked up the skull. 49 He ignored her and looked toward the object that he had smacked his head into. He stared into the hollow blackness of empty eye sockets and eternal wide grin of a skull. He fought hard to swallow a scream. He scrambled to his feet and noticed the bones scattered along the cavern floor. The remnants of clothing lay in tattered shreds among them. He reached forward, shoved aside a twinge of disgust, and picked up the skull. He held it at eye level and spoke to it: "I found you. What now?" It was at this point that he became aware of his mother's panicked voice. "Owen, why won't you answer me? Are you all right?" She had watched him as he bent to pick up an object, and she had watched as he held the object to his face, and she thought she had heard him say something to the object; but she could see almost nothing through the darkness of the cave. Owen turned and held the skull out for his mother to see. "I found her, Mom." His smile was wide enough to match the skull 's. Owen watched his mother' s eyes grow wide, and for a moment, thought she was going to scream, but she simply fainted. * * * That afternoon was a busy one in the valley. Owen's mother, upon regaining consciousness, returned to the house to phone the police. Owen watched from the front of his house as men in unifonn, and men in regular clothes scurried about. Some of them were squeezing their almost-too-large bodies in and out of the cavern. Owen assumed they were collecting the bones he had literally stumbled across. 50 �His mother joined him. She had stayed inside as much as the police officers would let her, and had still not spoken of the incident with Owen. It seemed as if she were trying to convince herself that it had never happened. She put one hand on her son's shoulder, and with the other she dabbed softly at his bruised forehead with an ice-cold washrag. He hugged her around the waist and she hugged back. She hadn' t noticed before, but for some reason, his shirt was on backward. They were approached a short while later by a balding man in regular clothes. Owen marveled at the thickness of the man's glasses and at the perfect, well waxed curls at the ends of the man's mustache. He spoke to Owen first. His voice was smooth and warm. "You must be the young man who found our young lady friend back there in the cave." He smiled a yellowtoothed smile. Owen suffered a moment of shyness and only nodded. "A young boy's gotta be careful down in those caves, but you look smart; bet you knew that already, didn't you." Owen nodded again and reached for his mother's hand. "What's she doing down there, anyway?" his mother asked. "I'd have to say that she was one of those poor folks who were killed down there." The man twisted at one of the waxed mustache tips as he thought. "My goodness, it's been a hundred and fifty years to the day. Can you imagine? Those families were on their way to California to start a new life; make things better for their families, when they were ambushed. Most of them got to see their families murdered, but never got to say goodbye. Tragic." The man shook his head in 51 remorse. "Killed over a hundred and twenty of them. There's a mass grave the other side of the creek there; if you know where to look it isn' t hard to find. I think that's where the bones belong, and we'll put 'em there as soon as the coroner gives us the go-ahead." Owen looked up at his mother and whispered, "Mom, that's what she wanted. She wants to be with her family again." His mother looked at him with teary eyes. "I love you, son," she said. She now realized the words could not be said enough. She turned back to the mustachioed man. "How do you know those are the bones of a girl?" she asked him. "I guess we're going on speculation at this point, but I'd say the locket we found among the bones is a pretty good indication that we have a young lady. Name was engraved on the locket; said Janie Mae Fancher." The man looked back toward the valley floor and chuckled softly. "You know, some people say this place is haunted. Don't that beat all?" 52 �Nature's Glory "The sun is touching the fretted tablelands on the west. It seems to bulge a little, to expand for a moment, and then it drops - abruptly - over the edge. I listen for a long time." - Edward Abbey The Lost Beauty by Amy Cox 53 54 �A Spring Desert Dawn By Nathen Cowlishaw The Woods By Rachel Zentmyer Strolling through a wooded place my face rose pink from chilling winds. I can not see there scarcely breathe the cold wind as it passed by me. And as a deer stepped light on leaves her nose sniffed softly for a meal. But as I stepped she vanished there leaving me alone again. To paint a picture in my mind and this is how the world should be so beautiful and serene. Though I can do but oh so much, at least I have the woods my own to hold forever in my heart. The sun is rising. The dog is lying in the grass listening to the crickets. The roses are blooming along with daffodils. The wind swings them. An orange cat is purring on The window sill. Wind whistles through the window screens. The sky is lighting up burning with warm glowing hues. Just out of bed, I open the wooden door and sit on the porch. Chimes sing. The air is full of fine sediments blown in from the desert. 55 Second Place Winner -Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Award �Counterweight By Logan Manning Haiku By D avid House The forest secrets sunk in gloom Are masked by light of sitting room Reflected in the window glass I see myself out on the grass. The glass was set some time before To claim the elder forest lore As coming from the human mind-The glass as making what's behind. But someday soon you must decide If Death is real, if Doctrine lied When you were told that man is god, That every love with lust is shod. And every day you must decide To walk and see, or sit inside The room you've sat in all these years To sit inside or see your fears. Beyond the glass it's raining here With water from a different sphere Undreamt, unknown, uncalled by me, And heedless running to the sea. 57 Aside a dry walk Leaves of grass web a comerA dark widow hangs. �Random Conversations with a Fallen Leaf By Nicholas Jacobsen Lying in the grass. A small brown leaf Rolls past my head falls down next to me and says, "See me here all brittle and alone. Fallen from the only state I've known. But I will not stay here and mom my loss with you. There is still so much to do." "But do you not miss your place up high, so close to the brilliant sunlight? Don't you remember your family there and how much joy you had to share when you'd wave to me from your perch as if singing, 'don't you worry about this or that for very soon you will forget these weights of which you call your own ... "' "But don't you see? I am alone, nor have I left my home. You too soon wi II see that you are everything." My brown friend then flew away As part leaf, part wind, and part ray. continued next page ... 59 60 �Staves of a Sigh By Logan Manning Gazing in the afternoon I speak the words without a tune And far above is still the sun But in my eyes the day is done. Shivering in the stagnant heat I wish my evenstar to meet But all is sunken in the west A dusty glare forbidding rest. Dozing on the barren trail The juniper will say no tale The very stars will fail to mark This failing hope when it is dark. Guampa by McKay Adams 62 �Point of View By Kathleen Flood The worms of the grass Consider how they slither And the sunflowers by the garden So beautiful when they wither. Mud is the primary form of fun Especially when worn How precious is a mother dog Before her baby's born. The amazing thing you can mabe With a mound of grainy sand Or the amount of copper colored moths You can capture with one hand. A beautiful bouquet for mom You can mabe with big green weeds If you follow the old dirt path There's no telling where it leads. Spiders, flies and lady bugs Can be quite a thriller Imagine the excitement when You find a fuzzy caterpillar. The things we tabe for granted The things we never prize Are worth more than anything When seen through a child's eyes. Boxer By Houston Trueblood Spring is like a boxer who, After a match with The world championSunken eyes, Protruding brow And pounding fists Falls into his cool bed After a sprinkled fresh shower, Tingling cold and tart, Tucks up and begins To stretch his beaten mind far Farther Farthest to work out all the cramps. Third Place Winner -Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Award 63 64 �Other Perspectives "I' m always highly irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality, and it's very shocking to the system." - Flannery O'Connor Untitled by Harrison Begay 65 66 �Lights Dust the City You Live Too Much By Martha Ann Hill By Houston Trueblood If you looked at your life For just one frame at a time Like a Kodak moment, Would you be a blur? Or would you see Your own cheerful face Smiling back With thankful eyes? Lights dust the city, Revealing itself like the lazy Mingling of a dream. Born with the glint of trash Furrowing beneath the fumes of some natural disaster. I watch the oxymorons, Standing outside the corner thrift store. -Gambling on all foursLapping up the potholes, After L.A.' s first rain. 67 68 �-------- The Teapot By Rachel Crosby Love is a tea pot on the stove, set on high heat. The steam comes, suffocating every other feeling, distorting your vision and filling your mind with dreams of 1-o-n-g, tender kisses and soft hands in the The whistle blows, signifying arrival, and cruel fate, thirsty for more p 0 u dark. r It gets hotter and one single pocket of air p, 0 makes its journey to the t unable to control its happiness. And soon, it spreads this wonderful disease to the rest of the bubbles. All j m i g u p n and llll■■IAG excitedly near the surface. s your heart and soul into a cheap mug, and quickly brings it to his nostrils to smell your aroma. He takes a few sips, not half as satisfied as you expected, then p 0 u r s the rest d 0 w n the drain. Leaving the pot, and everything else continued next page ... empty. 69 70 �Sunshine Black By David House You snort your coke and sneeze And sleep not your mind and seize; I am afraid you will soon DeathA line of light upon a mirror Like a corpse white Upon a Gurney But for now, you smile at me And Down At your reflected face And watch , as A rock dropped in a lake, You disappear In the Depth, Untitled by Kristina Dover And you look up to sunshine till All Your shades Turn. BLACK 71 72 �The Search, for Meri By J. Lucas Brinkerhoff "What does your name mean to you?" My simple question tumbled out of my mouth and fell on the awkward silence like ten tons of TNT. Her smile disturbed the glassy water of her face. Contentment glowed from the inner workings of her soul and broke through my question. I could tell her answer was not going to be what I was expecting, but not far from what I already knew. All the same, I braced myself for impact. "My name is the irony that has made me who I am," she replied. "I spent years fleeing from it, and then years desperately throwing significance at it. As hard as I try, there is nothing that I can do or change to influence its ambiguity." Her face glazed, "Through my adolescence and early adult life I refused to allow my name to be used and was known as Meri. People who knew me and later re-met me, were in awe that that was not my real name. I hope to think that they could understand my name more clearly in me than they could in its pronunciation." To hear her words float from her tongue was a gift that I had searched for. Studying her from the outside only brought contradictions and uncertain conclusions. Her story was so familiar to me that even if she were to change it, I would not believe her own words. My fathers had indoctrinated me with her story. Although they may have left out minor details that 73 were unclear, her story must be the same. Her face was truly beautiful. " How did you first begin to use your real name again after so many years as Meri?" My words startled me, but she was ready to strike at whatever I could offer. "I was 33," she began, "working as Senior Vice President of Finances at the First National Bank. The day was rather dreary, not one for changes. On the surface, eve1ything was like diamonds. Success and a meaningful life were mine. Even ifl lost my job, I was set. A week prior, however, had brought strange, awful feelings. I began to question the identity I had created for myself. For the first time in my life, the desire to have a quest had sunk deep into my yearnings. I bad no idea what my quest was, but I knew that I must have one. Why else would I be where I was? Lunch had arrived . I waited until all my colleagues had left and then I went downstairs. But instead of going to a restaurant, I simply started walking." Her face clouded, maybe it was the lighting, but wrinkles distorted her into a bent old woman, completely foreign to the woman I saw five minutes before. "I felt ready now to begin my quest." "I laugh to myself every time I think about that walk, how ridiculous I must have looked to passing cars. In high heels, hitchhiking my way out of town, most had to have thought I had just lost my job or was addicted to drugs. Five hours, I had walked. The sun blared down on me. My brain was scrambled eggs. I abruptly realized that my sweat had moistened my blouse. I broke out laughing, one of those laughs that weighs 74 �so much that you fee l as if it were to crush you. I laughed because it dawned on me that I had no reason to be dressed the I was. I took my blouse off, freeing my breasts from their cages. My designer heels fled in horror as my revolution turned its fury towards them. I felt ready now to begin my quest."_ She continued, as did the wrinkles in her face. Men was pruning up right in front of me. "With my newfound freedom, I kept right on strolling. Cars passed, men honked, women scowled, but nobody cared to give me a ride. I felt that they should; they owed it to me, if they only knew who I was. Then reality flowed in and I realized how many times I hadn't picked up people in need of a ride. So I just kept walking. My thoughts wandered. Everything r knew to be real 1 forced myself to question and review in the light of being half naked on the side of a road. I desperately tried to figure out what the hell I was doing. I realized my education was of little importance on the open road, no one who was passing cared that I had studied at Harvard, or that I had managed a Fortune 500 company. They j ust saw me." An odd irritation came over me. l felt that I couldn't interrupt her but that I should. Her story was becoming boring and I wanted to get to the meat of her life. Somehow, I had to get to my next question, but her words just kept rolling off her tongue, I felt uselessly engaged in something utterly nonsensical. The only reason I was there was to get the story. What story? She was a hippie, no one could be sad after smoking that much weed. Funny she didn't smell of marijuana. Anyway, I had to get to the next question. 75 I came to the conclusion, that it was my duty to interrupt her, regardless of how rude it seemed. My question jolted out of me, "Could you tell me the bit about you defending yourself against the biker bitch?" Oops! Maybe not the question I was looking for, but there was no way of getting it back. She looked at me, surprisingly with little surprise. She Meri had locked it in the strongest vault she could find immediately began the story as if nothing had happened. I was relieved. The wrinkles in her face had retreated under the attack of olive oil flowing into its wake. Struggling, she commenced the tale: "It was probably a week or two into my journey that I was fina lly picked up by a female biker. She offered to take me as far as Barstow, where she needed to be by nightfall. Samantha Nepon explained that her two young children were waiting with a babysitter and she had to get there. I thought it seemed like an opportunity to make some time and climbed on without much thought. We conversed about everything, arriving just on time." " We entered her house, she had offered to let me stay as long as I wanted. She introduced me to her two children. Shima was the oldest, having been born on August 6th, and Saki, born the 9th of the same month. Samantha explained that her ex-husband was Japanese, hence the rare names. She paid the babysitter and put the children down for the night." Her face was black as night, and she was expelling the story from the deepest confines of her soul. Meri had locked it in the strongest vault she could find, and I, in a moment of idiotic despair, had obliged her to regurgitate it. 76 �Softness filtered out of her mouth, a softness I could barely feel. " It was almost midnight, we had a couple of beers together, and she got up to check on the children. When Samantha returned, her face burned with the flames of adrenaline, and anger was broiling deep in her mind. The thud that her fist made against my skull rattled through my body and was left un-interpreted by my brain. Blades coming towards me rendered me useless to my body, every time I tried to defend it she was already attacking from another side. She accosted me for hours. Then I was left to accompany silence as she vaulted me into a bedroom and left me to plan my offensive. The next thud that registered that night was her falling exhausted into bed. I liberated silence from my . presence, creeping out into her doorway. Samantha's breathing paralyzed my limbs. I stood as death at her doorwa~, but my lead extremities fused themselves to the floor. Turning, I left her for dead as she slept. The two children flickered into the darkness of my mind becoming the target of my aggression." She broke, water splashed out of her sullen eyes, flash flooded down the crevices of her face and exploded against the ground. Nothing. There was nothing for me to say. Her words had pierced me. The story was hers, but not the same one filed in the voids of my mind. Then it switched on, and she was adding dramatic elements to the story. It couldn't have been like that. Jumping from behind her waterfall, Meri lurched into speech. "My stealth bomber swung in low, bringing the . . children into perspective. I lounged. The sound was nothing, it wasn't like smashing a watermelon, nor like hitting a baseball. 77 I thought at one time that it sounded as complicated as the screech of metal bending and breaking in a train crash, but it wasn't that either. It was nothing. I found myself on the floor hours later, the children were dead. Samantha had fled, too violated by my genocide to stay. Her retreat was eternal." The cave in my face gaped open waiting for something to come fleeing out. Her anticipation of my next question rose into my awareness like the sun on a spring morning. I fumbled around in my mind, digging for something to throw at her. I finally tripped onto a headline I had once read about the story. I half thought the question at her: " How did you escape the police?" Finally, something to relieve the bum I was getting from her waiting. "I told the truth, then ran as far from it as I could." Simple, I thought. She attacked me with her own question. "Why are you here?" I puzzled over the question for a moment, looking deep into her face to find what it was she had catapulted in my direction. She had missed her mark. That I knew for sure. I "How did you escape the police?" "I'm here, because they sent me. I don't want to be here, nor truly care what you have to say. My story about you is already written and ready to go, there isn' t anything you can tell me to change what I know." She stared. Her mouth moved to begin a sentence but nothing came out. I had left an impression. Then her face softened, taking on the texture of granite. She smiled, but nothing else shifted. Her gaze pierced my thoughts, she was 78 �reading my mind, or so it seemed. Finally she spoke. "What does your story say?" "It talks about your life. It covers everything you've told me so far, and a lot more." Questions covered her face like swanning bees, but no honey could be found. . . . "Tell me," she said, "Have you covered my fnendsh1p with Fulgencio?" Once again, she was trying to dramatize her life into something I had never heard before. He was obviously some communist she had spent time with and had little importance to my readers. I answered her by raising my eyebrows. "He was a friend of mine, a CEO of a Latin sugar cane business, bringing in millions. Mostly he simply exploited the local labor on his land, allowing his wealthy friends to import sugar to the States. He built an empire out of it. The local labor didn't do very well, but he made a lot of money." "No, I guess I haven't covered him. What happened?" I asked mostly because I knew she expected me to. I lacked real interest. "Horrible end. On the 26th of July, an insignificant force ofrebels attacked his guards. All but 12 of the attackers were killed. However, they were joined by other local laborers until the mighty Fulgencio Batista was forced to give up his land. "Have you covered my friendship with Fulgencio?" 79 The locals took it over. Stealing his profits and those of his investors, all of which were partners of mine." I hadn't heard that story. I found it irrelevant. Why should I include her friend 's tragedy, in a place no one cares about? The question sounded in my head, thundering from one side to the other and created another. Why was she telling me this? The contentment I had seen when I arrived, was once again illuminating her face. An ease of excitement of what she had uttered permeated her complexion. Her eyes beamed insecurity into my mind. I struggled to breathe, her simple comments drove me into a blank place that I had never imagined existed. She had provided me with a meaningless detail that was heavy with significance. I could not find my breath. She laughed, then smiled, then sighed, and then continued. "I have another friend that had a contrasting story. Augustus had been commissioned by me to buy up large portions of land that I could us to sell fruit to the neighboring cities. The hook came when we learned that the land was being homesteaded, and that the homesteaders had organized, nominated a voice, and were dividing the land to begin their own production. They called their leader Salvador. The homesteaders forced my man into a bloody battle. Luckily, he was able to get rid of Mr. Salvador and clear the land. Neither I nor my fellow investors ever asked how many had been killed, but we trusted Augustus to do what was right. Those eliminated were fighting against freedom and democracy." After being shipwrecked at sea for years, my mind finally made landfall. How could Meri be confessing these things to me? The hippie-culture icon of the decade, with her I-leftso �everything-to-find-peace story, was telling me, with pride, how she made her money in the most unethical ways. "Meri," I asked, "how did you become you, after killing, plundering and stealing? I mean," trying to clarify my question to myself, "where does it end and you became you?" The question sounded in my bead, thundering It was a flicker, maybe something that I really never saw, but her face flashed every conceivable shade. In an instant I saw everything she had been plaster itself onto her face and then retreat under the glow of her repentance. Her eyes grew into an intense blue. The white around them swirled like a snowflake in a winter breeze. She blushed a red hue into her face. Then she simply laughed. "You arrived on time. Asked me the questions you already knew, expecting me to tell you everything you had no need of hearing. Your first question was the only one that had any substance to it. You know who I am, but you do not know what I've done. I sit in front of you as an old woman, burdened with the message of peace from a past spent attempting to sell it. My life speaks for itself. I only hope you can truly understand what my name means. I often ask people to repeat it for me, Would you mind doing that for me? Please just say if once before you go." "America." 81 The History of The Southern Quill: Year Editor(s) Advisor(s) 1950-51 1951 -52 1953-54 1953-57 1957-58 Loraine Taylor Loraine Taylor Rose Workman No magazine published Karen Vawdrey Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Rose Esplin 1958-59 1959-60 1960-6 1 1961-62 1962-63 1963-64 1964-65 1965-66 1966-67 1967-68 1968-69 1969-70 1970-71 197 1-72 1972-73 1973-74 Karen Vawdrey Barbara Larkin Titine Spillsbury Joan Esplin Joan Esplin Ilene Harmon Emily Cottam Kay Lichtenwalter James Force James Force Linda Sue Hunt Linda Sue Hunt Roxanne Schmidt Michelle Thomas Gordon J. Peterson Connie Gifford 1974-75 Cathy Pam Heaton 1975-76 1976-77 1977-78 1978-79 No magazine published Michael Perry Marilee Camp Bill Batzlie 82 Juanita Brooks & Betty Allen Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Reed Blake, Jr. Robert 0 . Dalton Robert 0 . Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L Hardy. Robert 0 . Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking Janice f. DeMille James f orce Pansy L. Hardy �Year Editor(s) Advisor(s) Year Editor(s) 1979-80 1980-81 Laura Lee Graff Kurtis Crist, Linda Hendrick & Aderianna Smith Melanie Madsen Dianna K. Kearney Dawn Houghton Julianna Burton Janae Dale Bonnie McCowan & Kris Shipp Karen Hansen & Kris Shipp Stephanie Chidester & Chris Metcalf Stephanie Chidester & Christ Metcalf Tiffany Durrant & Joni Jones Christian Arial Jandi Jones, Natalee Nilsson & Chris Pellew Jandi Jones & Natalie Nilsson Dina Gerhauser Aubree Howard Diana L. Blakley & Bart Jay Mitchell April Davis, Amber Hyde, & Kelly Leatham Heidi Madsen Darryl Barfuss, Liana Kempton & Cindy Lee Wallace Cindy Lee Wallace Pansy L. Hardy Ace G. Pilkington 2001-2002 2002-2003 Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington 2003-2004 No magazine published Daneen Deuel &Cami Cox Katie O'Connell & Leesa Ricci Gordon Bangert, Charlotte Emett, Derick Empey, & Dustin Jackson Gordon Bangert 1981 -82 1982-83 1983-84 1984-85 1985-86 1986-87 I 987-88 1988-89 1989-90 1990-91 199 1-92 1992-93 1993-94 1994-95 1995-96 1996-97 I 997-98 1998-99 1999-2000 2000-2001 83 2004-2005 2005-2006 Ace G. Pilkington Advisor(s) Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington 84 John F. Cartier Brad A. Barry Brad A. Barry Brad A. Barry ��- 2006 Dixie State College of Utah � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2006.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2006 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2006 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>Contents</th></tr><tr><th>Personal Reflections</th></tr><tr><td>For You </td><td>Rachel Crosby </td><td>1</td></tr><tr><td>The Artist </td><td>Kathleen Flood </td><td>2</td></tr><tr><td>Nails Against </td><td>Jerry Gardner </td><td>3</td></tr><tr><td>What is the Answer? </td><td>Beth Brown </td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td>Paradise </td><td>Cindy Mackert </td><td>5</td></tr><tr><td>The Poet's Show and Tell </td><td>Jerry Gardner </td><td>6</td></tr><tr><td>Choice </td><td>Gordon Bangert </td><td>7</td></tr><tr><td>Cloudplay </td><td>April Subashe </td><td>8</td></tr><tr><td>One Fry Short of a Happy Meal </td><td>Melanie Florence </td><td>9</td></tr><tr><th>Others Visions</th></tr><tr><td>Tabitha </td><td>Elizabeth Carter </td><td>21</td></tr><tr><td>Visiting Grandma </td><td>Cindy Mackert </td><td>22</td></tr><tr><td>My Nurse </td><td>Melanie Florence </td><td>23</td></tr><tr><td>Serene </td><td>Dustin Cummings </td><td>25</td></tr><tr><td>Iraq </td><td>David House </td><td>26</td></tr><tr><td>Untitled </td><td>Tom Eno </td><td>27</td></tr><tr><td>Untitled </td><td>Taylor Nichole Sanders </td><td>28</td></tr><tr><td>Daily Journaling </td><td>Ellen Mortensen </td><td>29</td></tr><tr><td>Mona Lisa </td><td>Gordon Bangert </td><td>31</td></tr><tr><td>Brothers </td><td>Kathleen Flood </td><td>32</td></tr><tr><td>Pilgrimage </td><td>Logan Manning </td><td>33</td></tr><tr><td>Untitled </td><td>April Subashe </td><td>34</td></tr><tr><td>Rift </td><td>Jerry Gardner </td><td>35</td></tr><tr><td>The Lost Beauty </td><td>Amy Cox </td><td>53</td></tr><tr><th>Natures Glory</th></tr><tr><td>The Woods </td><td>Rachel Zentmyer </td><td>55</td></tr><tr><td>A Spring Desert Dawn </td><td>Nathan Cowlishaw </td><td>56</td></tr><tr><td>Counter Weight </td><td>Logan Manning </td><td>57</td></tr><tr><td>Haiku </td><td>David House </td><td>58</td></tr><tr><td>Random Conversations with a Fallen Leaf </td><td>Nicholas Jacobsen </td><td>59</td></tr><tr><td>Guampa </td><td>McKay Adams </td><td>61</td></tr><tr><td>Staves of a Sigh </td><td>Logan Manning </td><td>62</td></tr><tr><td>Point of View </td><td>Kathleen Flood </td><td>63</td></tr><tr><td>Boxer </td><td>Houston Trueblood </td><td>64</td></tr><tr><td>Untitled </td><td>Harrison Begay </td><td>65</td></tr><tr><th>Other Perspectives</th></tr><tr><td>You Live Too Much </td><td>Houston Trueblood </td><td>67</td></tr><tr><td>Lights Dust the City </td><td>Martha Ann Hill </td><td>68</td></tr><tr><td>The Tea Pot </td><td>Rachel Crosby </td><td>69</td></tr><tr><td>Sunshine Black </td><td>David House </td><td>71</td></tr><tr><td>Untitled </td><td>Kristina Dover </td><td>72</td></tr><tr><td>The Search, for Meri </td><td>J. Lucas Brinkerhoff </td><td>73</td></tr><tr><td>History of the Southern Quill </td><td> </td><td>82</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/dc075e9fc89bfc6b5504824b178f6c12.pdf c12106dfa6dd41894b5b7ace398944d9 PDF Text Text ��The ~outhern Quill Editon: Gordon Bangert Charlotte Emett Derick Empey Duitin Jackrnn Wendi Eppi D.Traveller Advirnr: Brad A. Barry front &Back Cover Arti1t: Cheliea Mccaul All poems, s tories and artwork arc from a broad spectrum of Dixie State College s'.u(!e~ts and/or residents of Washington County each work IS JOmtly copyrighted by its individual creator and The Svuthem Quill. © 2005 ~nd Contenti Ocean Mirror ------------------------------------------- I Ericka taplcs Photo --------------------- ------- ------------------------ 2 Emily Ruesch Baby --------- ------ ----- ------ -- --------- --- --------- --- 3 Amher Hall The Almost-Two Acrobat---------------------------- 4 Dixie Rawdcn Fish or Fowl--------------------------------------------- 5 Marilyn Richardson P ower: Microwave of the Future? ------------------ 6 Tys()n Cantrell P hero1nones --------------------------------------------- 7 Marilyn Richardson Bia ther On----------------------------------------------- 8 Jenny Drummond Au tu1nn -------------------------------------------------- 9 Chrisrinc Greer Ski Trip ------------------------------------------------- I 0 Oi:-; ie Bawden Christmas on the Po rc h ----------------------------- I I Kay ha Price Of Trains and Boats and Wh istles----------------- 16 Gordon ~ miring Hawk The G lass Kingdom----------------------------------- 18 Auhrcy A. Pederson What H appened to the Fairytale? ------------------ 20 C harlotte Emcrr Ere Long Forgotten Justin Caplin Secrets o f the Mesa ----------------------------------- 22 Christine C~n:cr -----------------------------------21 �Photos •· .........•........ ............•........ .............•. 23 Chelsea McCa ul The Pheasent by the Rail --···----··------·····--··--···· 24 Betry J. Vickers I Have Once Embraced the Cold Corpse Called Night •···································•• 26 Dustin Jac kson The Co"vboy •················ ··························--··• 2 7 Christine G reer The N ight Stand•············ ····························•• 28 Dustin Jac kson Esther •.•....•••.•....•••...••...•.••.•....•••....•••••....••• 29 Windy Talbo t Kamikaze .•••.•.••...•••• ·······--············ ••.•.•••......• 30 T ,1111ron Lee If I Could Only Hold You ............................... 3 1 Carol Bays First Anniversary ...•..•••••....•.••..•..••.•.•••.•..••••.. 32 rnarlie wnrn.:n In tensions .•..•.•••....•.••••••.....••....•.•..•••....••••... 33 C lark Jolley Art Piece ..................................................... 34 Keith H u,1ng To See F reedo1n••·············--·,.·····--·········--······ 35 Justin Reber Do"vn H on1e "····------·····--·------·--··········--······· 4-5 Betty J. Vickers Threshold .•.......•••,.....••• ., .•. ----·············· ....... 46 David Ho use Photo •·· · •---.......... ----····-·---··----....• --....••••.. _-- 47 Ryan Denison Ghost Boy .... --·--···· ·····----····························· 48 Lora Hudson Keeping in Tact•··-··--·········----·······,.····--·--,.··· SO Casey Ga use Fear••·······----·························--·--·······--······· 5 1 Wendi Epps Eliza •········--····--·--········"·········--· --······· 52 Derick Empey Art Piece •-··· --·•••· --· ----···--· ---····---· ---···-··· -· 64 Keith Huang Fla1nes •······ •· •······ •···· ·· ••••• ··••··•• ··• ·· ·· ·•••••·• 72 Gordon Bnngert On Pursuit•·························-··--------·····---- 73 Jordan Martin The Spiteful Devil ---···----·-···-·····-·---····-·---· 74 Stephen John Three Floors U p•-·---··-----··-··--·---·---·····----·- 76 Derick Empey Close and Gentle Demon-••····--·---··---·-------·· 77 David House D eparting into the Sonic Pharmacy ·--·--·---····· 78 Tyson C,1ntrell Changes in Perspective -····-·------···--------····•-80 Ch;-ir\otte Emert A1nanda Love •···-··-··--·-···--·-·-··-·--····-·····•--8 1 Derick Empey Through the Years ---··-··--····-·-·····----···-----·•8 2 Virginia Knudson U ncovcrcd ····-···-······· ·--· ••••·•·•· ·· ·--···----· .••• 33 Jenny Drummond A \Valk in the P ark••·--············---····-------···• 84 Gordon Bangert Angel Shades of Blue-••··-········--·····--····--··••95 tephen John A Voice in the D istance •···--·····--······---····•-• 96 Ivan Chmch Art Piece ---•--------· ---· ---· ------· --------· --· --- --· -•9 7 Anna Po11 \rnn Always There -·····---······--·-··---·-····--· ·····-·•• 98 Victorin Watson �A Gift ____,, _____________________________________,,___________ 99 Stcphcn B. Holladay A ubadc----------------------------------------------------- J00 Dw,tin Jackson There------------------------------------------------------- I OJ Ocean Mirror Windy Talbot She---------------------------------------------------------- I 02 Ashky Handy On My Way to the Jesus Man's Salvation H angout--------------------------------------- I 04 Gordon Soaring Hawk Beneath Triton's sea glass lies an ocean of mystery. I peer into the endless image of my watery form and reflect ... The One--------------------------------------------------- I 06 Lynda Curry If Today---------------------------------------------------- l 07 Jc:.:.ica Lcl' Watson Fire --------------------------------------------------------- I 08 My hairA spiraling web of ebony driftwood, is wild and careless Erin Ollil:i Derelict ---------------------------------------------------- J09 Tyson Ca ntrell Brown Water Puddles ---------------------------------- 11O Jnrcd . Ob The Drive ------------------------------------------------- l l l Danidle Blauer M y Father------------------------------------------------- I l 2 Sand-washed pieces of coral are like my toesWarm and dry I sing a tuneless lullaby To the serene waves Gordon B,mgcrr Photo -------------------------------------------····-·-··-·- 113 Emily K. R111:sch Tired H ands ---------------------------------------------- 114 marli\.' warren And my voice echoes Like the song of a wandering mermaid Fears and Drca111s---------------------------------------- 11 6 Dalyon Ruc:.ch - Editors' Choice �Baby Amber Hall There was never such innocence, As there is in your eyes. They have yet to see the ugliness of the world. Poverty, Suffering, Disease, Hunger, Death. Someday they will. And just as they will change color, The look in them will change as well. But for now, when I look in your eyes, I see perfect innocence. I see no pain . photo by Emily K. Ruesch For now, All that you know Is love and trust. For now, life is as beautiful to you, as you are to me. 3 2 �The Almoit-Two Acrobat fhh or fowl Dixie Bawden She t umps and turns about. u m b I e s, J She poses, then rotates on her toes. She flips and s-k-i-p-s and will not quit This impish acrobat. She loves to r-u-s-h- and and r u u u n n. duck And as she folds and and rolls drops I think that she will sl and s ip pi II This darling acrobat. 4 What animal would you be if choice you had? A tropical bird, brilliant, exotic? A polar bear, fluffy and powerful? A cheetah racing through the veld? I know what I would choose. I'd be a brightly painted tropical fish slipping through a watery world where turning, chasing, grouping and parting were the magic of my days. But wait. A fish is mute. How could I choose silence over song? Motion over melody? If I were master creator Eric Carle I could shape a combination creature, one that sings and soars through the sky and without delay dives with delirium into the deep. 5 �Power:Microwave of the future~ Pheromone\ Marilyn Richardson Tyson Cantrell What's with this word "power" that I have been hearing so much about? Is it the new rave with the kids; wave of the future? Is it the invisible army that has been responsible for ruining everything? Who knows but there is a shoe company named "Power." Hopefully they live up to their name. Or the "powerful" executive will disperse his power among the working pawns. A local man thin ks he is "powerful" because he has "POWER" tattoed in old-English style across his back. A friend of mine is "powerful" because he thinks that his '94 Toyota Camry gets him chicks. A German guy w ith a silly mustache had "power" and committed suicide. Mix the le tters in "power" it spells "rowpe" Could "powerful" people rope people into "powerless" situations? The hippies had "flower power." "Power" can be a good thing and a bad thing. I wouldn't know. The only "power" I possess is my microwave. Ah, the scent of you. It wasn't just the green aftershave that mode my palms tingle. Nor your dashing, fun-filled eyes, your flashing smile , your throaty laugh, your playfulness, although they mattered. Mostly, long before science revealed that animals emit a sexual scent inviting the mole of the species to approach your enigmatic aroma drew me to you. Even now, 50 years later I could, eyes closed, find you in a crowd. Today the sex industry offers pheromone perfumes on-line, guaranteed to entice and entrap. They ore not for me, I want no moil order quick fix I want you. 7 6 �Autumn Blather On Jenny Drummond I answer the telephone "Oh, hi mom" And I listen to her Blather on Call waiting beeps "Just a sec ond mom" A telemarketer Blathers on "Thank you - NO!" I c lick bac k to mom "Damn telemarketer" I b lather on 8 Autumn is a carrot. Orang e, crisp and sweet. My tongue will twirl the slices, 'Til I c ru nch them with my teeth. I always like to eat one, As I wa tch t he swirling leaves. Twirling, twirling, twirling, 'Til I c rush t hem w ith my feet. Autumn is a pumpkin . Fat and round, and hard . The seeds were planted months ago, In the c orner of my yard . Thoreau can use them as a stool. My bum's too large; I'm not a fool. Instead, I give the m spooky fa ces, Carving frowns wit h sharpened tools. Then line them up along my fence , To frighten Old Man Winter, With an unexpected countenance . Autumn's fleeting treasures, now can stay. 'Til spring breezes come to flurry them away. 9 �~ki Trip rixie. Chrhtma\ on the Porch - An EHay 8aw den I stop at the b ottom o f the Bunny Hill So many times descended. Looking back, my eyes find a mirrored sha pe, Down slope. my the nose up and The icy w ind tosses the frosty clouds Of my gray-white hair and I feel chill. Wi thin the warmth of the lod ge I remove ski boots and d a mp socks. My toes are like soggy pine cones Fallen from the trees Unfeeling, aw aiting sp ring . A server happ ens b y; a sking what I'd like? My voice like the rusty gear of the tow ro p e S q u e a k s "C ocoa Please!" I look out at the Bunny Hill So many tim es d escended . My eyes find a mirrored shape, Down slope. my the nose up and Kaysha Price I watched out the window as the snow twirled towards the windshield of our yellow station wagon. My mother drove carefully, and we slowly made our way home. I snuggled close to my brother and sisters in the backseat of our old rickety Subaru. As I looked around at my family, I noticed they all had red cheeks and runny noses, and the usual messy brown hair. I am sure I looked just the same. Kenice sat maturely in the front seat holding chubby little Mitsy. This was the usual seating arrangement for our family o f six kids. the oldest with the youngest in front, and the rest crammed in back. Mom loved to lead us in song, especially during Christmas time, so tonight's pick was Jingle Bells. I sang happily as our young voices strained to make perfection to the old time classic . Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way .. .. I sniffed in our car's familiar typical funny smells. Mom worked at See's Candies, a chocolate store, so the smell of sweet chocolate and cardboard boxes would fight its way through the staunch smell of dirty kids. The streets started to wind and I knew we were about home. My mouth opened wide as I let out a relaxing yawn . I was always wiped out from playing at Grandma's all day. Mom pulled the grumpy car up towards the garage. Right away I noticed something different about our little brown house. The porch seemed to not look quite right. It was holding a pile of something tall and bulky. It was so dark, and we never left our lights on. I stared at the porch trying to decide what was on it. Are those people, or maybe garbage? What is that on our porch! 11 �"Mom. what is that?" Hollie. my older sister asked curiously. I noticed all of us were staring at the pile, and perhaps wondering the same thing. I turned to look at my mom. She would know. She knows everything. "I'm not sure," my mom said confused. My stomach grumbled with fear. What do you mean you aren't sure? "I think it's a tree!" Mom squeaked. My stomach's grumble turned to butterflies. I looked at my sisters. They had smiles and raised brows, and were quickly trying to scurry out of the car. I watched as my sister. Crysta. ran her skinny little body quickly to reach the porch first. I made my way out into the cold air to follow her as quickly as I could. STARED AT THE PORCH TRYING TO DECIDE WHAT WAS ON IT . "It is!" she squealed. The others laughed with excitement, and ran towards the porch. I mode my way to the porch. and the pile took form into a beautiful arrangement of boxes and a large toll green Christmas tree. We all watched mom as she rushed over. She stepped over the pile of boxes. and quickly unlocked the front door to switch on the porch light. A glow of light come rushing towards the p ile on the porch. The large green tree smelled of sweet pine and stood proudly on our step. The cardboard boxes lit up like trunks of long lost treasure. Mom kneeled quickly on the porch. and began to softly weep. I moved towards her, along with the others to comfort her. There we sot, out on the porch in a huddled hug, next to our Christmas on the porch. I hugged tightly, and patiently. I could not wait to see what the trunks of treasure would hold inside them. I wonder who brought this stuff. Did Santo come already? 12 "Well, let's toke it inside!" Mom finally snuffled with a beautiful white smile. Her blonde hair bobbed. and I stored at her blue teary eyes. They twinkled with excitement. I grabbed one side of the treasure trunk , and my brother Jovin grabbed the other. I carried ii carefully inside. and watched as the other trunks mode their way in. Mom come in lost holding tight to the tree. It was twice as big as my thin mother! She looked like she could drop the tree any minute. She quickly laid it down in the first spot possible. We huddled around the trunks waiting to see what they held inside. Mom sat down in her white work gown. She carefully began to open the first treasure. She emptied it carefully, pulling out red apples, sweet oranges. nuts, and other holiday treats. The smell of the bright oranges filled the living room air. and my mouth began to water. The oranges were like coins of pure gold. bright and perfectly round. Oh, how I love oranges. "Con I have one?" I begged. I stored at my mother hoping she would say yes. The oranges looked so delicious. They had to be the biggest oranges my little eyes had ever seen. I puckered my lips like o puppy dog. "Yes, you con each have one." my mother said sweetly. little dirty hands greedily reached for the golden oranges. I held mine tight and breathed in the intoxicating aroma. Oh, do I dare eat this golden treat. My mother opened the next box. My eyes widened and glittered in awe. There inside this treasure box were presents wrapped so beautifully, I a lmost didn't wont to open them. My mom proudly read the names off of each present "Ke nice. Hollie .... Crysto ...Koysha .... Jovin ... ond Mitsy!". The sound of giggling overflowed throughout the room. Presents!! Mom gently placed them under the tree. arranging them to sit neatly. They shined. Their red wrapping and large pretty bows gleamed beautifully under the lights of the tree. I smiled and looked again at my gold orange. "Now. let' s see what is in this one!" mom said happily. She opened the third and largest trunk. The 13 �treasure in this trunk came in the form o f groceries. Cans of green beans, boxed potatoes, cereal, even bread, came pouring out like jewels. It seemed as though this tre asure would fill our nearly empty cupboards, something we were not used too. Mom smiled like a child, laughed gratefully, and began to cry. Soon she came to the last box. Inside were more gifts wrapped in blue print wrapping. MORE Presents!! The treasure equaled to another two smaller gifts for each of us kids. Mom organized them next to the others. I again stared at my gold orange. l watched as my siblings devoured theirs. I stared at mine. l did not want to ruin its golden appearance, but l was more than THE MYSTERY AND THE GRATITUDE SEEM TO ADD TO THE JOY OF SUCH A GIFT. ready to taste ii. I slowly began to peel off its core. The juice spurted throughout my hands. I peeled carefully, enjoying the anticipation of such a treat. Soon it was ready. I carefully sectioned it, and took the first piece. As I bit into it, the taste was exactly what I expected. Wonderful. The juice moistened my mouth, and I chewed slowly enjoying every bit. . It seemed as though my orange was gone as quick as 11 was opened. I licked my lips. and sat contently. We all sat silently and stared at the tree. with its gifts. II glowed like a fairy tale picture. and to our family, it was a fairy tale. This_memory is one of my earliest, and my first memory about Christmas. My mother still. to this day, doesn't know who brought Christmas on the porch, nor do I. I think that is what makes it so meaningful. The mystery and the gratitude seem to add to the joy of such a gift. Who knows who could have brought such a selfless act of love? I don't remember w hat was inside those presents. In fact, I don't even remember opening them. What I 14 remember was the oranges. I remember my mother. so grateful, so happy. My memory of an orange. such o simple treat. has taught me !hot something so li ttle con meon so much. An orange may be an everyday item for some. but for others it is a piece of gold. As a child. we don't need the b ig gifts to keep us happy. In fact. at any oge. on orange moy be enough to give to moke o difference. This memory hos olso helped me through my struggles as a single parent. My mother always has told me that God watches over single moms and their kids. especially at Christmas lime. Throughout my memories, I find this to be such a truthful statement. These limes were hard on my mother. raising six young kids alone. Yet , she was always gracious. and it seemed we were never forgotten. Whether it was a box of chocolates or Christmas on the porch, someone was always willing lo give. We all have our favorite Christmas memories. Some ore simple, some complex. Remembering the simple gift of an orange will help us to be more giving. and more gracious. Some peoples' lives ore tough, like the outside of an orange. By giving, we can help them to peel that shell. and enjoy the fruit inside. 15 �Of Train~ and Boat~ and Whhtle~ Moonlight steals across the room Where threadbare carpets muffle The creaks of battered pine board floor Should any stir from slumber; At such a time of summer's reign, Few lights betray a sleeping town Adrift within the billowing waves Of moraines and drumlin hills that Mark the ebb of glacial tides. Magic is a word that claims A title to that time When stillness merges with the land By most unseen (Not quite-a boy in bed) Transfixed as if by mystic thrall, Not daring even whisper, Much less give the floor just cause To voice its protest from the hall ' And yet, there was a night just so, Undimmed by years long sped; I was a mariner long ago, My ship, an old brass bed. I watched the rolling waves unfold, A fu ll moon looking down; A few stars beckoned, a siren's call; I steered my course, and then ... It came-a plaintive, haunting keen, Once heard one can't forget An old steam locomotive's wail, Piercing the sultry night. No more the sirens called my name, The die cast, and spell was broke; My sails now lost their wind. Beyond my moonlit window sill, A sleeping village, lost in dreams, And I, alone, could tell they lay Of a younger mariner's tale, One summer's night, now past, When a lonesome whistle cast a spell And one magical memory remained . (continued ... ) 16 17 �The 61aH Kingdom Upon the hillside Suspended within time Never moving forward But never falling far behind There is a kingdom made of g lass It sparkles in the sun Thousands of fragile pieces That make the ra inbows run She saw it everyday From her nursery room She saw it sparkle in the snowshine And in the sun of June She'd be happy if she'd reach it They told her every day If she could only touch it It would cast her cares away She'd get there someday She vowed it in her soul It sparkled, it taunted The rainbows called her to her goal She watched it everyday She waited until she'd grown In a shawl of red She climbed the hill alone She took the steps she needed To reach the shining tower With determination in her eyes She sought the kingdom's power Higher and higher she climbed Always looking up And when she thought she'd reached it It was always one step up She climbed to try and touch it But she never could quite reac h It danced out of her fingertips A barrier she couldn't breach They climbed the cliff together The kingdom and the girl Until they reached the crest No more up, just the world below unfurled Her fingers touched the icy glass It shattered at her touch The wind blew away the kingdom That had turned to dust Now the little girl was old She couldn't climb back down So she threw herself off the cliff And hit the lake and drown (continued ... ) 18 19 �Ere long forgotten Justin Caplin What Happened to the fairytalel Charlotte Emett Cruel Mr. Biblicus fancies all his creatures, He stuffs them in glass blown jars to gaze at in his leisure. The mermaids struggle in their bottles, and sometimes do break freeThe cork will pop; the glass will shatter, spilling out the sea, Then they will shrivel up and die exactly where they lay For salty tears are not enough to save a parched mermaid. But the fairies in the perfume bottles lay like withered wisps. Each squirt of scent causes all their wings to dry to crackled crisps. The hypnotic dust that they do spray fills Biblicus with glee. He does not core if fairies fade or mermaids cease to be. As long as he feels very good, he'll keep on going forward, Hearing only praise and thanks when one tells him he's absurd. He'll catch the creatures from our dreams as we lie in slumber, Stealing all the magic away that would fill us with such wonder. Third Place \Vinner- Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Award 20 'Twas long ago, that summer eve, When days were long and warm; And mountain streams were cool and deep, And bees on flowers swarm . There lived a man amongst the trees, Who in the forest dwelt, And with the birds he sang his songs, And with the flowers smelt. That summer eve whilst walking through A long-forgotten path, The forest-man began to think Of all the things he hath: The The The The trees so tall, the mountain high; grass so soft, so long and green, waters clear, the blue blue sky; wind so gentle, yet unseen. He truly felt that he was blest And lived a happy life, But alas his deepest desire Was a young and pretty wife. 21 �~ecreti of the Meia I Christine 6reer 'I' , Anxious and breathless, I climb the Black Mesa. Listening for secrets entombed in the stones. Imagining stories of those gone before me. Picturing battles of warriors unknown. Every so often, a remnant appears. The tip of an arrowhead lodged in the sand. A terra cotta sliver, once part of a pot. Silent and towering, majestic stone walls, Haunt us with memories, carved into rock. Wind sweeps through the canyon, guarding this place. Hiding sacred artifacts in deep sandy graves. Secrets are buried in all of this land. Now, small histories lie quiet, in the palm of my hand. 22 ~ . .. • • •- ~ , ~ 0 _ .;:.;__._=--'-"-,..=...-- _..,,....~ - - - Chelsea Mccaul ---·-- - --- - --- 23 �The Phea~ant By The Rail Betty J. Vickers I turned to refill my cup and to stand gazing out over the deck rail across the dune grass. My eye caught his one small movement-a lustrous green head with ruby eye patch above neat white collar-and he was pecking, nervously pecking, looking about, checking in the ruffling wind for danger and eating seed blown from the rail and put out, not for pheasants, but for the feisty house finches to squabble over again. I edged to the window and stood still hoping to see close up what was not meant to be seen at all. But he crowed his fright and skimmed low over the wavering grass with his elegant slim tail feathers tracing the bends of the fronds. (continued ... ) 24 He'll not return, I said, and was certainbut he d id. Five more times he came creeping through the sunglow to peck and scan. peck and scan, leaving his clone farther out on a knoll playing with two little grey-brown hens. All afternoon I crouched by the window keeping a warm and cautious vig il. Each time I'd gently raise and adjust the camera lens and think: This time-but that wily master of the dunes would Disappear again into his stalky domain; for all my care And stealth, he knew I was there. The fire in the wood stove cooled and darkness closed over his simple path. I packed to return to the city, reluctant, as a lways, but more resistant this time. With coat tightly zipped and scarf tightly wound, I went out to refill the feeders on the rail-then turned back and flung the rest of the seed along the sand at the edge of the dunes. 25 �I Have Once Embraced the Cold Corp~e Called Night Dustin Jackson I have once embraced the cold corpse called Night. I have swam out in lakes, and back in coves. and glimpsed things that I have visioned a t night. I've pulled up clovers with my lust not love. Lagoons I perceived. and heard mermaids' songs. They sung with passion of their treasure troves. When this began. how could this be so wrong? The glistening clouds decloaked clean atmosphere. Then it happened-- what I've wanted so long. I left her there and then "come back" I hear. The clouds were dark as night and lost delight. Was it worth it? For now this is my fear? I have this thought that will not leave my sight. I have once embraced the cold corpse called Night. 26 The Cowboy Christine 6reer Majestic, red roc ks tower in stillness. Echoing canyons cling to broken fences. Hot desert air rises. heavy with sadness. Trails overgrown with o bristly badness. Western romance dies when legends disappear. Imitators sporting felt hats seem outwardly sincere. These ore only counterfeit cowboys. camouflaging fears. My chest aches as I pause, allowing the lone cow to cross. How con our west survive this terrible loss? The color has faded, our hero gone away. White hats are slowly shifting to gray. Hove all the cowboys really gone? Legends and stories linger in song. Impatiently I hunt o hero's silhouette. Willing a safe return ofter summer's final sunset First Place Winner-Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Award 27 �E~ther Windy Talbot I did not come when they laid you down To touch your forehead with my lips Or to touch your soft, golden curls for the last time For I could not bear to say goodbye again And lose you a second time The Night ~tand Dustin Jackrnn Our marriage survived for only hours. The icy ring expelled to the night stand. Dehydrated love caused our love to end. The end of love slammed all of the worn doors. Our friendship traveled on backward soar. Our passion-a hardened saliva gland. I should have known our tongues would never bend, but stay erect for lost meaning-for "ours." But now I go my way, and so do you. You have placed me where you have wanted me. You go home to your father, and I stay. Where do you linger? It is never true . But I'm your husband, I love you, you see. I only wait for Night to fall to day. 28 You outgrew our friendship before I was ready And were gone without a goodbye Almost as if you were never there And in my confusion, you became imaginary Although my heart mourned, my face was steel I lost my faith in friendship, in people, in myself And realized my insignificance And pretended not to be angry When I think of you, a quiet sadness veils my soul And I feel your essence, even to the extent that I Smell that odd smell that is only you And now, too late, I might ask that you forgive me, and know that Nothing can sweep your soft, golden curls from my mind. 29 �If I Could Only Hold You Kamikaze Painfully, whole-heartedly, he came, With resolution running down his face . As first born son he brought his father's name, When duty called for him to take his place. Fear and fury found him, learning to love to hate. His friends all spoke of honor, but they Lied. With nothing more tha n death left in his fate, His innocence of mind choked, wheezed, and died . Remorse stung cold for those he'd never meet. He had no children, never fa ther, no sweet w ife . Such sacrifices seem to some so sweet, When loving sacred honor more than life. If I could only hold you for just one day, I'd cradle your head in my lop. I'd pour out my heart in the things I would say While my a rms around you I'd wrap. I'd keep touching your cheek and stroking your hair To savor how precious you feel. I'd find a thousand ways to show you I core While these few moments ore still real. I'd store every memory in my heart and mind, Study each feature of your face . I'd stretch out every second that I could find To etch each detail in its place. I'd try to leave you with some small port of me Wrapped up tightly inside of you, That you might remember me and someday see I didn't leave but just withdrew. I'm he re beside you in spirit and in love. And that's how ii always will beYou and I with Heavenly Father above. He's told us that faith is the key. And when that day comes, as the veil's pulled away Like on archer draws back a bow, You'll see I could only hold you for just one day. Till then I have to let you go. 30 31 �lnten~ion~ Fint Annivenary Clark Jolley Mom, I saw a little lady yesterday in the grocery store. She reminded me of you . She gently fondled the apples and the pears, sniffed the blooming chrysanthemums, and held them gently in her hands. She was old and bent and sad and frail. I wanted to take her in my arms, give her a long hug. I wanted to hold you, mom, and tell you that I've missed you so much ... 32 I'm letting you go But I'm closing my eyes There are some things you can't change No matter how hard you try I tried to give you o life That you couldn't refuse I hod no idea Being without me is what you would choose I won't ever be The some without you But there isn't Much I con do Before you go Con I hove o second or two There is something that I hove to tell you I hope no matter where you go or What you do There will be Someone watching over you I hope you hove o better life Thon I could ever give And I hope you'll be happy As long as you live I hope nothing but good Comes your way Even if you cannot Love me someday 33 �To ~ee freed om Justin Reber "They're coming!" I shook myself awake at the muffled sound of voices and frantic movement outside of the house. The vague silhouette of the night's dreams clung to the back of my mind like a shadowy cobweb, and I suddenly felt uneasy. Try as I might, however, I could not remember what my dream had been about. The rhythmic tromping of boots shook the ground as I sat up and squinted around at my sleeping family, forgetting about my dreams. In the dim light, I could see large shapes moving outside. I nudged my sister, who was still asleep on her pad next to mine. She hissed at me, a habit that she had picked up when we were moved into our new apartment. With all of the family sleeping in one room, each one of us had learned how to stay asleep and keep other people away from us in the night . My sister would hiss if you bumped her in the night. I kicked, or so my sister told me. ''Wake up! Something is going on outside." She grunted in response. My sister was not a morning person, and she definitely wasn't a crack-ofdawn person . It didn't matter, though. I was a stubborn person, and right now, I was really nervous. I grabbed her arm and shook her, not quite as gently as I had hoped, but she woke up just the same. Keith Huang 35 34 �"What?!" she nearly shouted. Even though she was still half-asleep, neither half was very happy at being shaken. Glancing around at the rest of my family, I gestured for her to be quiet. "Something is happening. There are a lot of people moving outside. Their footsteps sound like soldiers' boots." "What are they doing? Is it another parade?" The Japanese had held military parades at random intervals while they were occupying, and the Soviets had kept up the tradition. "I don't think so. They are a lot louder before parades, and they would have probably awakened everybody by now. But something b ig is THEN THE WORLD ERUPTED INTO SOUND . happening, and we should be careful. It a lmost sounds like they don't want to wake everybody up, bu t they aren't really trying to be quiet, either." I was really unnerved by the constant thudding sound of heavy footsteps , and I was pretty sure that my sister was as well. We both sat in the small, dark, crowded, poorly ventilated room that had been our home since the Communists came, watching nervously as dim silhouettes slid across the window. The soldiers were nearly as silent as the shadows they cast, speaking only in whispers as they trod heavily past our building. We listened carefully to the soldiers, in hope that they would somehow give away the reason for their movement and their strange secrecy. It was not in their nature to be so quiet. Especially around our home. Since we had been moved to our new home by Kim II Sung's new government, I had grown 36 accustomed to the looks that we would get from soldiers on the street. I had even gotten used to having a small group of soldiers always near my home, always mocking, always rude, always cruel. No. If it were up to them, the soldiers would have woken my whole family up long ago. There was something else going on. . . My sister and I sat there watching and listening as the strange shadows ground past. There were occasional rustles as my family members shifted positi ons in their sleep, but the sound of the soldiers blended with the sound of our heartbeats and swallowed our senses. The soldiers eventually stopped marching, and the heavy plodding of boots slowly faded to the sound of one nervous soldier pacing the street in front of our home. Then the world erupted into sound. The soldiers began to shout and run, awakening the rest of my family. At first, nobody could make out what they were saying, but soon I could pick out fragments of Russian. I could tell that _the others heard the same thing: The U. N. was coming. As the shouting continued, we could see lanterns flaring up and people echoing the cry until the whole town must have heard . My sister and I looked at each o ther, not knowing what to make of this . The soldiers had obviously been preparing for something, and perhaps they feared that letting people know about the U. N. advance beforehand would have caused too much panic for the soldiers to control while getting ready. That explained why they were so quie t and secretive about everything. And yet, why did I still feel so nervous ... I pushed the thought from my mind. While my uncles and 37 �grandfather gathered on the other side of the room, whispering and muttering excitedly to each other, my mother stood up, signaling for the children to come closer. We had learned to sleep in our clothes for warmth when we were moved into the one-bedroom house, so we d idn't have to worry about dressing. I sighed as I recalled my beautiful wardrobe that we had left behind at our old home ... but this was not the time to wish for the past to return . "Do you know what this means?" my mother asked us, and received only blank stares. "Freedom." With one word, my mother sent me spiraling back into my memories of life before the Soviets came. I could barely remember the cruelty of the Japanese as I remembered our old home, our old life. Then I remembered the U. N. bombs that had " DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?" killed my cousins, had broken part of our neighborhood into ashes and fragments. I remembered the screams of the horse that had been struck, hearing its anguish and confusion as it struggled blindly to stumble away from its agony. And I could not understand how such pain could bring back my old life. Yet my mother said that it would, and I wished that it would, and I had to believe that it would. Someone was pounding on the door. My mother deftly moved through the sleeping pads that were spread across the floor, and carefully opened the door. Outside stood our neighbors, 38 who had also been "relocated" to apartments. Even in the dim light, I could see that they were grinning. They bowed to my mother in greeting, and we all bowed back to them. " Quickly," they said, "let us go to the main road. We must meet the new soldiers. We must welcome them to our town." My uncles agreed, bu t my mother thought that it would be wise to wait for a while to see how the soldiers treated us before welcoming them . After all, we had welcomed the Soviets as our saviors from the Japanese. My mother would not say such things out loud, however. It was not a woman's place to tell men how to act in war. Her children, however, were hers to do with as she pleased. We were to stay at home with her. We would not gaze upon the face of freedom this morning. The walls of the already cramped room seemed to constrict with her words, and I felt the pit of my stomach tighten as the men began to leave. But my uncles had other thoughts. Not only would my mother go with them, but we would come as well! "The children should see the new soldiers as well," they say. "Why shouldn't they meet the new occupying army?" our neighbors chime in, still grinning. There would be no argument. My uncles led the procession to the main road, where many other families stood, waiting in the darkness. Squinting in the darkness, I could recognize the Kims and the Lees- almost all of the other "relocated" families were here . There was no sign of the soldiers, and my uncles and the 39 �neighbors joined the o thers at the side of the road. My mother, still asserting her authority over us, led us way back from the road, near the big farm that I had run through every day on my way to elementary school. Haystacks loomed upwards in the darkness like large huts, strangely comforting in their solidarity. These monuments, at least, had stayed the same since my childhood. My mother drew me a side and whispered to me, "You and you sister stay here and don' t go any closer. I don't care what the men say; the little ones don't have to be here. I will return ." She left, and I suddenly felt the strange apprehension that I had felt that morning retu rn . My sister and I stood nervously, scanning the crowd that had gathered. It seemed as if at least half of the townspeople had come out th is morning to welcome the new soldiers. Some of the women carried flowers. Not everyone would be here, though. Many of my friends from elemen tary believed the Soviets when they told them that the U. N. soldiers were monsters. They, too, had felt the earth shake and scream when the bombs fel l. They hadn't been "relocated," though. The sold iers were kind to them-they had no reason to mistrust them. Even I couldn't help but wonder if the U. N. soldiers were really here to help us. Bu t I had to trust my mother. Suddenly, everybody stopped tal king. The sound of faint footsteps down the road slowly began to reach the edges of our hearing, and WHY WOULD THEY BE SO AFRAID? shadowy shapes separated themselves from the 40 shadowy darkness of the road. The soldiers were coming . Squinting, I could just make out the dim outlines of the first few soldiers. My sister saw them, too. "Strange," she said, "I thought that they would be a little taller." As they drew closer, I could see that the soldiers were clutching their guns nervously, as if they were somehow afraid of entering the town. They marched proudly and stood straight, as if they had just begun their march minutes ago. They didn ' t even seem tired a t a ll. As they drew near to the town, the townspeople began to come alive. Slowly, people began to move to meet the advancing soldiers. Some people cheered. The soldiers flinched at the cheers. Why would they be so afraid? I did not understand. Time slowed. There was a flash of light, and a man stumbled to the ground. A loud pop. His wife turned to help him up, and stopped. The people stared at the soldiers, uncomprehending, as one shaking man slowly lowered his gun. Then both groups erupted, one in light, one in death. My sister and I stood shocked as the crowd, a single living being, turned and flowed back towards the town. It screamed in fear and pain as the fire of the soldiers slowly devoured it, p iece by piece. The soldiers were no longer afraid, and now the unnatural flares of their weapons revealed Soviet uniforms as they continued to fire into the crowd. There were no U. N. soldiers; freedom was not coming after all, only deception and death. The soldiers began to follow the crowd into town, where the people were spreading out, away from the flames and the dead. The soldiers drew nearer 41 �to where my sister and I were frozen. They looked toward us, and I was afraid. They had the faces of people, but their eyes were cruel and inhuman. 1 glanced at my sister and knew that we had to run. We ran. We ran, but the sounds of death drew nearer. The burning smell of the gunpowder followed us into the farm. Not far behind us, the soldiers shouted at each other to spread out. We could hear the1:' following us, even as we ran. Shots rang out behind us, and a man cried out. I knew that we would not be able to outrun the soldiers or their bullets. Grabbing my sister, I leapt into the side of a haystack, digging and burrowing. Hay scratched my arms and face as I frantically scrambled and crawled to the center. The weight of the stack pushed the stems into my skin, cutting into me, but I could not open my eyes to see where. Trying to steady my breathing, I waited. Curled up into a ball in fear that some part of me would be outside the haystack with I COULD FEEL HER SHAKING WITH TERROR the soldiers, I could feel my sister alongside me. 1 could feel her shaking with terror, and I feared that the entire haystack would shiver with her. I counted ~Y heartbeats as I heard voices passing nearby. 1 tried to hold my breath, but failed miserably as my oxygen-starved body demanded air. The air was cold and reeked of manure and hay, and it burned my lungs. My cuts stung as my tears flowed and mixed with my blood . When I awakened, the gunfire had stopped. There were no voices, no sounds. The stench was suffocating me, and my head pounded with pain. 42 waited a while, listening carefully, but no sound of boots reached my ears. It was time to leave. Nudging my sister, I smiled faintly as she hissed at my touch. We gingerly pushed our way out of the haystack. surprised to find that it was dark once again. Glancing back towards the road. I could see that a bouquet of flowers had been scattered on the ground near the farm gate. I turned around, and we walked home quickly. We did not look back. Mother was at home with all of my uncles and my grandfather, who had all somehow escaped. When we entered, they cried out and rushed to us. My mother wept as she shakily drew us near and examined our wounds. She bandaged the deeper cuts, and hugged us both so tightly I thought that we would snap. "Now you must rest," she said, taking on her most motherly tone. Ignoring our protests, she walked us over to our sleeping pads. Lying down, I wondered how I would ever be able to sleep after seeing w hat had happened that day. I saw the flowers on the ground, crushed by the heavy boots of the soldiers. fell asleep. I awakened in the dark. My mother was leaning over me, gently shaking me. My uncles and my sister stood at the other end of the room, looking on with serious expressions. There were many other people there as well, all dressed in black. one of relief and of anguish. She handed me a small knapsack, and some black clothes, as well as my heaviest coat. "Put these on over your other clothes," she said. I did as she said, and she became businesslike once again. 43 �"Follow these people. Do what they say. Do you understand?" She stared past me, avoiding my questioning gaze. "Yes, ma'am." "Good. Now go with them," she said softly. "Okay." I glanced around at the grave faces in confusion. What was going on? The people in black stood and beckoned for me to follow them out the door. My grandfather followed . He was also dressed in black. Turning around, I waved goodbye to my sister, g lancing at my mother. Her face was hard and expressionless, but her eyes glistened with pain. I wished that I could say something that would make that pain disappear. But I couldn't. So I turned around and followed the people in b lack out the door and into the night. I never saw my mother again. Down Home Betty J. Vickers We arrive, each from different places wearing different clothes and struggling with odd-sized luggage. We're suddenly overcome with the sharp weight of memory of common beginnings when there was no separateness and we were only her little girls-her babies-at a time when we teased and played and created griefs we couldn't fa thom until our own sons and daughters made the meanings all too clear. We talk and call it relating- secretly proud of who we've become, what we've managed . to achieve before she brought us together again. The oppressive Southern heat stifles. Drains. Donning shorts and tonk tops, we reach f~r fans, then pour iced drinks and sit around the kitchen table with bare toes hooked over rungs made smooth by childhood toes. We look like a bunch of scrub women, we laugh, But the quip shrivels- fragments-then melds Into the deep wrenching sobs that had refused to Burst their tight grown-up bonds: Dear God, d id you hove to toke her so soon? 44 45 �Threihold David HOUH A park bench, placed aside A pond of raindrops, Pushes up on a Tao Chinese Girl, Alone. Taking her thoughts out From her language, She listens to trees. She perceives the gathering raindrops In a hollow full Of hollowness full Universally parallel with all Between, between, between, The un-nameable Threshold In the recess of wrinkles of space Enough time for nothing residesRegards her self here; She hears the trees Do not speak Mandarin And she can not tell where she has been. Ryan Denison A Down Syndrome Girl pushed down on A park bench, Alone a puddle besideand regards the space inside the vein of a leaf 46 47 �6hoit Boy The contrast between a place you graced And a place without you Is distinct Dangerously painful Your hair on my sheets Reminds me you are alive But you are free Lora Hudson Your presence is a lways near m e Haunting, taunting, wanting Influencing my every move Haunting I can feel your touch That tender caress only love creates Aching for you It took time to accept you Now that I do I w a nt nothing more Than for the past to erase the present And become the future But some things are only what they are You Taunting Not your memory or your spirit Frightening I could yearn so much I chose this I asked for my sentence You would have remembered me You may have even returned Every place I go Sight I see You loom over Like I can never be free Now your ghost reminds me of what we had What I gave up Challenging me to reconsider You never really left my room Or our favorite restaurant I still feel you there Your absence contradic ting Wonting I long for so many things that will never be Even though I often think you're here It's only your ghost I feel (continued ... ) 48 49 �fear Keeping in Tact Wendi Epps Casey 6ause A word, once spoken, is irretrievable, O r so I have been taught. Then why is it so hard for me To only say just what I ought? A thought races through my mind, And before I check it first To make sure it's sincere and sound, Out of my mouth, it bursts. And the only gauge I use to see If my words will win o r go awry, Is the expression on the rec ipient's face And words returned in reply. Sometimes I get luckyThe words have come out right . Other times I hang my head With the hope to avoid a fight. Oh, silly me, why can't I learn This simple speaking test: Think before I say a word, Then share the good and keep the rest. 50 Fear is chocolate cake Rich in its darkness Tempting curiosity Whispering guilt Gleaming with calories. Fear is the world itself Unknown but well lived in Experiences sought through travel Learning and accepting d ifference Yet still afraid to fall from what you know. Fear is not being afraid and Knowing you really should be .. Trying too hard to Mask the frightening truth Which is what should be certainly feared. Fear is the light of dawn Reaching into every corner Invading every space Offering the world but giving nothing And b linding with malicious intent. Look beyond the surface. See what is truly there. Act upon your own feelings of fear. For you have no other choice. 51 �Eliza Derick Empey The door closed behind her. The room greeted the young girl's return like it had for the last 14 years. Strange. Empty. She tottered backwards, the door catching her. Her ocean eyes showed no sign of surprise at the loss of balance and she slid slowly to the ground. Her knees met her strong chin, as her thin arms held her legs to her chest. Her head hung forward, red hair swaying as the girl rocked back and forth. Should the tears come now? I've lost her forever. Could ... would righteousness sentence one death merely because of love? Was it really love that drove her to do this to me? Did she love me? Did .. .Do I love her? Why would she, how could she lie to me? The thoughts continued to race through her mind. Anger and confusion battled across her pale, freckled face, as sadness and disbelief waged war against her heart. A soft creak escaped the stairs. The girl stood up abruptly, stars dancing through her vision. She realized the creak was the house; it wasn't her. The tears came then-a brutal outburst of a soul searching for truth. She sobbed and let the wall catch her again. A scream cut through the air. She recognized the voice, she'd heard it so many times; but it was new, a stranger in her head. 52 Her convulsions continued as the night entered the room. Flowing and ebbing towards the girl, it found her weeping by the door. Time persisted around her, it condemned her to continue, to move on. Minutes passed and the tears stopped. Strength flowed to her legs. Her bloodstained hands grasped the wall. She began to stand. The doorbell buzzed. She gathered herself and wiped the tears against the underside of her sleeve. The FPA had left an hour ago, and her father hadn't shown up yet. She punched the unlock code on the keypad next to the door and entered the hallway. She didn't remember how she made it all the way to the front door, but it had opened and two policemen appeared, standing in the rain. She listened their words, echoing through her mind as they floated around the already broken girl. Her knees buckled, and the police officer that had introduced himself as Officer Josefson caught her. She looked up into his eyes. They were dark, like her mother's . Blackness overcome her. The beautiful woman floated into the living room, her eyes drifting along the g loss walls. She barely heard the door slide back to its closed position behind her. Her dark skin tingled. She could still feel her lover against her skin. The woman came to the end of the hallway and her fingers found her lips as she stopped to remember each moment. Her midnight-colored hair flowed down her face as she remembered the way her other would giggle. A slight pink surged into her cheeks as she remembered the way her lover made her feel. Her eyes closed and images 53 �waltz~d thro_ugh her memory: the light yellow glow :lood1n_g their room, invading their bodies as they 1ntertw1ned. Could feelings this deep, remembrances this personal be forbidden? She thought, but before she could continue her daydream, reality crashed her conscious dream. "HEY ... Didn't you hear me? I said it's Thursday." The accusing voice interrupted her thoughts. It seemed to belong to a dark head of hair jutting from the top of the back of the couch. Her husband never turned from facing th e TV. "It's almost 9 o'clock. I won't have you coming back time he reached the door, he had his shirt draped over his arm and his pants falling to his knees. Jakob entered the room, the door slid closed behind him. His wife was lying under the sheets waiting. She considered saying no this time, but decided to quell the rebellious thought. Jakob was a blessing to her. Without him, she'd probably be in jail. She managed to make it through these weekly romps by dreaming of her hidden sin. Jakob knows, he has to, she thought, but he wouldn 't ever admit it. To him, I was still his. To him, I would still walk the world for him. SHE CONSIDERED SAYING NO THIS TIME , BUT DECIDED TO QUELL THE REBELLIOUS THOUGHT . late, and I won't have us missing these." The darkskinned man continued, anger arcing from his lips as the woman walked around to the front of the couch, "You're getting arrogant. Don't forget about me. Don't forget about what you promised ~e! Don't. .. don't forget what I'm doing for you." His resolve buckled as he saw the smile plastered on her face. The woman could tell that Jakob wasn't really angry, just more disappointed and hurt. Jakob's wife began to undress herself and walk towards the television . By the time she made it around the couch to stand in front of her husband she was completely naked. The TV buzzed and went dark. Jakob jumped to his feet. His wife grabbed her clothes and headed towards the bedroom. Jakob stumbled after her. By the 54 "I'm home." The silence was broken as Liza come in through the garage. The thick silver door slid closed behind her. She walked down the hall and sow her parent's door closed. She rolled her eyes. Her parent's door was never closed, except for Thursday nights. Liza had figured this out pretty quickly and would make sure to stay out as late as she could. Tonight, she had been with Abraham, but he was getting a little too grobby. She hod decided to leave early for fear she might cave in to his advances. To HIM , I WAS STILL HIS. To HIM , WOULD STILL WALK THE WORLD FOR HIM. She was sure she was in love with him, but she was only 14. Only 14. She used to think about all the things she would do when she was 14, but sex wosn 'tone of them. The truth was that it completely scored her. What if she got pregnant? Not to mention what would happen if she got 55 �caught. She didn't want to think about not seeing her friends at school every day. Chills spun down her spine and to her fingers as she thought about the Sexual Deviancy Rehab Centers spread throughout the city. She wondered if she'd be shipped away for the stuff she had already done with Abraham. She had tried other ways to please him, hoping it would tide him over for a while, but he was still incredibly persistent. "Hey Liza ." Her father's floating head, peaking around his doorway, interrupted Liza's thought. "You startled me Dad! Is mom in there?" she asked quietly. "Maybe ... " he replied, his eyes glistening, a slight grin escaping his mouth. "Eww dad! Um, yes, well umm, w ill you have her come up--come up and speak with me?" she asked. Before Jakob had the chance to answer, Liza had bolted up the stairs . At the top of the stairs, Eliza thought of her parents together and felt pangs of envy. Dad loves mom so much he doesn't have to ask her, her thoughts continued, and Mom loves him so much she's willing to do it for him once a week with out question. She entered her bedroom and the door closed behind her, the lights came on and she found herself falling onto her bed . "Abraham, we will when I'm ready. Why can't you just be, be ... satisfied that I love you. Can't you see the repercussions, the ramifications that would result 56 from our ... copulation? Do you know how, scared, and terrified ... this makes me?" A soft knock interrupted her rehearsal. "You may come in," Liza answered . " You w a nted to see me?" It was her mother. Liza 's throat was suddenly crowded by her heart. Thoughts began to barrel through her as her mom walked through the door. Would mom turn me in? Would she just be disappointed? Would she call me a stupid girl and tell me to leave Abraham? Would she turn him in? What would I do without Abraham? The door closed behind her mother. Eliza calmed her thoughts long enough to begin. "Mom, I can't even consider how to--how to begin . I need to ask you something . Well, not ask you so much as tell you something, then followed closely by a question. It's about something that may anger-err frigh ten you . But I don't know who else to approach regarding my ... dilemma." Eliza's mother couldn't help bu t wonder if her daughter's mouth moved faster than her brain, or if her brain merely let her mouth run unchecked. Either way, some of the words she used were uncanny. Eliza's mind began racing again as her mother failed to respond to Eliza's opening. Does she know already and she's just stalling until the police get here? Maybe she thinks that whatever I'm going to soy is too trivial to concern her with. Eliza calmed herself again as her mother finally responded. "What is it Lize? And no matter what you tell me, I'll make sure to keep it between you and me," she tried to assure her daughter. 57 �"You know that Abraham and I have been ... close for the last year or two." Liza began, trying not to move into it too fast, but not wanting to stall for an extreme length of time. "Well, recently, Abraham has been ... umm ... forceful. " Liza stopped as she saw some of the color fade from her mother's face. " No, no, not like that kind of forceful." Eliza's mother's face softened slightly. "Well ... that kind of forceful, but ... he hasn't hurt me," Liza stuttered and her mother's face tightened again . " Ah bullocks, the hole I' m digging is worse than the one that has actually been dug. Abraham wants to have sex, in particular, with me." Liza barreled on without letting her mother interrupt, "I haven't let him yet, but it doesn't mean I'm not tempted, and I know what the laws say about sex before you' re married. But I know I love him. I don' t want to lose him. Once he said that he could find someone else that would have sex with him, but he stayed with me because, he knew my resolve would falter eventually. I know some of the other girls at school are doing it with their boyfriends. Mom, I don't quite know which path to follow." Liza chose at that moment to withhold the detail that she had fooled around with him already. She battled the pit in her stomach and waited for the barrage of disappointment to flow from her mother. Eliza's mother sat silent. Thoughts flowed from her mind to her mouth but stopped there, as if her tongue dammed the wisdom she wished to relay to her daughter. She wanted to tell her to follow her heart. She wanted to instill hope into her 58 young daughter. Silence continued. The young mother wanted to tell her daughter the beautiful glory of self-accountability, and tell her to make the choice that she feels is most true to her soul. She knew, however, the consequences of someone catching her daughter having premarital sex. She shuddered at the thought of having to send her daughter away, and the investigation that would ensue afterwards. The Fair Principles Adm inistration Regulators would pry into everything in her life, from the parenting practices of her and Jakob, to their sex life. She and Jakob I KNOW WHAT THE LAWS SAY ABOUT SEX BEFORE YOU ' RE MARRIED had been having the FPA recommended amount of marital intercourse, so the FPAR may not ask too many questions. But if any doubt existed in the FPAR's mind, the DNA tests they would take could easily reveal her sins to the world. " Eliza," the mother began, her voice drifting across the room, " I'm never going to say I have all the answers. The last question I can answer for you is whether or not you should have sex." Eliza's mother paused and hoped that her daughter would catch her opening, she wished above all that she could let the beautiful green-eyed redhead learn from her own mistakes and grow in knowledge and conviction from them. Instead , she had to press on. " But the laws are there for a reason. They're there to protect us. Without the FP A, San Francisco, even the rest of the country, would be lost in despair, and unrighteousness. 59 �Every law that they pass is done for our safety, and our fortification. Normal mothers at this point would go into some kind of guilt trip, saying that if you were caught it'd bring disgrace to our family and how sad we would be when you got sentenced to finish school at the Sexual Deviancy Rehab Center ... but I'm not a normal mother. You're an incredibly intelligent girl Eliza, and I fully believe you are capable of making your own decisions. So I'm just going to ask you why you came to me?" She sighed as she ended her lecture. She just couldn't bring herself to give her the, "Don' t do it or else" speech. She had tried, but failed. " 1-1 want to know," Eliza was slightly caught off guard by her mother's frankness, "err, understand why ... I'm so tempted, and why it still feels so, exciting." "Wickedness never was happiness Eliza," the mother retorted. "Anything you do to break those laws will never bring you happiness. Love would never ask you to break the law, and anything you do that does break those laws w ill never bring you happiness." She realized she was repeating herself. A pit rose in her stomach, clawing it's way to her throat. She needed to escape, escape the lies. "I trust you will do the right thing Liza," she forced out the last sentence and burst back out the door. The distraught mother's vision blurred, and her stomach convulsed. She stumbled to the bathroom, finding herself kneeling before her toilet. Her body seized and her stomach forced her lunch into the bowl. She gripped the chrome ring, and let her cheek rest softly on the cool ou tside of the expensive water basin. At that moment, no 60 mother despised her own existence as much as she did. She wondered what would happen when Eliza found out her mother had betrayed her. What would she say if she knew her mother was a lie? Eliza's mother secretly hoped that her daughter would sin and confess to her. She would keep her daughter's confidence, and in turn, she could finally open up to someone, let someone else into her world. They would be bound to each other through the sharing of their separate sins. She could finally be complete if Eliza knew what she really was. THEY WOULD 8E BOUND TO EACH OTHER THROUGH THE SHARING OF THEIR SEPARATE SINS . Eliza's unrighteous mother forced that thought from her mind. She didn't want Eliza to go through the torment that she herself had gone--no, is going-- through . But she yearned to be close to her daughter again. Maybe they could escape together. She had heard rumors that Canada had opened its borders to US refugees again, hoping to allow some of the oppressed through. Her body jerked, her mind kicking it to get it moving. She fina lly decided to tell Eliza. Eliza couldn ' t believe her mother. Bursting out o f the room like that. Was the idea of me making my own decisions so disconcerting to her that she couldn't even stay in my presence? She 61 �thought stoically. Maybe she was right though. If Abraham really loved me, he wouldn't need me to have sex with him. Eliza quickly gathered her thoughts and her shoes and headed into the hallway. She ran headlong into her mother. "OH! Sorry mom, I'm heading to Abraham's." Eliza stopped suddenly as an acrid stench pierced her nose, "Mom? Did you throw up?" "A little," the mother replied, her face flushing slightly. "Ack, disturbing," Eliza shuddered and continued down the hall, "well you were right mom, I shouldn't have to break the law for Abraham. I'm going to go break up with him." Eliza was down the stairs and heading out the door before her mother could even process what had just happened. The dark-skinned woman leaned against the hallway. Her stomach wretched again, but she held it in. Freedom was so c lose to her. She had grazed its presence with her fingers, had felt the flight to freedom. Her fingernails shifted from their soft pink to a bright white as she tried to clench the wall. Only defeat was hers for the moment. She forced herself to go downstairs and start dinner. Another violent reality TV show flashed across the flat screen. The mindlessness of the program usually offered relief for his mind. Today was different, it had been three years, three years today since she had told him. He was suddenly brought back to his wedding day. How beautiful his wife had been walking down the elegant grand staircase. It was incredulous how things had turned around. Another tear dropped from his chin, moistening his shirt. He followed his past to the day she told him. He never really knew why he didn't just turn her in then. "BYE Dad, I'll be back!" Liza was heading out the front door. "Where are you-," Jakob knew it was no use to continue. Just as the door closed behind Liza, his wife came walking down the stairs. "Where is she going?" "Abraham's," his wife replied. "So what did she have to tell you?" the man on the couch prodded. " I KNOW, BUT ... I FELL IN LOVE. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO? " Jakob sat down in front of the TV. His mind wandered back, as if the longer he pondered on it, the more real it became. She did an amazing job making it real for him. She was intricate, she moaned at the right times, said his name at just the right moments. Moisture filled his eyes, gathering and falling down his cheek. He flipped on the T.V. 62 "That she's having boy troubles, but she used a lot more words," the woman joked. "She's got your rebellious att- ," Jakob was cut off by his wife's stare. "She's going to break up with him." "Oooooh," relief began to settle in Jakob's heart. "When are you going to go see Morgan 63 �again?" "Morga ... " Jakob's wife trailed off. "When did you ... " "When did I? It's been 3 years. You think I'm stupid enough to not figure it out? You said you'd try to ... You said you wouldn't ... " Another tear hit his chest, the dark circle, centered under his chin, expanded slightly. "I know, but. .. l fell in love. What would you have me do?" "Have you do? What would I?" Jakob's anger rose, then subsided as another tear plunged to his shirt. "I'd only have you do what you promised me you would do." art by Keith Huang 64 "Life isn't fair," Eliza monologued as she entered the house. She shook off her umbrella as the door closed behind her. She stared again, dumbfounded, at the B+ on her quantum physics test. It's been two weeks since I broke up with Abraham, my schoolwork shouldn't be suffering anymore, Eliza thought. Abraham had taken the breakup quite easily, within an hour he was making out with Annie Elvenson. Eliza had been dumbfounded, and vomited a few times before her biochemistry class. Her feet continued to carry her towards the living room, but her mind was lost in the implausible red doom written across the top of her test. An ottoman disrupted her thoughts, as well as her balance. "Bugger!" Eliza exclaimed as her knees locked and she plunged towards the ground. Her hands moved up to catch her, but the ottoman's length was far smaller than the girl's height. 65 �Moments seemed hours until her face finally crashed to the carpeted floor. "Th-tha t-yah, that's just great," she muttered loudly. Eliza picked herself up, cursing whoever had put the ottoman in the middle of the hall. Her eyes then beheld the mess that had been bestowed onto the entire living room. Her mother's clothes were strewn about, as if she had suddenly, and violently, been accosted by them and only by their quick removal would she save her life. They were removed in such haste that a blouse had ended up on the television, socks were clinging to the bonsai tree and a bra hung precariously on the ceiling fan. "Good lord mother, it 's a damn good thing I don' t come home early every day." Eliza commented softly and began to head for the stairs to her room. / wonder if she 'II need help cleaning up before Aunt Morgan stops by later this afternoon, Eliza thought. Morgan wasn't actually related to Eliza, but for the last 3 years she had come over nearly every day to keep Eliza's mother busy until Jakob came home. Eliza just naturally started calling her aunty. Morgan hated it, but this only fed Eliza the fuel to continue to address her as such. Eliza stopped mid-stairway as giggling floated through the hallway and up the stairs. That isn 't ELIZA'S THOUGHTS BECAME A TRAIN BARRELING TOWARDS A BROKEN BRIDGE . mom's giggle, Eliza thought. She put her foot back down and turned around. Creeping towards her parents ' room, frightening thoughts pierced her 66 mind. is dad in there with some other woman? It's not Thursday, so it can 't be mother in there. Has someone broken in? Are they planning on ways to murder us all? Another giggle hung on the air. Eliza reached for the door-pad. The reading said it was locked. Even when her parents were in the room on Thursdays, they didn't lock the door. Eliza 's mother insisted on being accessible at all times in case Eliza had an emergency. A soft moan escaped the closed door. That's mom for sure, but dad 's car isn't home. She must be in trouble; Eliza's thoughts became a train barreling towards a broken bridge. Without stopping to think, Eliza punched up the emergency code on the door pad to open the door. Fate slid the door open, revealing something much more devastating than Eliza could have imagined. The train plunged to its doom. Eliza 's mother sat up from the bed, her dark face whitened. She was completely nude. Eliza froze as fate continued to twist her world into a disgusting knob of terror and lies. Morgan rolled out of the bed and darted into the bathroom. Eliza continued to attempt to process the scene. "Lize, I can explain." Eliza's mother started, but lost all concentration as the bedspread she was holding to her chest slipped slightly. Small purple marks dotted her chest as if a disease had ravished her through the night. "Yes- uhm--uh, au-Aunt Morgan, she just ... fell on top of ... you while, uhm you were, uh ... cleaning ...while naked." Eliza's voice stuttered, but rose as her sarcasm cut through the air. "Liza, I'm in love with Morgan," her mother just decided to finally try the truth, it was far too late. 67 �"You can't be in love with Morgan, she's a, she's uh ... she's a SHE! It's just not. it's not possible!" Eliza continued to lose composure, "The-the FPA states that it's a ... it's, it's a temporary del--delusion, brought on from lack of intimacy in a heterose-sexual relationship." Tears were streaming down Eliza's cheeks, gathering at her chin, and then falling to the quantum physic's paper she still gripped in her hand. "Eliza, everything they tell you is a lie. Everything ... everything I've told you is a lie," the naked woman continued to try to plead with her daughter. The door-pad sparked and sputtered, Eliza's fist withdrew from the dent she had made in the electronic-locking-mechanism. Blood flowed from her knuckles as she entered the room and the door closed behind her. She punched up the locking code on the door-pad inside her room and fled to her bed. She landed with a crash on the foot of her bed, tears and blood flowing onto the silk white sheets. Her hands shook as she reached for the phone. She punched up the number and sluggishly pulled the receiver to her ear. "FPA Emergency, what can I do for you?" Jakob raced home. The raindrops pierced the sky, each on its own kamikaze mission. Divebombing towards Jakob, they finally crashed on his windshield, a mere foot away from their target. He never imagined this day would come. He never imagined Eliza finding out this way, and he never imagined Morgan being the one to tell him how it played out. His car jolted into the air as he hit a 68 rain ditch, landed hard, and then slid slightly. "Shit!" Jakob cursed and regained control. He barely slowed down as he cranked the wheel, turning violently onto his street. He wanted to get there before the FPA arrived. His vision was stolen as headlights penetrated the cab of his car. He slammed on the breaks, the car attempted to take control to assist in avoiding the accident. It veered to the right, and the car slid sideways. Tragedy struck the driver's side door. The front door slid opened and three FP A Entorcers entered the house. They found the woman sitting on the couch. "That's her, she matches the identification records," one stated as he came round the couch. "Ma'am, do you know why you're being taken into custody?" He questioned the woman as he approached her. The woman nodded palely, "Yes officer." She stood to follow the FPAEs to their car. None of them saw the flash of silver as she stuffed a heavy object into her pocket. There were always two types of regulation violators: the ones that came quietly, and the ones that required the stun pistols. The enforcers were glad this was one of the former. The three FPA Enforcers walked the woman through the rain to the FPAE van. The woman entered the back seat with out any hassle and the enforcers moved to the front of the car. The lead enforcer, Tony, sat in the driver's seat as the other two climbed up to the passenger seats. The car started hastily down the street. Suddenly a muffled flash escaped the darkened windows of the backseat, and a small dent protruded from the ceiling of the car. The lead enforcer jolted his head 69 �SOMETHING ABOUT THIS PARTICULAR RAINSTORM MADE THE ROADS A LOT MORE PERILOUS THAN A USUAL STORM. backwards to find the woman lying slouched over, a hole centered on the top of her head. "Christ! Who didn't cuff her?!" He shouted to the two riding next to him . "Tony!" The en forcer closest to the driver shouted in fear. Tony turned around to see a silver car barreling towards them. "Is it ... sideways?" The third enforcer whispered softly as Tony slammed on the breaks. Not a second later the heavy FPAE van plowed into the broad side of the car, forcing the entire midsection of the frame to buckle. San Francisco Police Department had been receiving reports of accidents throughout the city. Something about this particular rainstorm made the roads a lot more perilous than a usual storm . The accident Agent John Josephson and his partner Isaac Whitmore had been assigned to was nothing short of disaster. An FPAE van had plowed through a civilian 's car. The civilian, a Jakob Allen, had managed to slide sideways into the van. It appeared as if he had been killed instantly. "Not even a cockroach would have survived that," one of the officers at the scene of th e accident had commented when he saw the mutilated vehicle. "Hey Josefson," officer Whitmore came walking up to John, "check this ou t. The civ lives on this street, and the guys are saying that the perp in the back of the van was his wife." 70 "The one with the bullet-hole through her head?" Josefson asked in disbelief. "It's a fucked up world, Whitmore." "No shit, sir" Officer Whitmore continued, "but it gets better. The victims have a daughter, and regulators say she's the one that phoned in the FPA call. " "You're joking! You have got to be fucking joking." Josefson just couldn 't w rap his mind around the concept. Whitmore cringed as more vulgarity escaped his partner' s mouth. He pondered saying something, but decided now wasn 't the time. "Evens," Whitmore said as Josefson pulled out the red die he kept in his pocket and rolled it on the sidewalk. Ever since he and Josefson started using the die, Whitmore always picked evens. "5," Josefson read the number facing the sky. "Looks like odds w in again." "Ah well, your 'bad news' speech sucks anyway," Whitmore half-joked as they got in their car and drove to the address of the victims' daughter. 71 �flamei On Punuit Flames from a small spark start. Heaven knows they have no heart. Heat rising from the dust rousing the evil and the just. Distorting the visage of every village. Flames shoot to the sky with a savage cry disappearing as they rise to the heavens I surmise. Paining those aflame, it really is a shame. Forcing startled people elsewhere; sending fauna who knows where. You know the hot flame fries, But cares not who burns or dies 72 The eye, the dark glassy eye. Staring, flinching, flowing from the moonlight. The fire burning deep inside - something is wrong. The eye becomes dull and darkens as the c louds pass over the moon. You can see a sudden b it of fear in the eye. Still as can be, it stares hard. Trying not to blink, small droplets of water run from the corner of the eye then trickle down the cheek of the hunted deer. It stares into the darkness. A stream of flights come flashing and flickering through the treestrespassing into its home. The Orange Militia Comes. Dust fills the eye as the lights fly by and the deer lies low. Scared, trembling with fear, still eyes wide open. 73 �The ~pitetu I Devil Tip your silky wings to the left, So all the sinners too may sit and rest, So all you angels tip your wings slightly to the left, So a ll the sinners too may sit and rest, They sang of sweet filled revelations, And gave their ideas for a new creation, Allow them to drink from your sweet waters of delight, For they are the ones who have suffered child fright, So tip your angel wings, And allow your compassion filled hearts to sing, The spiteful devil laughed with glee, To bestow his pain, he was laughing cheerfully, He told his blinding ideas of dark, Will never allow us again to see, He had us sign our signatures of soul, Having us by our collars tight, And we were never again to be free, There was a symbol of balance to which he showed his hatred, On a war to never be won, is where he'll always bed, Where his weakness to create, b e where he lay his head, And the spiteful devil laughed with glee, To bestow his pain, he was laughing cheerfully, While upon his velvet pillows, he was tipping his head, Looking up into his mirror, that was resting above his fiery bed, His reflection loudly sang, within his prideful sadness, And a watery tear fell from his eye, Landing on his actions that were born from all his madness, So all you Angels tip your wings, And let your ideas of sympathy sing. (con tinued ... ) 74 75 �Three floon Up How did I get here? Smoke curling toward the ceiling -Is tho! what my lungs look like? And the flames ... Licking and devouring My surroundings succumbing An ecc ..eccentric dance of Di ..distorting wav ..waves and fuel -Cough I cling to her still body Clear streaks caress her lifeless cheeks Blackened and blistered Lost smiles. dreams hopes. No sounds invade the chorus. Of crocks. pops. and sobs All hope forgotten long before The flames enveloped the window -Breathe Clo~e and Gentle Demon So dearly did a demon grasp My soul within his tender clasp; Gently. slowly. task on task He slipped his binding leading mask. My demons leash was desperate So timid. timely, temperate. Straight sudden snug his noose became And was replaced by flaming chains. Unlooking on as I was led Unknowing choice and light had fled; Until my chiseled words I scribed: "If I'd not lived I'd not hove died." I lived and died and in my cell Of stone and flame-myself made hellI cursed my light and my own name My self, my pride, my guilt, my shame! Outside. Yellows and reds argue for the night Survivors littering the sidewalk And the heroes solute the dying building In hell there are no doubts! No faith is muffled in the shouts! Just knowing bounds forever sure Uncertain when the bounds occurred Three floors up. the Flames fight to conquer The lifeless bundle of Blood. flesh . tears and dreams Forgotten But wait. .. (A whisper somewhere said.) Second Place Winner- Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Award 76 There is no spiny man in red No shoulder imp is speaking dread You now not lie in brimstone bed You genius fool. .. Your gentle demon's in your dear head. 77 �Departing into the ~onic Pharmacy I Tyson Cantrell No feeling so swell today? Let the TV help. Is that runny nose getting you down? Go down the Sudafed aisle and turn that frown upside down. Is the lady unhappy with your performance? Pick up some Enzyte for natural male enhancement Feeling down? Viagra will get you up and going. Oops, thought he was a dreamboat but got genital herpes. No sweat, Valtrex has got you covered. Here, take Prozac or Zoloft if you're feeling depressed about it .Are autumn allergies blocking your head? Quick turn the channel to 3! Don't miss the commercials. Claritin and Allegra provide nondrowsy relief from seasonal a llergy symptoms like sneezing, runny nose, itchy nose or throat, or itchy, watery red eyes. Are the pressures of the life you live too much to handle? The makers of Paxil and Xanax promise the anxiety will be gone. Or maybe just a Tylenol would stop that splitting headache. Ouch. That pizza was not a good idea. Pop some Nexium or Zantac to stop the burn. If your ulcers are acting up Prilosec takes the pain away. Side affects may include rash, mild constipation and or diarrhea, dry mouth, itchy eyes, sore throat, irregular blood pressure and death. Please see your physician to see if these medications are right for you. (continued ... ) 78 79 �Change~ in Penpective I am born and it is spring Rain is splattering mud onto everything The roads are such quagmires I can barely walk And the pollen in the air suffoca tes me I am a youth in summer The infernal sun blisters my back My lips are parched for thirst And a ll things living are shriveling in the heat I am an adult in autumn The crisp wind blows into my face Dusty leaves litter my life and crumble at my feet It seems that I have nothing left for me In old age I sit in winter The snow freezes my bones to ice The trees are crippled and bare and all color has disappeared How I long for the happy seasons of the past. Amanda-Love Derick Empey Everyone wants it Some people have it, Are you missing it? Stop your meaningless searching. Find love today in ... Your local pharmacy with Lamanoveda 8! Lamanoveda 8 raises your spirits It's a natural antioxidant. When you have self-esteem doubts A single does of Lamanoveda 8 will Bring you to new heights of ecstasy Lamanoveda can be taken twice a day, or Whenever you feel lonely Larronoveda 8 is not fa everycre Sde affects rroy nd.Jde: Sudden bss of appetite Resressless Lockofconcenlratbn Over-µ:iJtm Exoggeratbn oferrom Adcfctb. ard hecrtocre Co not tcte Lam:noveda 8 with Anyolhefr~~ts Lamanoveda8has not teen appoved by the FDA Conottakelarrmovecb8unies,ycu'rep-epcred Fathecormitment. Lamanoveda 8, when you need someone to love 80 81 �Through the Yean Uncovered Virginia Knudson Jenny Drummond I've written you in thought my friend So often through the years. But somehow ink just couldn't find The words to make thoughts clear. Within my thoughts I have revealed Those happy times we shared As childhood friends who ran and played Without the slightest care. Those times are all just memories now How time speeds by I know not how. Our lives gone their separate ways And now we long for those good old days. The way you were always there for me, You found the good no one else could see. I miss staying up to talk all night You'd take all my troubles and make them right. Deep inside my heart is a place that I thought was lost I hid it, because it was more then I wanted to bear I didn't understand the price I paid, nor did I count the cost I thought I was alone: no one to share I didn't realize the vital, missing piece Was a part of me that couldn't be duplicated or replaced Neglecting myself was leaving me damaged and incomplete A small but significant void; an empty space A hand reached out and helped me off the ground I stood once again and wondered how you knew Uncovered - that hidden place was found You gave me back myself, from somewhere inside of you. No matter where life takes us, near or far apart, You'll always be a part of me, A joy inside my heart. 82 83 �AWalk in the Park 6ordon Bangert There I stood, a multi-millionaire at twentyseven presiding over the dedication of a college named after me. My lifetime dream had come true. Then, the dog barking woke me. His yelp told me that someone just started their car or walked past the house or tossed the paper on the driveway. It was Saturday, my day off, and the clock said 5:01 AM. Dogs can't tell time. He did what he considered his duty. I knew he could be trained, but I never found the time or need to put him in obedience training. Instinctively I turned to wake Darlene, my wife, to quiet the dog, but then I remembered, the other side of the bed was vacant. It seemed like only yesterday we trekked in the country enjoying the fresh aroma of pine boughs and spring blossoms. I loved her for the way she enjoyed life, spread optimism, rejected boundaries, and paraded an en thusiasm that was unending. Making friends came easy for Darlene, she had a way of imparting a feeling of life-long friendship from a single encounter. She was the woman of my dreams. But foremost, Darlene and I savored a deep love for each other. * * * Earlier that year, when Darlene and I took a walk in the park, I g limpsed something partially obscured in the bushes. "What's that?" I inquired 84 pointing at some shrubs in the distance. Curiosity can sometimes be risky. "It's only a roc k and besides someone could be hiding in the dark woods," Darlene responded. "It doesn't look like a rock to me," I replied as I approached the area cautiously. A faint whimper came from the underbrush as I pushed some branches aside, and found a scrawny dog barely recognizable with mud and burrs clinging to his matted fur. "It's a dog, at least what's left of one." "Oh, what happened to him?" Darlene was shocked at the sight of the bedraggled dog barely able to move, and her heart melted at the sight of him. He looked like the survivor of a one-sided brawl . "I don' t know, but he sure is an eyesore. Looks like he's half starved." I knew Darlene had an affinity for animals and I viewed with apprehension where her thoughts were heading. never understood dogs, or even cats-especially cats-they were so aloof and arrogant. To please Darlene I feigned affection, but secretly just tolerated her pets. When I learned to walk, a dog came too close so my mother reached out to protect me and the dog thought I posed a danger, so he quickly lunged toward me to protect mom . If my mother had not panicked, the police dog would have disregarded me and I would not have a faint scar behind my right ear. "We can't leave him here," admonished Darlene . "He won't last the night." Darlene was obviously appalled by the sad condition of the dog. Growing up, she had adopted at different 85 �times a frog, a paca, a canary, two rabbits, a snake, a gecko, three cats and fish. Most of them had been adopted because they needed to be nursed back to health. "We have to take him back to our place at least until he recovers," Darlene urged. "OK, but just until he can make it on his own." I didn't want to have a dog under foot, but knew from past experience tha t protesting changed nothing. Once she saw the dog, I had no hope of discouraging her. The dog had to be carried so we made a sling out of my coat and managed to carry him home. A comfortable bed was arranged in the room next to ours, and his tail spoke volumes of appreciation for the leftovers from yesterday's beef stew. Nourishment b rought back a spark of life to the forlorn animal and that encouraged us. Darlene found his paw pads were undamaged . She clipped the fur around the deep lacerations on his chest and applied an antiseptic cream. His bones seemed to be intact and we could only speculate why he had been deserted. I DIDN'T WANT TO HAVE A DOG UNDER FOOT ... Resting peacefully during the night helped to revive his life force and a deep woof. The next day we gave him a bath, clipped his nails and removed the burrs revealing quite a handsome Rottweiler we named Brutus. He had a dark brown coat, lighter on his lower legs. His ears were small, perched on a broad skull with almond-shaped eyes and his tail was short but active. 86 After a week of ads in local publications and querying the neighborhood, it became evident that Brutus had been abandoned. I really didn't expect we would find the owner, but placed the ads with hope that the owner wanted him back. Brutus displayed a friend ly manner, perhaps too friendly. Starved for affection, he followed us wherever we went. At least he d idn't bite, but barked at the slightest provocation as protector of the household. Recovering from his odyssey of abandonment, Brutus soon became part of the family, although he exhibited a constant need for atten tion. Naturally, the job of walking the dog fell to me when I could be watching TV instead or reading the p a per or just taking a nap. Going out of town for a weekend required either boarding Brutus or taking him with us. Why did I have to investigate that rock in the bushes? "We need to get rabies shots for Brutus," Darlene announced one day as I was leaving for a bowling match. "If he bites someone or gets into a fight w ith another dog, we'll be in big trouble. I doubt his previous owners took any precautions." "Well, I'm pretty busy," I explained. "I've got an important bowling tournament today. It is too late to find a replacement. You handle it." I realized that reflec ted a cold-hearted attitude, but I didn't wont to become more emotionally attached to Brutus. He was just a dog. When I came home from bowling, five messages flashed on the answering machine. What I heard scared me. Darlene was injured in an accident at the corner of Main and State 87 �streets . Panic overcame me as I rushed to St. Mary's Hospital, a thousand thoughts went through my head: How could that happen? Would she recover? Would she be a vegetable? Would she die? What would I do without her? * * * "How is she, doc?" I asked . "My wife will live, won 't she?" The pounding of my heart was so loud I could hear it, and my breathing was arduous. I felt helpless waiting for his reply. The smell of antiseptic filled the room, and I felt fa int. Nothing mattered except Darlene. Please, God, let Darlene survive. Realizing my anxiety, the doctor hesitated then led me to his office. There was room for a desk and a file cabinet with manila folders piled everywhere. The g loomy atmosphere matched his grave demeanor suggesting that her injuries were severe, but how severe? Speaking softly, the doctor explained, " I'm sorry to have to tell this, but your wife was barely alive when I first saw her. We rushed her to OR immediately with severe trauma to her skull. The damage was too extensive. There was nothing we could do for her. She died on the operating table. I'm terribly sorry." I don't understand how this could happen. She was alive this morning and now she's dead? My life revolved around Darlene; she gave reason to my existence. Her enthusiasm and vitality gave me the courage to face life's challenges. Grief overtook the rage of her untimely death as thoughts raced thro ugh my head of life without her. There was a feeling of lightness in my head and my knees were like jelly. I was fortunate to 88 have someone catch me before I collapsed. The fac t that Brutus survived was of little consolation . I forgot she was taking him to the vet. My remorse became tinged with guilt. I should never have investigated that rock in the bushes, that rock that she took to the vet because of my jaundiced view of dogs. Brutus was not entirely to blame, but it gave me so me comfort to have a scapegoa t. DARLENE'S LIFE SHOULDN ' T HAVE BEEN DISMISSED SO CASUALLY. A police officer told me later that a pizza store was robbed . Speeding at 100 mph, they pursued the get-away van that ran three red-lights and side-swiped two cars before slamming into Darlene's Camry, totaling it. The perpetrators received minor injuries and were eventually sentenced to five years at Brimstone Correctional Facility. The light sentence was an insult; Darlene's life shouldn' t have been dismissed so casual ly. * * * Six months of mourning did not lessen my grief. Food became tasteless, dishes piled up in the sink, the hamper was full of dirty clothes, the lawn needed mowing and my work suffered. For some mysterious reason, Brutus had an urge to take a walk at 5:01 in the morning. After trying to ignore the constant barking, I decided that it was either a puddle on the floor or a walk in the park. I dressed, got the leash and headed out the door with Brutus. A jogging path looped the 89 �park in a meandering route around a field for baseball, a volley ball area and a playground for kids. Groves of trees were scattered like the seeds that fell from their branches. On the way to the park in the dark, I glimpsed a jogger and a couple of homeless people lying on benches. In my haste I forgot to take care of my own needs and quickly tied Brutus' leash around a tree and went looking for a tree of my own. But he was too frisky to be tied up. He freed himself from the tree and went looking for adventure. Searching for him proved fruitless. " Brutus-Brutus," I shouted. It was still dark and locating him by sight seemed futile so I kept shouting, only louder. "Brutus-Brutus." "Over here," a quiet voice came out of the darkness. The owner of the voice was a woman about my age w ith Brutus in tow along with a Mastiff. "Is this your dog? I found him wandering, and he was attracted to my dog. They seem to be friends." "Yes, it looks like he's found a buddy." She introduced her Mastiff as Clementine and herself as Wilma. Her clothes revealed a slim attractive woman who was choosy about her wardrobe and she looked somewhat like Jackie Kennedy. There was a dignity about her that reflected an inner beauty of compassion and understanding. She could have been a model for Vogue. Clementine had a mahogany coat of loose skin that covered a stocky body. Her hair was short and darker on her ears and muzzle with a large head and thick lips. 90 "I live just a few blocks from here and have noticed you and your Rottweiler. He is a magnificent dog. Do you show him?" "He was a stray we found in the park, and I haven't had time to train him." Actually I had considered it-for maybe a second. Wilma was serene and presented a friendly attitude that was relaxing and inviting, but I was still in mourning. THERE WAS A DIGNITY ABOUT HER THAT REFLECTED AN INNER BEAUTY Over time, Wilma crept into my thoughts often. Her calm manner had a soothing effect on Bru tus and I. She hod a subtle a llure and not overbearing like some women. After more chance encounters in the park while walking my dog, I realized I had not determined her marital status. "Your husband should be walking Clementine," I implied. "Or maybe he isn't the outdoor type." "My husband and I used to show Clementine until he d ied recently, my husband I mean." " I'm sorry. Hove you recovered? I know how I felt ofter my wife died in on auto occident." "Yes, I' m slowly realizing that he is gone and I must get on with my life, but it is difficult. Clementine keeps me company, but I need to find something to take my mind off my late husband. I would love to help you train your Rottweiler. " 91 �" I don't know if that's even possible. He seems to have a mind of his own." Expanding intimacy with Brutus wasn't something I wanted to do. "Well, it's up to you, of course. You won't know if you don't try." Getting used to single life again had been difficult. I yearned for someone to share my thoughts and dreams. My emotions bounced between Darlene and Wilma. As time passed it seemed that Brutus required more frequent need for a walk in the park. I didn't know if it was due to old age or if a romance with Clementine was developing. Regardless, I found that a walk in the park became more pleasan t due to cheerful encounters with Wilma. As our walks dovetailed it become routine to stop for coffee and later we included dinner. Although I enjoyed her company, I was nervous about the disparity in our social status. She was more comfortable in high society while I was con tent with the bowling league and auto races. * * * One dark night, Brutus and I went for our constitutional walk in the park. The sky was covered with heavy clouds and fog was c reeping across the landscape. It was like we were in a gigantic cavern with no exit. Brutus heard it too. He reacted immediately. His leash trailed behind. Two silhouettes struggled. I glimpsed a figure falling . Brutus' instincts guided him. He leaped toward the dark shadow still standing. There was a loud thump. The sound of cursing filled the air. Two loud explosions resounded. The sound 92 reverberating in the fog. A sinister shadow disappeared into the darkness. I thought it was a bad dream, but Brutus ' w himper brought me bock to rea lity. He was severely wounded and blood was staining the soil beneath him. A woman cradled him in her arms grateful th a t she hod survived the attack. "We have to get him to a vet," she pleaded. "He's losing blood." It was only then that I recognized the wom an as Wilma. The shoulder of her coot was torn and she was trembl ing. After reassuring myself that she didn't need medical assistance, we carried him to my car. " We 'll have to hurry," I exclaimed. Wilma explained on the way to the vet that Clementine had broken loose to chase another dog into the park, and she had to chase after them . While searching for her dog someone approached from behind and tried to rape her. Brutus saved her from serious injury. A SCREAM PIERCED THE NIGHT AIR . Rushing to the vet reminded me of my trip to the hospital after Darlene's accident. Feelings of guilt arose again. It wasn't a pleasant thought. Wilma did the best she could to stem the flow of blood, but Brutus grew weaker as we approached the veterinarian clinic. "He didn't make it. The bullets damaged his circulatory system and he lost too much blood," explained the vet. "I'm sorry ." The vet made every effort to prevent Brutus' death, but the extensive damage thwarted his efforts. He 93 �wanted to save Brutus because he was a hero and deserved a better fate. I was shaken by the incident. Losing Darlene was bad enough, but the loss of Brutus shocked me. At that moment I suddenly realized how much he meant to me. He gave his life for Wilma. Shame swept over me for the way I had trea ted him and I regretted turning a youthful trauma into a life-long grudge. Continuing on my present path can only lead to loneliness and isolation. My guilt over Darlene's death resurfaced as I realized she sacrificed her needs by satisfying my desires. I don't know how she tolerated my selfishness. She was the woman of my dreams. With death lingering in the air, my thoughts turned to Wilma and Clementine. They both have suffered a loss leaving them lonely also. Where, I wondered, can I buy a Mastiff? Angel ~hades of Blue Stephen John Her Angel shades of blue, Delicately wrap around my actions, Her touch of love falls like rain, And lands upon, caressing my doily actions, Her gift of compassion sews like sight And upon my actions, daily delight, Her Angel shades of blue, shade my eyes, And therefore protect me from the harm of others' lies, Her voice is like the sparrow's song, And with everyday still comes surprise, Her heart carries understanding, like the wind carries air, Flowing through others' lives, warmth with loving care, Her innocence laughed in the face of my weakness, And crushed my heart without a thought to bare, Her presence is like the silvery night's imagination, Confidence for the future, and continuing information, Her sorrowful cry, carefully crushed through, And I became a witness to her Angel shades of blue 94 95 �AVoice in the Di~tance Ivan Church I~ ·- -::/:4f!t.l<!'.< >· < ., ., There 's a light in the distance He calls me by name I bow my head Feeling the shame I know what I've done And so does He He knows all there is To know about me I know how I've sinned I know I've done wrong And in His presence I don't belong Then He steps in With a smile on his face And keeps me from falling In my disgrace .• ·, • ' - ";:..-' J~'- ~,i-f(~'.':';.d';. '· ' ~-~ ···-.~ ~~:r~~:-~f ~ •• - <~;-J¼.i:--:-;~ ~-~ ~~~.-~~:-~ i .! _,.-• ' -· I ... ...• 1;,:,-:j':.·.·-:, .• Anna Poultan 96 97 �Alway~ There I don't know if I believe today so I'll just have to rely on faith . I'll count my blessings and see how they measure up. I'm sure I'll find the way. I'm wandering aimlessly in search o f answers, to find the truth. I'm hope lessly lost but I'm sure I'll find the way. A still small voice whispers in my ear, and testifies of truth . Mixed into the wind it says, God is always there. He's a lways there. You' re never a lone and there's always a sliver of hope no matter where you go, he'll love you, guide you and walk beside you. He'll comfort the hurt and make healing a possibility. AGift Stephen 8. Holladay Once was dark and full of pain, brought to life to live again. What was bleak and fil led with despair, was the sorrow ever there? Difference now from all that was, lonely then to all that loves. Shining now is how it glows, sharing all and all that shows. Can you guess what gift this be? From within, the gift is me. I stepped off the path and lost my w a y but a still small voice whispered into my ear, and testified of truth. Mixed into the wind it said, God is always there. He's always there. 98 99 �Aubade There Dustin Jackson Windy Talbot My hands hold to the cold granite stones. Scanning at the horizon, my eyes become weak. The sky is dark, and my hope retreats from my battle with myself. I feel as alone as the woman from Magdaia. What did she do to give aid to her sorrow? She wept . But I will not weep. The mourning has not yet come. As Gregor contemplates his metamorphosis, I contemplate my lack of change. As Hester cries scratching the scarlet sin, I scratch my veins to remember His clumpy crimson blood. Who are all these people? WordsI've been concerned with words. But what will happen in the mourning? The chariot approaches. I hear the hooves pounding against the clouds. Dawn approaches. There is Phoebus. I must now raise myself to read more about Gregor, Hester, and the woman from Magdaia. 100 Each one Has need of meaning But, in a moment, One is left undefined Each step taken Leaves behind one's essence; Each drop of vapor in the air Reflects the image Of what one wonts to portray The individual, obscurely reflected, Is not who one is But, deep inside, the true self Not waiting to be discovered, is already There 101 �She has the potential, But she is weak. A life of pain That makes her shriek. She only wonders If it will change. TO become normal Instead of strange. She has hard times, She will admit. But she stands strong, Though weak to sit. She has the faith Her soul is humble. Temptation is there, Satan 's grumble. She cannot hide From her guilty past, Though she's been forgiven At long last. She's loved by others And cared by a ll. Though sin is there She will not fall. She isn 't selfish Or even vain. A kind soul, Her love will remain. She has been lonely, But not for long. Her friends show up, And love is their song. She has the talent That gives her friends, A laughing feeling Of joy, she lends. She's sad sometimes, But will always be, Loved and happy ... That she, is me. (c ontinued ... ) 102 103 �On My Way to the Jemi Man' i ~alvation Hangout 6ordon Soaring Hawk Barefoot madman in a Jesus suit, Wild-eyed busking his wares; Pontificating upon His personal brand of Heaven and sanctification, Heedless of The uncaring stares Of jaded passersby Who only want to be Left alone In their somnambulant peregrinations. And yet the madman harries on Hurling his doomsday invectives, As if to goad the slumbering folk To awake and accept his salvation. Why is the message Inescapably fraught With Dore-esque scenes Of burning Hell Direct from Dante 's nightmare? Much rather I'd hear the joyful noise Of heaven's dancing tongues of flameThat stirs my heart much more Than minacious imprecations. What better way for the world 's final bow (Much better than fire or ice) Than a dance of joy At a wedding feast. (Methinks, it too, would suffice) (continued ... ) 104 105 �The One Lynda Curry A printer's press churning, groaning Higher and higher I become One Letters, letters, everywhere Scattered nonsense to but a few Rigid and firm, the outer coat Betrays my trueness deep within Arteries, veins, sinew, entrails Muted color attracts the eye In many hands I've walked, and lived A source of wisdom, pleasure, comfort Pressed firm, a shelf my cocoon Refuge, peace, a quiet If Today Jessica Lee Watson If today were to be the last in my life I would split my shell wide open I would open my eyes and gaze at the sky Until the brilliant sun blinded them I would open my ears and listen to creation Until the dreaded darkness shut them I would open my mouth, my lips would quiver I would conquer the silence and let out a cry I would speak my mind, dismiss contention Until I could sigh no more And then I would open my hand, and reach out To the One who'd take me home Poems, history, art, prayer Neighbors, tall and proud Patience, patience, they will come You' II know when you' re the One 106 107 �fire Erin Ollila At a crossroad With the world Or with myself? Decisions There is a fire inside of me, Dying to be set free. Do I keep it there? Periodically trying to extinguish it, Or let it out, And feed my mire until it's big and bright? I worry that a wind will catch my fire That it might grow larger than myself That it might spread to distances that I con not foresee . Out of control Do I deserve such control? Yes. Do I desire such control? It would be easy to become that fire And just burn away But that leaves my conscious self behind. Every time I come bock My conscious self is confused Wondering why it was left behind It is always still, Exactly where I left it. But fire hos consumed Consumed so much life and energy that Fire and the conscious no longer recognize each other. Fire must teach the conscious what it hos learned. They speak different languages But with time they ore in sync again. Yet my fire always flickers Waiting for the right gust of wind So that it con burn away again. 108 Derelict Tyson Cantrell I shall wake up in the morning But for now I will sleep through it I shall wear my shoes like always But for now my skin socks will do the walking I shall rise with the sun I shall fall w ith the sun But for now I do both with the moon I shall do my habits which are habit forming But for now try to break most of them I shall speak of my m ind's words But for now I w ill speak of my mouth's I shall breathe in the plant's waste I shall breathe ou t the human's waste I shall be free some day I shall live some day But for now I am dead 109 �Brown Water Puddle~ The Drive Danielle Blauer Under my feet All I feel are stones and Brown water puddles On a road of only thoughts There never was A road of dirt and rocks There never should have been Those fears, deep within my thoughts So I will leave them all at The brown water puddles On the side of the road Leave them all in the nothingness I wish I'd never known And they will stay there Not seen again By me Or any other soul. 11 0 It feels as if the pressure and anxiety will overtake us, But we put on a mask of smiles and take to the stage. Wondering whether we will succeed or fall to our faces. As the curtains draw back, we remember to breathe. The music begins and we rise to our toes. We feel the drive within our souls, to let go and feel. We move with the rhythm, as one. Passion, strength, and power take control. As it fills our souls, we take to the air. We leap, we turn, we glide. Mostly in unison, but at times out of stride. The music stops and the curtain closes. We feel relief but wish it weren't over. l 11 �My father On the golden plains of grain he first beheld the sunlight that nursed the rye and wheat. Cows and hens were friends he served with loving care. He was my loving father. He quenched his thirst as the cistern submits its reserves. A cornucopia of asparagus, beans, peas, corn and beets thrived in the fields nearby. Nature at its loving best. He objected to the radiation, but the seasons ushered a knell. A crowd of mourners gathered as he ascended to join his Maker. The pain is gone but not missed. Loving friends dwell in sadness. Character molded on the plains served him well, for he lived a life of dignity and purpose. A model for all to admire. An ideal for one to aspire. He was my loving father. He found that Saturday was a chance to meet needs in town. Sunday was reserved for God. Droughts and downpours did set the fate of crops and its reward. Nature wasn't always loving. He learned about watts and volts. Moved from the plains of grain with my mother to boost his state. Stocks crashed spawning g loom and long hours toiling to endure. But we were a loving family. (continued ... ) 11 2 photo by Emily K. Rueuh 113 �They've pounded nail after nail, put a roof over many heads, brought home the paycheck to feed a hungry family and, kept on, no matter the pain. Tired Hand~ marlie warren Old and crippled and bent they've done more than most still, they never stop. Tired, aching and deformed they remember how things used to be. They warm themselves and, don't give up. They held many jobs on their way through life, placed a thin golden band on a pretty hand, gently lead children toward what's right, held a heavy head when life seemed too hard. They've milked cows, cut wood, baled hay, planted crops, fed animals and plowed through rich soil. They've shaded the heavy sun and, comforted o tired bock. They've moved o family to a better place, provided a new life and carried all the burdens. warmed themselves around mugs of steaming coffee, gave comfort when it was needed. They've firmly held a rifle, pulled a cold trigger and, hauled a heavy deer down a mountain by themselves. They've steadily wormed a hook, cast many a fishing line, reeled in plenty to help feed a family well. They've sent children on their own when the heart that lead them ached and hurt to see them go. They've welcomed grown children back, no matter the pain or the anguish. They ache and throb and swell with pain, they twist more with every year that passes. They've gotten old and crippled and bent. They've done more than most. They're tired now yet still, they never stop. They don't give up. (continued ... ) 114 115 �The Hi~tory of TheJouthern Ruill. feanand Dream~ rear Dalyon Ruesch Your time is here Step up - don't fear! You've dreams to live So give and give Where fears of dreams And dreams of fears Turn one to all Or all to none Advi1or(1) 1950-51 1951-52 1953-54 1953-57 1957-58 Loraine Taylor Loraine Taylor Rose Workman No magazine published Karen Vawdrey 1958-59 1959-60 1960-61 1961-62 1962-63 1963-64 1964-65 1965-66 1966-67 1967-68 1968-69 1969-70 1970-71 1971-72 1972-73 1973-74 Karen Vawdrey Barbara Larkin Titine Spillsbury Joan Esplin Joan Esplin Ilene Harmon Emily Cottam Kay Lichtenwalter James Force James Force Linda Sue Hunt Linda Sue Hunt Roxanne Schmidt Michelle Thomas Gordon J. Peterson Connie Gifford 1974-75 Cathy Pam Heaton 1975-76 1976-77 1977-78 1978-79 1979-80 1980-81 No magazine published Michael Perry Janice F. DeMille Marilee Camp James Force Bill Batzlie Pansy L. Hardy Laura Lee Graff Pansy L. Hardy Kurtis Crist, Linda Ace G. Pilkington Hendrick & Aderianna Smith Melanie Madsen Ace G. Pilkington Dianna K. Kearney Ace G. Pilkington Dawn Houghton Ace G. Pilkington Julianna Burton Ace G. Pilkington 1981-82 1982-83 1983-84 1984-85 11 6 [ditor(i) Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Rose Esplin Juanita Brooks & Betty Allen Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Reed Blake, Jr. Robert 0. Dalton Robert 0. Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Robert 0. Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking �the htitoryrontinuetl. ... Year I 1985-86 1986-87 I 1987-88 1988-89 1989-90 1990-91 1991-92 1992-93 1993-94 1994-95 1995-96 1996-97 1997-98 1998-99 1999-2000 2000-2001 2001-2002 2002-2003 2003-2004 2004-2005 Editor(1) Advilor(1) Janae Daley Bonnie McGowan &Kris Shipp Karen Hansen &Kris Shipp Stephanie Chidester &Chris Metcalf Stephanie Chidester &Christ Metcalf Tiffany Durrant &Joni Jones Christian Arial Jandi Jones. Natalee Nilsson & Chris Pellew JandiJones &Natalie Nilsson Dina Gerhauser Aubree Howard Diana L. Blakley & Bart Jay Mitchell April Davis, Amber Hyde, & Kelly Leatham Heidi Madsen Darryl Barfuss, Liana Kempton & Cindy Lee Wallace No magazine published No magazine published Daneen Deuel &Cami Cox Katie O'Connell &Leesa Ricci Gordon Bangert, Charlotte Emel!, Derick Empey, &Dustin Jackson 118 Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington John F. Cartier Brad A. Barry Brad A. Barry �- 2005 - Dixie State College of Utah � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2005.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2005 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2005 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>Contents</th></tr><tr><td>Ocean Mirror </td><td>Ericka Staples </td><td>1</td></tr><tr><td>Photo </td><td>Emily Ruesch </td><td>2</td></tr><tr><td>Baby </td><td>Amber Hall </td><td>3</td></tr><tr><td>The Almost-Two Acrobat </td><td>Dixie Bawden </td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td>Fish or Fowl </td><td>Marilyn Richardson </td><td>5</td></tr><tr><td>Power: Microwave of the Future? </td><td>Tyson Cantrell </td><td>6</td></tr><tr><td>Pheromones </td><td>Marilyn Richardson </td><td>7</td></tr><tr><td>Blather On </td><td>Jenny Drummond </td><td>8</td></tr><tr><td>Autumn </td><td>Christine Greer </td><td>9</td></tr><tr><td>Ski Trip </td><td>Dixie Bawden </td><td>10</td></tr><tr><td>Christmas on the Porch </td><td>Kaysha Price </td><td>11</td></tr><tr><td>Of Trains and Boats and Whistles </td><td>Gordon Soaring Hawk </td><td>16</td></tr><tr><td>The Glass Kingdom </td><td>Aubrey A. Pederson </td><td>18</td></tr><tr><td>What Happened to the Fairytale? </td><td>Charlotte Emett </td><td>20</td></tr><tr><td>Ere Long Forgotten </td><td>Justin Caplin </td><td>21</td></tr><tr><td>Secrets of the Mesa </td><td>Christine Greer </td><td>22</td></tr><tr><td>Photos </td><td>Chelsea McCaul </td><td>23</td></tr><tr><td>The Pheasent by the Rail </td><td>Betry J. Vickers </td><td>24</td></tr><tr><td>I Have Once Embraced the Cold Corpse Called Night </td><td>Dustin Jackson </td><td>26</td></tr><tr><td>The Cowboy </td><td>Christine Greer </td><td>27</td></tr><tr><td>The Night Stand </td><td>Dustin Jackson </td><td>28</td></tr><tr><td>Esther </td><td>Windy Talbot </td><td>29</td></tr><tr><td>Kamikaze </td><td>Tamron Lee </td><td>30</td></tr><tr><td>If I Could Only Hold You </td><td>Carol Bays </td><td>31</td></tr><tr><td>First Anniversary </td><td>marlie warren </td><td>32</td></tr><tr><td>Intensions </td><td>Clark Jolley </td><td>33</td></tr><tr><td>Art Piece </td><td>Keith Huang </td><td>34</td></tr><tr><td>To See Freedom </td><td>Justin Reber </td><td>35</td></tr><tr><td>Down Home </td><td>Betty J. Vickers </td><td>45</td></tr><tr><td>Threshold </td><td>David House </td><td>46</td></tr><tr><td>Photo </td><td>Ryan Denison </td><td>47</td></tr><tr><td>Ghost Boy </td><td>Lora Hudson </td><td>48</td></tr><tr><td>Keeping in Tact </td><td>Casey Gause </td><td>50</td></tr><tr><td>Fear </td><td>Wendi Epps </td><td>51</td></tr><tr><td>Eliza </td><td>Derick Empey </td><td>52</td></tr><tr><td>Art Piece </td><td>Keith Huang </td><td>64</td></tr><tr><td>Flames </td><td>Gordon Bangert </td><td>72</td></tr><tr><td>On Pursuit </td><td>Jordan Martin </td><td>73</td></tr><tr><td>The Spiteful Devil </td><td>Stephen John </td><td>74</td></tr><tr><td>Three Floors Up </td><td>Derick Empey </td><td>76</td></tr><tr><td>Close and Gentle Demon </td><td>David House </td><td>77</td></tr><tr><td>Departing into the Sonic Pharmacy </td><td>Tyson Cantrell </td><td>78</td></tr><tr><td>Changes in Perspective </td><td>Charlotte Emett </td><td>80</td></tr><tr><td>Amanda Love </td><td>Derick Empey </td><td>81</td></tr><tr><td>Through the Years </td><td>Virginia Knudson </td><td>82</td></tr><tr><td>Uncovered </td><td>Jenny Drummond </td><td>83</td></tr><tr><td>A Walk in the Park </td><td>Gordon Bangert </td><td>84</td></tr><tr><td>Angel Shades of Blue </td><td>Stephen John </td><td>95</td></tr><tr><td>A Voice in the Distance </td><td>Ivan Church </td><td>96</td></tr><tr><td>Art Piece </td><td>Anna Poltan </td><td>97</td></tr><tr><td>Always There </td><td>Victoria Watson </td><td>98</td></tr><tr><td>A Gift </td><td>Stephan B. Holladay </td><td>99</td></tr><tr><td>Aubade </td><td>Dustin Jackson </td><td>100</td></tr><tr><td>There </td><td>Windy Talbot </td><td>101</td></tr><tr><td>She </td><td>Ashley Handy </td><td>102</td></tr><tr><td>On My Way to the Jesus Man's Salvation Hangout </td><td>Gordon Soaring Hawk </td><td>104</td></tr><tr><td>The One </td><td>Lynda Curry </td><td>106</td></tr><tr><td>If Today </td><td>Jessica Lee Watson </td><td>l07</td></tr><tr><td>Fire </td><td>Erin Ollila </td><td>108</td></tr><tr><td>Derelict </td><td>Tyson Cantrell </td><td>109</td></tr><tr><td>Brown Water Puddles </td><td>Jared N. Oles </td><td>110</td></tr><tr><td>The Drive </td><td>Danielle Blauer </td><td>111</td></tr><tr><td>My Father </td><td>Gordon Bangert </td><td>112</td></tr><tr><td>Photo </td><td>Emily K. Ruesch </td><td>113</td></tr><tr><td>Tired Hands </td><td>marlie warren </td><td>114</td></tr><tr><td>Fears and Dreams </td><td>Dalyon Ruesch </td><td>116</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/674cfe727f13cc371a187710a3ade13e.pdf 02d5cabadb265ab1ab44802a3a99d518 PDF Text Text Tbe Soutbern QuiU �In Memory of Carmela Tanner Forsyth ST AF F : Editors Katie O'Connell Leesa Ricci Staff Magi Stringham Lora Hudson Candice Marie Brooks Advisor Brad A. Barry Cover Art by Ashlee Jensen All poems, stories and artwork are from a broad spectrum of Dixie State Col lege students and/or residents of Washington County - and each work is jointly copyrighted by its individual creator and The Southern Quill. © 2004 �TABLE OF CONTENTS: Love f;ssence of Spring by Kcn•a S. Carter [;very Time\ Drink You by Nicholas Jacobsen +=ire [;yes by Lo,-,a 1-ludson The Man I Thought I Knew by Mylisa Jacobson A Mothe/ s Love by kyle 1-luntsman Soulrnates by D . Lovendahl Untitled by Daniel 8u,-,cham Pain Pages 10-19 Untitled by Tyler Hooper Ismatic by Seth Sadler The Payoff by Wendi Epps Jealousy by Erin M . Tracy Your Love Chokes Me by Nicholas Jacobsen Midnight by Jay Nielsen Hollywood by Brandy Hillman Behavior by Valerie Buck Gossip School by Lora Hudson The Ritual by Wendi Epps Nature Pages 2 0 -23 Chet and Toque by Sha n a l ee Sadle r Riding Horne by Ashlee Jen se n Upon a Mountain Top b y J a cob Wi lcox Humor Pages 24-28 Soccer Ball on Mountain Peak by Kevin Farr Four Friends and The Sea by Erin Tracy Ode to my Shoe by Lora Hudson Perseverance Pages 29-47 Under Examination by Kara S. Carter Enough by Lora Hudson Jackie by Mandolyn Preece My Prayer by Candice Marie Brooks A Memory by April Young Ten Cents by Gregory Sherwood For the Runners by David Bolander Silent Sonata by Leesa Ricci The History of The Southern Quill - Pgs 48-49 �-- Love agape eros slorge "Essence of Spring" by Kara S. Carter �+=ire Gye~ Gvery Time I drink You oq N icholo, '-j ocob,en by Loro Hudson f;verything so brutally co ld The air motion less, consuming ghosts fro-zen I could die in this place I am inebl"'iated in you I pick you up and tip you back I-lands so stiff, dripping ice head pounding in And suck like it's my last bl"'eath desperate aHempts to breathe Only you can make the pain end Only you can make my thoughts cease Only you can make my lungs bl"'eathe Only you can make my heart beat Blood unable to circulate Leaves my tree-zing hea-rt a lone To beat away the seconds Beto-re it explodes a born b of ice I can fol"'get evel"'ything with you Nothing else mattel"'s And we al"'e alone I teel a wa-rm ti-re on my hand G-rociously, I emb-race the gift T-raveli ng through my a-rm info my hea-rt They can't haunt me hel"'e Looking at you through iced.over lashes \x!hel"'e I'm close to you . ama-zed how your eyes are warmer than your hands 3 You are so lovely I will never be cold again �The Man I Thought I Knew bLJ Mylisa -Jacobson A Mother's Love 64 Kqle 1---junst.mon A smoll litt.le bo4 Grows up oil alone The other day I saw you 'Where his mom ond dad work oll do4 But. who was it. that. I saw? And hordl4 ever come home 1-J,s verq Fird- steps The body looked just. like yours And tinq liule sounds But the eyes were dark and raw. \0"ere never enjoqed or remem bel"f!rJ 'Couse nobod4 wos around The voice wm deep cmd lingering 1-Je hies to discover But the words he spoke were hollow. I-Jis purpose on f;o-rth \0"h4 his porent.s don't love him And hoven 't since birth l-Je slood just. like a leader But. no one seemed lo Follow. 1-Je grows up ond hos Fun All through the 4eors I-longing out with Friends He kissed the way t.hat. you do But. his lips Felt. so very cold And never <:on Fron ling his Fears Knowing !:.hot. the moment 1-Je started walking home l-Je held me like you ought. lo But. it. wasn't slrong and bold. Nobody would be there +-le would be oll olone D04 oH.er do4 The other day you saw me But. who was il that. you saw? I-Jis dad threolens his mom IF he didn't do something Something would go wrong One night his Fat.her AFt,er o long do4 ol work 5 Comes home to his house Acting like o jerk continued. .. �continued... ~e slaps his mom And pushes her to the Floor That is all the boy could handle It would happen no more Soul mates by D. Lovendahl ~e charges his dad And punches him in the chin When two souls meet. not. for' t.he fir's-!: time , Dad Feels For blood. and gives boy a grin Recognition Y'endeY's Y'Omance subli me. ~e points the trigger 'Straight across at me!• A A pull oF the trigger And blackness the boy sees ~e wakes the next dCllj On a hospital bed ~ is only thought is ·whlf aren. t I deacl?. ~is best Friend comes in And tells h,m what went on ~ow h,s mother is dead And his Father long gone ~is mother jumped in Front. OF the bullets For him They went through her And barellj grmed him ~is life since then ~as become a success (veT' since his mother Took two in the cl,est scent., a touch, a glance; t.hen , Ancient bonds explode into cur'Y'ent. consciousness. Love, enduY'ing beyond li fetimes, ovey,flows pY'esent time. When two hearts beat. the same y,hyt.hm and y,hyme, ./=ingerlips ignite flames of passion divine. A caY'ess, a cat.ch of bY'eat.k t.hen, 'Waves of desi,-,e ovey,flow boundaY'ies of tempoy,al bod ies. Hearts, caressed by passion, foy, t.he moment entwine. When two friends meet. not. for the last time, Memo,-,ies of confidences fill the mind . A trust., a faith, a bond; then , Visions of loneliness foreve,-, evaporate. J=Y'iendship, ovey,flowing , endu,-,es th,-,oughout ouy, lifetimes. Little d;d he know ~ow much his mother loved him Until she took her liFe -J u~t to save him. 8 �Untd:led 64 Doniel 8urchom The do,.,kness moved slowly Inch by inch throughout the sky, C,.,eeping illusively until blockness l"eigned. Blindness ove1"powe,.,ed my soul As the p,.,ince ot the morning cockled. With eve,.,y colomitous toll he opprooched, Pain Attocking the 01"igin of my heo,.,t, And ,.,uling my eve,.,y thought Leoving me empty and hollow, While sentencing me lo dwindle in pe-r>petuily . motive Then. just os the while flog begon lo ascend. I fell on my knees in humility. P leading fo,., the one I hod Forsaken, As I wept in anguish. cause Then trom a Familia.,, diswnce, A brillionl beam of light. illuminated my being. My sewn eyes slowly opened. Revealing the oulstl"elched orms ot benevolence Welcoming me home. I arose trom t.he din G,.,asping the hands of salvation, And as I emb,.,aced his eve,.,losting love, I-le smiled, Poving t.he thorns I hod planted, Showing me the sel"ene poth. 1-lis pu,.,ity possessed me, 1-lis pe,.,fection inspil"ed. My soul cr>ied out with joy, And I wept once ogoin, But. t.his time it wos fo,., him! consequence �Ismatic * by Seth Sadler to be seen to be acknowledged to be one the blind leading the stupid or is it the other way around? doesn't matter you 're gonna be careful, right? you know what you 're doing hell, you 're practically invincible slide up to the edge all smooth-like to catch a glimpse of what the others see so what do you see? a tumultuous sea a frenzy of water as she lashes herself against the jagged rocks hmm ... but there are so many of them they gotta know what they're doing , I - . I( J, c:.: I I I ' j Untitled - by Tyler Hooper then you feel a slight push limbs flailing panicking to catch your balance because the doubt suffocates and faith dies a split second lasts an eternity as you look but can't see and listen but can't hear over the roar of crowd over the roar of the sea and they keep coming continued... �continued... keep pushing one by one by one one after another it takes all your strength to keep from following falling you don't know how long you can keep this up it seems like no end is in sight you feel weak and alone you start to think to yourself "maybe they do know maybe I should just give in i can't take this anymore anyway maybe I should just give in" so you do with eyes closed arms opened wide you await the final push of truth you crack your eyes open heavy in breath, but still standing as you watch the final lemming take the plunge shaking your head, you leave this place 'cuz somewhere out there the right cliff holds all the answers and you 're just so destined to find it, aren't you? The Payoff* by Wendi Epps Walking through the woods She came, In her plain and old-fashioned dress, A noise made her stop, And tum, She tried to look through the fems, But she saw nothing, Just the green trees and moss, Another rustle in the leaves makes her tum, But again, As before, She sees nothing. The branches shake once more, And she finds what she is looking for, A man steps out from behind the brush, She hands him the money To keep him hushed. Then he leaves, Quietly, And with a sigh, She sinks to the ground, And begins to cry. * Third Place Winner, * First Place Winner, - Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Competition 2003-2004 13 - Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Competition 2003-2004 14 �Jealousy Your Love Chokes Me by Nicholas Jacobsen by Erin Tracy A burning fire Its passion glowing Reaching higher For all to see Consuming all Sparing none Taking what it deems its own Raging Out of control None can stop the burning flame It sees only what it can see And not what destruction comes Burning higher Destroying more Controlled by an endless rage The more unchecked this fire burns The more it burns within itself Making hotter the inner flame As all goes clear and white But the fire cannot control itself And in the end dismays It, too, destroyed did wither down Its embers smoldered gray Too focused on passion And selfish want The fire Destroyed Itself Your love chokes me 'Cause when I'm with you The only thing I can think of Is breathing I can almost feel your delicate fingers Around my neck And your grip tightens as I pull you in close For a final poisoned kiss It enters my system and tears at my thrnat But soon I will realize That it's killing me You're killing me. But don't leave just yet I have grown accustomed to empty lungs And bloodless veins I'm not sure I could survive Without pain. Midnight by Jay Nielsen Confusion reigns and bums into the back of my mind. Everything makes no sense while I understand what nothing is. Knowing what I want, screaming at what I have, and knowing, My time is not considered to be most important, Yet to me, my time is prime. The midnight hour brings to me thoughts and invigorates every muscle. Straightening out my mind into a clear consciousness. My dreams are enlightened in the middle of the night And my nightmares are bathed in starlight. 16 �Behavior by Valerie Buck Hollywood by Brandy Hillman Hollywood sells it, you should know The tales of love, that shouldn't be shown; But you adore it, don't we all? The controversy stays, in its hole While we close the door, and put on the show; Why do we worship, something so obscure? It's an obstacle course, with a lot of pain; It keeps the world turning, Soaks up a rainy day; We do it not thinking Then it all goes Down the drain mercifully Crying for more; An addiction Like Bud or a smoke Someday we'll learn It's all just a joke. Living on borrowed laughs Renting my own time Living in the future or reside in my past? Branded a slut, liar and traitor Knowing the worst brings the best of things to come Tell me this, for I have committed this thing Do you know what I speak of? Of loyalty, true friendships unable to break? Of truth, untarnished by petty gains? Of realness, true words salivating in grace-touched mouths? A smoking gun and a heart on a sleeve Where there's smoke there's fire And changing like autumn leaves These are right, these are true And for what? To resist the destruction of character? Take not what you will not give The selfish whispers I can sometimes hear in a crowded room Do you listen with drunk emotions or barren cold thoughts? Always swimming at the brink of surface Sink below I plead and live to fight another day Gossip School by Lora Hudson Which President did they finally choose? I wouldn't know, I don't watch the news But I do know the gossip So it's all just a tossup Of which talk appeals more to you. 17 18 �The Ritual by Wendi Epps Say goodbye my friend, I've got to go The ritual calls to me, Its screams twist in translucent harmony Blinding lights reveal thoughts that should not be The ritual calls to me, exposing my silent insanity. Revelations breaking through, the truth distorts An untimely accident, and your precious mind is lost Try to regain again, my friend, your sanity Only to find you never really had it The ritual calls to me in melodic agony. Nature reflection Say hello again, my friend, I'm coming home The ritual calls to me from a distant reality Unseen images expose what I can see The ritual calls to meWon't it ever set me free? I really thought I would never Become the one who bleeds It's all so clear to me now, my friend Why can't you see? It's for the good ofus all! Nothing matters, so do what you want Fry your mind Follow the blind But remember: Killing yourself is just killing time. 19 20 �- Riding Home by Ashlee Jensen Rid ing home against natural shades of silence . Trees to sage , sage against red earth , red earth to road , road to empty horizon . Old worn out memories arrange like layers of an oni on in my soul . And my memories , simple and subtle, bleed into the turquoise distance . "Chet and Toque" by Shanalee Sadler 22 �Upon a Mountain Top by Jacob Wilcox Once I took a little climb , Over a mountain to think of the time , That I had spent walking there , Breathing in the smell of nature in the air , To forget the past that haunted me , And ask my fears to let it be . To stand with God way up in the sky , Where no one would hear me cryTo take and leave just a memory , Of the things that I would see To think of only just one th i ng To find what man did not bring . Humor And the quiet that I longed for , I knew was waiting there in store , For me to find somewhere on the top , Where I would stop , And let the breeze touch my face , As I loo ked down upon the place , Where I was bornWhere I was left with a mind torn and wornWhere I had for just a moment left , Just to take one long fresh breath . And there I saw the life , That I would have with my family and wife . And what I saw was something of an ache , For my posterity ' s sake , Who knew nothing of what I smelledOf what I felt Of what I know , Of God ' s grand show , And the tapestry he lovingly made , In which he himself a part has played, To make the life I looked at now , Seem worth it all someway , somehow . 24 �Four Friends and the Sea by Erin M. Tracy A wandering fish Smelled a cat Swimming in the sea. The cat was blue With scales of gold The fish, it had a f lea. A calico fish With coarse hair Flipped it's f in But got nowhere. The swimming cat Though wet all over Had a little friend named Rover. Rover was A pink iguana Swimming on its back. Soccer Ball on Mountain Peak by Kevin Farr The cat and f ish Both were friends And also was the flea. Happy ever they did live Four friends All in the sea. 26 25 �Ode to my shoe by Lora Hudson Oh you wonderful high heel of mine That's carried me so far To the mall and to my car You are so very kind Your exquisite color of silvery gray Provides extensive versatility On what my fashion possibilities And options are for that day With you on I grow quite a speck You make me six foot three So I may tower above everybody While they suffer to strain their neck Though you hurt my foot , my pet With your massive heel I sacrifice for your stylish appeal Considering it my debt Your size, though large Is perfect for me Which means, my shoe, We were meant to be There is a large space for you molded in my heart More so than for any other shoe Though I love my boots and slippers too They just don't fit the part There are so many plusses about my beloved shoe So when I rave, I don't know where to start But what I have concluded must be the very best part Is that I have not one, but two of you! I praise your buckle, so tiny and bold Loose though it may be For it adds sparkling personality And is quite an honor to behold continued. . . 27 28 �Perseverance mind memory will "Under Examination" by Kara S. Carter 29 30 �Enough* by Lora Hudson Heart overboard Sinking like forgotten debrisQuick, solitary, and without honor Who will save it Beating alone unde1water? Or who will finally destroy it Sending blood to the surface? Pain and disappointment Teaming together Triggering underlying actions Molding surface responses Are you happy? she was asked Happy enough Her eyes were cameras, Mirroring the pain that for so long preyed on her heart, Exposing defeat Inside the large wet eyes that were too familiar Emulated a woman intent on neither being rescued nor drowning, A woman accepting enough The cold that enveloped her now would become a part of her, The empty stretches of ocean that haunted her soul Would house the woman as she became increasingly lost in its depths Are you happy? She was asked . Happy enough Put the dreams away and be happy enough. Jackie* by Mandolyn Preece Born in Southhampton and very petite, Horse riding her passion, what a great feat. Enrolled at Miss Porter's, an early age, She discovered power in the written page. Continuing on, she earned her degree, Majoring in French Lit, her specialty. She traveled the world, landed in Paris. This dark haired beauty, rarely embarrassed. Jacqueline, so full of charm and grace, Elegant, distinguished, cultured her pace. Returned to the states, a husband to find , Pictures she took for the Washington Time. " Inquiring Camera Girl" got attention From a senator up for state election. Together they married September the Twelfth For her ensuring fame, fortune and wealth. For what he saw was so mannered and tame. Perfectly matched for his political game. He campaigned, she shopped, perfect arrangement, Then came along a presidential engagement. Age thirty-one, the US first lady, Parties, balls, gowns, complete with a baby. Yet feeling alone and rather confused, Again and again her husband excused. For artifacts she had appreciation, Which inspired White House Restoration. John was unfaithful, and their children grew, She pretended not to see, but all knew. A trendsetter for many she became, * Second Place Winner-Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial continued. .. Poetry Competition, 2003-2004 3I 32 �A Memory continued.. . by April Young Many women jealous of her fame. But if they knew the heartache she would feel, They would have agreed she got a rough deal. Widowed at the young age of thirty-four, Her husband assassinated and what is more, Bombarded by press, held her composure, Witnessed her son salute like a soldier. Got through it somehow, brave for the nation, Full of poise, charm and determination. Seemingly perfect to the public eye, Jacqueline Kennedy lived a great lie. What is a memory? That thing that stays in the back if your mind Could be a person, a place, or a time You never know just what you will find The heat, the cold, anything at all May take you back to one of those places The ones you very vaguely recall when sitting around in wide open spaces Is it a boy, a girl, or very best friend Or just a time to relive A special friendship that won't ever end because you gave all you could possibly give? Whatever the subject, whatever the cause Never forget who you've met, where you' ve been Those happy times with oohs and awes You never know, they could happen again • Staff Choice for Honorable Mention Remember your friends and the people you meet And the fact that life is not always fun It's a journey full ofrisks and success It's long and hard but worth every one 33 34 �Ten Cents by Gregory Sherwood I remember when a dime was worth something Two miles distance just to spend a child's change A friend met halfway Catching tadpoles and kicking bottles A semi passes our well worn path Wind ruffles our scraggly hair, disheveling aged clothes Plucking cherries from soot stained trees A small sidetrack takes us to our lizard hunting grounds Pushing over a battered shell of a washer, We scramble after a small, slippery, sandy-colored reptile Dirty and disheveled our destination reached A rickety old door swings inward, and the feast lies unveiled Moon Pies, Laffy Taffies, pickled sausages, Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie Rolls, cherry pies Goodies galore Penny candies are what we're here for Let me count them One penny, two penny, three penny, ten. Sucking on a multihued ball of sweet sugar The day was a success. My Prayer by Candice Marie Brooks If I were to die, Take my soul and throw it Among the evening sky. For the Runners by David Bolander The red rock glows Flavoring the morning dew The sun calls chasing A day brand new Accents of commitment Or red dusted laces All and all The pain of faces The pavement pounding With knocking knees Time is time The hour just over three Toying with thoughts And hurt giving in The red rock calls Pacing to the end The end result: Many winners And also those Who aid the runners Maybe some beauty will comefrom this. 35 36 �Silent Sonata by Leesa Ricci Jason Downes walked swiftly across the second floor of the library, passed the escalator and took a right to the elevator. He hated escalators. In fact, he hadn't stepped onto one in almost three months. He much preferred elevators - or even better, just good old-fashioned stairs. As he stood there waiting for a good two minutes while the old machine worked its way up, he tapped his toe and ran his long thin fingers through his even longer black hair. He tried to get his mind onto more pleasant things than being late to work. Work. He was late - again. He looked at his watch. 3 :3 7. He was always late. Late for life. "C'mon ... " He muttered under his breath. Every moment that passed felt like an eon. "Finally." As the chrome doors tediously slid open, Jason hopped through the four inch gap, hit the arrow-down button with his thumb and continued tapping his foot furiously. He examined his watch again. 3 :39. ff Phil had any sense at all, he thought to himself, he 'dfire me on the spot. Lucky for him, Phil didn't seem to. The elevator stopped, making Jason feel a lot heavier than he was. He liked that feeling. He waited for the door to open a good three inches before squeezing his thin frame through the doors, bolting out, running through the unchecked book detectors, out the door and into the street. "Where's the car?" he muttered. He could never find it in the huge parking lot. He should have parked in the street like he usually did but the space he had found in the parking lot had been so much closer to the library that he just couldn't resist. Now he was paying for it. "C'mon ... c' mon!" There it was. At the end of third row; his 1985 Oldsmobile. It was a granny car. Jason reached into his left pocket, fumbled for the key and took off running toward it. He opened the door, jumped into his car, tried to start it once, turned it off, tried again, pumped the gas, and peeled out of the parking lot. 37 23 minutes later and sweating considerably harder, Jason slammed the door of his non-air conditioned car and bolted towards the back door of The Burger Manic. Once inside, he ran to the men's room to change into his grease stained red and yellow uniform. He emerged from the bathroom wearing a different set of clothes in record time and looking incredibly frazzled. "You're late!" Rodney called to him, popping up from behind the counter like a jack rabbit emerging from a hole in the ground. Jason leaned over the counter, clocked in on the computer and went around to the "employees only" door. "Yeah, so?" he muttered back at her. Rodney shook her dark, mocha chip head and grinned from ear to ear. "Well," she said profoundly, "I do believe you're only seven minutes late this time. This calls for a celebration - want to be on register today?" "No." Jason said bluntly and walked back to the cooking area. "Oh come on Jason - please? For ME?" "No," Jason repeated just as bluntly, setting the fry timer and grabbing the shoestrings. "Jason! I've been on this thing all day!" she whined. "You've only been here four hours. That's not all day." "Yeah but you've only been here four minutes! I need a break. I've had two buses come in from Garrett County and three truckers try to 'take me home"' Rodney snorted. "I hate truckers." "Not my problem," Jason said not looking at her through the QB. She was glaring at him intensely now and he could almost feel her gaze. "Not your problem? It's gonna be your problem real soon. Look, Jason, I know you don't like people looking at your hands but-" "My hands have nothing to do with it!" Jason looked up at her. "Really? You haven't handled any of the money for a good two and a half months. Tell me it's not the hands." "Look, sometimes they still hurt -" 38 �"Don't give me that! You can do everything but handle money! That makes no sense at all Jason!" "Look, you'd understand if. .. " . "Don't 'look you'd understand' me! I am tired of being hit on by 40 year-old fat guys! I can't take these stupid truckers anymore, but you know what? I have to. I need the money and now I don't even get a freakin' break because you're scared someone might comment on your lack of fingers!" And with that, Rodney clenched her fists, growled, announced that she was going to go use the loo and stormed out of the area. Jason stood there in silence. She was right. He had to get over it. But he just couldn't take the thought of someone mentioning his stubs. Three months ago he had been perfectly normal. In fact, better than normal. He had been on the basketball team, he had been a good looking single guy that went on a date every Friday night, but more than that, ever so much more than those, he had been a pianist. Now everything was different. Except for some of his really good friends, like Rodney, he felt odd around people. He felt like a freak. One nasty fall on an escalator, one story down, and one blackout later, he had found himself in the hospital with two and a halfless fingers. All of them were off of his right hand. Even though writing was much more difficult and basketball would have to be put off another season, and living in fear of people ever referring to him as "lefty" was horrible-in Jason's mind, nothing could compare with the thirteen lost years of piano playing. All that effort ...just. .. wasted. It was more than he could stand to think about. And yet, he couldn't help but think about it. International Competitions were this year. They only came once every five years and the fact that they had come to not only Jason's state, but also his hometown, was enough to drive him insane. Rodney came back in looking much more collected than when she had left. She promptly marched to the back, timidly tapped her best friend on the shoulder and said: "I'm sorry." "Rodney," Jason said, looking down a good foot and a quarter on her short frame, "what was Garrett County doing here today?" Rodney's mouth went completely dry. "They, um, they ... they ... were here ... for a ... competition." The last word was hurriedly whispered. Jason looked back at his shoestrings. "Oh." Six hours and five hundred customers later, Jason and Rodney (who was pulling a double shift) closed up the joint, locked the doors and left together. "Jason?" Rodney asked tentatively as they were walking through the parking lot. "Yes?" he answered, without looking at her. "You should try out." He knew exactly what she meant. "I can' t Rodney. You know that." "Well, I mean, I was just thinking . .. you really could you know." "With seven and a half fingers?" Jason exasperated. "Well, you have the back round for it. And you have the talent." They stopped in front of Rodney' s car. "Rodney, I can't - you can't have talent without means! And l don't have the means." "Oh." Rodney turned to open her door. "Well, see you at school tomorrow Rodney," Jason said as he turned toward his own car. "Yeah. See you," she said as got in and slammed her door. She turned on the car which was blaring obscene music, backed out of her space, rolled down her window and yelled: "Beethoven was deaf!" just as Jason was climbing into his own car, and peeled out of the parking lot. *** The next day, after school, Jason went to his library, where he always went after school and right before work, to study. As he stepped into the elevator, he thought about what Rodney had said: Beethoven was deaf Beethoven was deaf Jason looked at the buttons marked B, M, I, 2, and 3, and instead of hitting 2, as he usually did, hit B. The elevator doors slowly slid closed. Jason waited. othing happened . He heaved a sigh as he pounded the hesitant doors closed. The elevator slowly dropped downward. When it came to a stop, Jason stepped out and looked down the concrete hall way; the coast was clear. Jason knew he wasn' t supposed to be there: he had been yelled at by some irate librarian 40 �a few years back. That had never stopped him from coming back though, he knew what was down here: a Steinway Grand. obody owned a Steinway Grand. Jason walked slowly down the dark hall. There were pipes sticking out in odd places and cobwebs right above him . This was the back entrance to the auditorium - only perfonners were allowed. Jason hunched a little to avoid getting any kind of critters in his ebony hair. He was so tall, and the ceiling was so low, that once, he had walked right into a live spider, freaked out, and whacked his head on one of the pipes; that had kept him away from his piano a lot longer than the cranky librarian. Jason felt his way down the long passage and came to a door with a glowing green "EXIT" light above it. He pushed on the handle with one hand and pounded on the top of the door with the other. The door opened with a bang. Jason looked up; there was a long flight of stairs going up through the darkness. Jason felt his way up them, came to another green exit and opened the door onto the backstage. As he stepped out into the darkness, Jason became aware of how dirty the floor was; there must have been a concert because there was litter everywhere. Cups, dead flowers, and paper were scattered all over. The janitor must be on strike. Jason thought to himself. He felt along the painted black brick wall for the lights. He found it and turned on the center stage spotlights. Then he walked behind the curtains, and rolled the covered Steinway Grand out onto stage. Jason centered it under the blue spotlight. He pulled off the dust cover, positioned the bench and sat down. As he raised his fingers to the faded keys, he looked out into the numerous red seats flow ing back to the locked double doors. It was so quiet. .. so . .. silent. It was an eerie feeling; being on stage, looking out at nobody. He felt as if it should be a lot louder. Jason wondered if he could still play Rachmaninov's second concerto. He placed his shaking fingers onto the keys and pushed. Hard. It was a chord. It was Rachmaninov. He h it the bottom note as hard he could then chorded it. He hit it again then chorded it. He did this eight times until he got to the really fast part. But it didn't work. He tried to force his fingers to fly as they had done in the past, but they wouldn't. They got caught in the black keys unnaturally. Even though his fingers didn't hurt anymore, Jason was in pain. He would never play Rachmaninov again - he knew it. And that hurt. He put his hands down next to his sides, looked at the keys for what seemed like a very long time, brought his hands up to them again and slammed them down as hard as he could. One of the old strings broke. Instantly, Jason felt sorry. He felt as though he had injured an innocent bystander to the whole mess. Beethoven. Beethoven was deaf Could he possibly play in the competition? He only had a month, and he would be relearning the instrument he had mastered when he was 12. But imagine the look on Rodney ·s face, Jason thought, and a smile crept over him. *** On Thursday, Jason showed up to Mr. Harris' wheezing astronomy class with stubble on the lower half of his head, what looked like a frazzled furby on the upper half of his head, and blurry eyes. "What happened to you?" Rodney asked in an 'aliens-take-yourhomework-again?' tone of voice. "What's it to you?" Jason grumbled. He rubbed his red eyes, trying to wake himself up so Mr. Harris could put him back to sleep. "Well Jason as the most trusted and OBVIOUSLY respected person in' your ;ompany - or the only person who hangs out with you - whichever comes first, I thought I'd ask just to co~e o~f as somewhat, you know ... um ... what's that word? Oh - canng. "Well don't strain yourself Rodney." "Oh don't worry- if I were in any danger of doing so, rest assured, I wouldn't ask." "Thanks." Jason gave a weak smile. He'd been up all Wednesday night, looking for a recital piece he felt would be impressive at all. But his search had been in vaini ther~ was no way he'd be able to learn something by Rac~amnov 1~ a month even if he had had all his fingers, much less without. L1zt was also too difficult now, Chopin, Mozart, Ravel and Schostokovich were boring. Jason didn't want to put the judges to sleep. He ~ept going through composers until about 3 a.m., when he realized he 42 �h~dn't done any homework and had an English test the next day. H1gh-school, Jason felt, was the bane of human existence. So reluctantly, he forced himself from his quest and went upstairs to his room to study. J a~on looked over at Rodney through obscured eyes; she was drawmg cartoons that became increasingly violent and increasingly resembled Mr. Harris. "H_ey," Jason whispered, wanting to see if she was paying attention at all , "what's the critical density of the universe?" Rodney did not stop drawing. "Rho base c." Jason l_ooked down _at his notes, but couldn't think of anything else to quiz her on, so mstead, he contented himself with his English notes. A_fter class, Jason walked Rodney to History and moved on to English. He promised to come over that night so they could study Astronomy together, even though he didn't want to. He was tired and wanted to find a good piece of music before tomorrow: the competition was getting closer every hour, and Jason couldn' t help but feel that every hour he didn't practice was an hour wasted . That night, after getting a 91 in English and somewhat begrudgingly calling up Rodney, Jason walked over to her house. He stood in front of the small mobile home and marveled at how Rodney's parents could fit six kids into it. He knocked on the door; no one responded. He knocked again; again, no one responded. He leaned his head against the door and could faintly hea~ music. Maybe Rodney has the TV on too loud, Jason thought to lrnnsel f. Jason twisted the doorknob, and opened the door slowly. "Rodney?" he called. No answer. "Hello?" He shut the door behind him. "Is anybody out there?" he called, stepping over the toy debris that lay scattered on the fl oor. Ja_son followed the sound through the house: it sounded old; classical or romantic, not anything with drums or guitars - like a concerto or a sonatina - or something. . . Jason found the room it was coming from and popped his head ms1de th~ doorway. There, in the Martinez' "TV room" Rodney was dancing to something classical - on the table. Jason couldn' t help but laugh when he saw this. He sta1ied chuckling and moved to full out laughter. Rodney j umped halfway to the ceiling. "Jason!" She jumped lightly from the table. "What are you doing here?" "We're studying astronomy together - don't you remember?" "Well nice of you to let yourself in," she said in a huff as she went over to the C D player she'd been using and killed the music. "Why didn't you ring the doorbell?" she asked. " I. .. I didn't know you had one- but I knocked twice." Rodney shook her head and smi led. "I'm so sure." Jason thought she looked quite red in the face but he couldn't tell if it was because she'd worked up a sweat dancing, or for. . .other reasons. "Um, I'm going to get my book." Rodney made to leave the room. "Rodney." Rodney turned around . Jason looked at her for a moment. .. and promptly forgot what he was going to say. "What Jason?" "Uh ... what. .. what were you listening to?" "Beethoven. Moon! ight sonata." Jason swallowed. "Oh." Rodney whirled around and called after: "I'll be back with the book, 'kay?" *** At about 11:00, Rodney' s parents came home talking animatedly. Rodney's dad had his ann around her mother who was smiling. They both walked over to the couch Rodney and Jason were sitting on, took turns kissing Rodney's forehead and walked out of the room laughing. Jason looked over at Rodney. "What did they say?" he asked, having not understood a word they'd spoken. "You don't want to know." Rodney shook her head decidedly, grinning. "They went out dancing tonight. They had a good time." 44 �Jason grinned. "I don't want to know?" Rodney smiled, embarrassed. " o. Trust me, you're glad you don't speak Spanish - they were being all - you know, mushy." "Yeah, you're right," Jason nodded thoughtfully, "I don't want to know." Jason laughed. So did Rodney. "I better go," Jason yawned. "Yeah. I'll walk you to the door." Rodney got up. "Don't strain yourself," Jason said jokingly. Rodney smiled. "I never do." She walked with him to the door and opened it. "Well, see you tomorrow I guess." "Yeah," Jason walked out the door and turned around , "I'm gonna post your ca11oons of Mr. Harris on the billboards k'?" Rodney laughed. "You do that." "Oh," Jason nodded, "I will. Believe me, I will." "K' fruitloop, I'll see you later then." Rodney started shutting the door. "Oh Rodney!" Jason yelled. Rodney whipped the door back wide. "What?" she asked concernedly. Jason grinned. " ice dancing. Rodney rol led her eyes. "Where'd you learn to dance like that?" "That's none of your nevennind." "Oh no? Come on ... l'd really like to know . .. '' "In Vegas." Rodney rolled her eyes again. "You did not!" "Oh." Rodney began closing the door. "I did." "Did not." "Can't prove otherwise." And the door clicked. After Jason got home, he quickly began searching for his piano piece. As he was walking home, he realized what he wanted to play: a warhorse, one he had never heard played properly. As he was sorting through his piles of Russian Romantic composers, he found it: the sonata he had to play. *** 45 One month and 127 hours of practicing later, Jason went with Rodney to the competition. She had been very concerned that he not see the performances because it would only make him feel bad about the accident. But he had been in such a good mood about it and insisted so strongly, that she finally gave in and let him pay the eight dollars it took to go. Of course, she had no clue he was in it. That was what made it fun. As they sat on the mid row in the large Hals auditorium, waiting for the performance to start, Rodney read the program to herself. She was uncommonly quiet today. Jason looked around at the people filling in, losing a little bit of his stomach when Rodney jumped up and shouted (at the top of her lungs no less), "Jason!" "What?" Jason jumped at her sudden outburst. "Jason you're on here! Looklooklook! It says, 'Jason Downes."' Jason smiled and took the program. "Where?" he asked. "Right there!" she pointed, looking completely confused. "Hmm. So it does. Guess I better go backstage then." He grinned. Rodney looked up at him, her mouth hanging open. Jason stood up and stepped over her to get out of the isle. Rodney just kept looking at him. He grinned even more. "See you when I' m done," he called back to her. ** * As Jason stepped out onto the stage, he looked at the piano, studying it. All of a sudden, no one was there. The audience was gone. The judges were gone. Rodney wasn't even there. It was just the piano. Just him and the piano. He walked to it, positioned the bench, sat down, put his hands to the keys, closed his eyes and played Moonlight Sonata. Jason realized he was either in shock or completely focused when he opened his eyes, after he was done, and noticed that there was clapping. Applause: he missed it so much. He looked over the audience and saw Rodney standing on her chair, whooping. He realized that it was over. He could go sit with her now. As he stood up, he looked down at his fingers and wondered if anyone had noticed. 46 �After all the contestants for the day were done, the judges listed the winners in order. Out of 150 people, Jason came in 17th. But it didn't matter, Rodney was grinning from ear to ear. And he was grinning from ear to ear. Finally, Jason felt like his life had come back to him and, as the people filed out of the auditorium, he turned to Rodney and said, "Thanks." "Whatever." She shrugged it off. "I didn't do any of the work." "C'mon, let's go home." Jason stood up. "Oh yes, let's," Rodney said playfully offering him her am1. He played along and locked anns with her, walking out of the auditorium. As they turned down the hallway, Rodney instinctively turned toward the elevator, but Jason pulled her back and kept walking. "Where are we going?" she asked. "I thought we'd take the easy way," Jason said casually and stepped onto the escalator. The History of The Southern Quill: Year Advisor(s) Editor(s) 1950-5 1 1951-52 1953-54 1953-57 1957-58 1958-59 1959-60 Loraine Taylor Loraine Taylor Rose Work.man No magazine published Karen Vawdrey Karen Vawdrey Barbara Larkin Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Rose Esplin 1960-6 1 1961-62 1962-63 1963-64 1964-65 1965-66 1966-67 1967-68 1968-69 1969-70 Titine Spillsbury Joan Esplin Joan Esplin Ilene Harmon Emily Cottam Kay Lichtenwalter James Force James Force Linda Sue Hunt Linda Sue Hunt Reed Blake, Jr. Robert 0. Dalton Robert 0. Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Robert 0. Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy 1970-71 197 1-72 1972-73 1973-74 1974-75 1975-76 1976-77 1977-78 1978-79 1979-80 Pansy L. Hardy Roxanne Schmidt Pansy L. Hardy Michelle Thomas Pansy L. Hardy Gordon J. Peterson Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking Connie Gifford Pansy L. Hardy & J.G. Hacking Cathy Pam Heaton No magazine published Janice F. 0eMille Michael Perry Marilee Camp James Force Pansy L. Hardy Bill Batzlie Pansy L. Hardy Laura Lee Graff 1980-8 1 Ace G. Pilkington Kunis Crist, Linda Hendrick & Aderianna Smith Melanie Madsen Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Dianna K. Kearney Ace G. Pilkington Dawn Houghton Julianna Burton Ace G. Pilkington 1981-82 1982-83 1983-84 1984-85 48 47 Juanita Brooks & Betty Allen Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks �the history continued. ... Year 1985-86 1986-87 1987-88 1988-89 1989-90 1990-9 1 l 991 -92 1992-93 I 993-94 I994-95 1995-96 1996-97 1997-98 1998-99 1999-2000 2000-200 1 200 1-2002 2002-2003 2003-2004 Editor(s) Advisor(s) Janae Daley Bonnie McCowan & Kris Shipp Karen Hansen & Kris Shipp Stephanie Chidester & Chris Metcalf Stephanie Chidester & Christ Metcalf Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Tiffany Durrant & Joni Jones Christian Arial .landi Jones, Natalee Nilsson & Chris Pellew Jandi Jones & Natalie Nilsson Dina Gerhauser Aubree Howard Diana L. Blakley & Bart Jay Mitchell Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington April Davis. Amber Hyde. Ace G. Pilkington & Kelly Leatham Heidi Madsen Ace G. Pilkington Darryl Barfuss. Liana Ace G. Pilkington Kempton & Cindy Lee Wallace No magazine published No magazine puhlished Daneen Deuel &Cami Cox Katie O'Connell & Leesa Ricci 49 John F. Cartier Brad A. Barry �- 2004 Dixie State College of Utah � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2004.pdf Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill 2004 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2004 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>Table of Contents:</th></tr><tr><th>Love </th><th>Pages 1-9</th></tr><tr><td>Essence of Spring </td><td>by Kara S. Carter</td></tr><tr><td>Every Time I Drink You </td><td>by Nicholas Jacobsen</td></tr><tr><td>Fire Eyes </td><td>by Lora Hudson </td></tr><tr><td>The Man I Thought I Knew </td><td>by Mylisa Jacobson</td></tr><tr><td>A Mothers Love </td><td>by Kyle Huntsman</td></tr><tr><td>Soulmates </td><td>by D. Lovendahl</td></tr><tr><td>Untitled </td><td>by Daniel Burcham</td></tr><tr><th>Pain </th><th>Pages 10-19</th></tr><tr><td>Untitled </td><td>by Tyler Hooper</td></tr><tr><td>Ismatic </td><td>by Seth Sadler</td></tr><tr><td>The Payoff </td><td>by Wendi Epps</td></tr><tr><td>Jealousy </td><td>by Erin M. Tracy</td></tr><tr><td>Your Love Chokes Me </td><td>by Nicholas Jacobsen</td></tr><tr><td>Midnight </td><td>by Jay Nielsen</td></tr><tr><td>Hollywood </td><td>by Brandy Hillman</td></tr><tr><td>Behavior </td><td>by Valerie Buck</td></tr><tr><td>Gossip School </td><td>by Lora Hudson</td></tr><tr><td>The Ritual </td><td>by Wendi Epps</td></tr><tr><th>Nature </th><th> Pages 20-23</th></tr><tr><td>Chet and Toque </td><td>by Shanalee Sadler</td></tr><tr><td>Riding Horne </td><td>by Ashlee Jensen</td></tr><tr><td>Upon a Mountain Top </td><td>by Jacob Wilcox</td></tr><tr><th>Humor </th><th>Pages 24-28</th></tr><tr><td>Soccer Ball on Mountain Peak </td><td>by Kevin Farr</td></tr><tr><td>Four Friends and The Sea </td><td>by Erin Tracy</td></tr><tr><td>Ode to my Shoe </td><td>by Lora Hudson</td></tr><tr><th>Perseverance </th><th>Pages 29-47</th></tr><tr><td>Under Examination </td><td>by Kara S. Carter</td></tr><tr><td>Enough </td><td>by Lora Hudson</td></tr><tr><td>Jackie </td><td>by Mandolyn Preece</td></tr><tr><td>My Prayer </td><td>by Candice Marie Brooks</td></tr><tr><td>A Memory </td><td>by April Young</td></tr><tr><td>Ten Cents </td><td>by Gregory Sherwood</td></tr><tr><td>For the Runners </td><td>by David Bolander</td></tr><tr><td>Silent Sonata </td><td>by Leesa Ricci</td></tr><tr><th>The History of The Southern Quill - </th><th>Pgs 48-49</th></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University. https://digital.library.utahtech.edu/files/original/6e183accd34251ee04636f5bcd0bd3a2.pdf 04988476471f1d3a186a8fbed22b1f50 PDF Text Text The Southern Quill 2003 [rfl(Q)lf ~[L[L lfO={](Q)~[E '~~~ ~O={](Q) ~~[rfl[Q)~~ ~~~ [L(Q)~lf□□□ �STAFF LIST Editors Cami Cox Dani Deuel Staff Ben Green Ed Poehlmann Jennie Oleen ADVISOR John Cartier �The Soutfnernn Quill '# 2002-2003 "Not all those who wander are lost." �Table of Contents Sacrifice (Joe Alisa) Chickens I (Joe Alisa) Chickens II (Joe Alisa) Running from a Stranger (Shea'ton Russell) Questioning a Shadow (Shea'ton Russell) Bare (Shea'ton Russell) Sweet Obsession (Erica Esplin) When I Become a Rock Star (Erica Esplin) Description of a Farmer's Kitchen (Leslie Carter) The Hope-To-Be-Brides (Joi Campbell) Within the Girl (Joi Campbell) Summer in St. George (Julie Marshal) Becoming (Pauline Hansen) Changes (J. J. Gilmore) The Sometime River (Russell Estlack) Crack in the Barn Wall (Keith Kelsch) The lmagistic Manifesto (Keith Kelsch) The Birthday Bike (Lindsay Ott) The Woman Warrior (Lindsay Ott) Hopeless (Brandon Lamb) Enough (Sarah Mathis) What Is Gone (Sarah Mathis) Hard Work (Eli Stevens) Soup Deprivation (Margaret Stringham) Table of Contents, cont. Fire Sleeps On the North Slope (Lisa Leavitt) Her Kiss (Douglas Wardle) Coming of Age (Rubina Rivers) A Valued Possession (Brenda Wastlund) Prey and Predator (Ed Poehlmann) Fifty Years Ago (Ed Poehlmann) Butterflies (Ed Poehlmann) Little Girls (Ed Poehlmann) You Thought She Was Yours (Ed Poehlmann) Tiger, Arizona (Ed Poehlmann) Love (Jennie Oleen) An Ode to Jocks (Benjamin Green) True Love At Last! (Benjamin Green) Murder and Murderability (Benjamin Green) When Best Friends Become Roommates (Cami Cox) Two Kinds of People In This World (Cami Cox) Smile (Cami Cox) Pity Cycle (Shara Drae) Dance (Shara Drae) Write (Shara Drae) Harder Still (Shara Drae) �Joe Alisa Sacrifice* Sounds of Titanic combat roar all along the battle front. The waves, like the Khan's hordes, stretch to the horizon. Each whitecap is a captain leading his forces, inexorably, to the front lines. Tyrannical torrents throw themselves unrelentingly, futilely, against, Atua, the reef. Saline spray traps light from the sinking sun, and is transformed scarlet. The battlefield blue no longer but stained deep red. Still the rushing tide pushes forward, intent on conquering the coastal defender. Weary, Atua is battered and bruised. He does not see an end to the onslaught, but continues to steel Himself against the pounding, merciless blows. Atua knows the tiny island behind him, His young charge, depends on His strength. All things within His boundary depend on His strength. Atua is Guardian of the isle, the only defense against the watery host, and so with His back to His ward arms outstretched, muscles flexed and head bowed He continues the Eternal Struggle. *1st place winner, 2002-2003 Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Competition Joe Alisa Chickens "Damn Chickens!" It's about four o'clock in the morning and my dream about Big Macs and fries being fed to me by buxom women , is tragically cut short by some insensitive hen trying to get comfortable in the pulu tree next to my hut. My host, Tuiala, is snoring, softly for a change, on the floor, a few feet away from me. The fala mats we sleep on are cool and a little sticky from earlier, when it was warm and we perspired. I wish I had a mosquito net instead of having to use my lava lava to keep the flies off. I think the flies in Samoa work in shifts. The night shift is fervently doing their best to explore the dark slumbering bodies. Finally, I figure out the best way to wrap myself in my lava lava. My new mummy-like style of wearing the lava lava is a little confining with the material - pressed up against my face, but at least the creepy crawlies can't get at me. "Dammit! There it goes again!" I look over at Tuiala, but he doesn't even twitch! I must be the only one in the whole village who can't sleep. I don't know what's worse; having to listen to that fat biddy, or having to listen to her and know that I'm the only one she is bothering. I think the bird is being spiteful and singling me out for torture. Minutes seem like hours. Hours are an eternity. Every time I begin to doze off the roosting fowl wakes me with their chatter. I amuse myself by looking out into the malae and imagining the kids playing a rugby game. The open walls of the hut afford a panoramic view of the sleeping village and I take it all in. my reverie is interrupted by the sight of the old matai walking across the road toward our hut. In the early morning light I can barely make out his large shuffling shape, but I know it's him because no one else in the village walks like that. He is carrying what looks like a walking stick. It must be new because I've never seen him carry it before. I wonder if he's coming to talk to Tuiala. I'm about to wake Tuiala when I see that the old man has veered away from the hut and is walking toward it's side. He stops a few feet away from the pulu tree. He looks up, searchingly, into the tree. Just as I realize what he's doing he lifts the "walking stick" to his shoulder, takes aim, and fires. In the dark quiet of the village the muzzle flash, and following report, are augmented. The matai turns and fades back into the dark. �Joe Alisa Shea'ton Russell Chickens II (MOA SE LUA) I throw a rock at the black and white speckled hen . My rock misses and the hen trots a few steps then resumes pecking at the ground. Tuiala told me that, like pigs, chickens are usually only killed when someone special visits. The chickens here do not look very appetizing. They are taller and thinner than their American counterparts; not much meat on them. loapo comes and sits next to me and I give him some of my rocks. I tell him we are going chicken hunting and he giggles with excitement. He is only five years old and I doubt if he is strong enough to throw the rocks with much force or accuracy. We watch the chicken. It stops pecking as the brakes of the bus screech and the mammoth vehicle rumbles into view at the end of the village. This bus is built on the frame of an old Toyota diesel flatbed. It is a giant wooden sculpture that creaks and groans as it moves. I think Samoan bus drivers are wannabe racecar drivers. They push those homemade beasts to the limit; engine roaring and tires squealing as they rush through the villages. loapo and I return our attention to the chicken. It is scratching at the ground. I stand up and slowly move closer to the unsuspecting hen; loapo follows. The chicken starts and darts left as the first rock misses and strikes the ground. The hunt is on. loapo and I chase the hen, yelling and throwing rocks. I think if we could stop laughing, we would probably have a better chance of hitting the bird. Our ammunition is almost exhausted when the chicken tries to escape across the road. The bus, which has finished unloading its passengers, has been picking up speed and is now barreling down the road . The chicken never sees the cause of its death. A rush of metal and wood, impact, and as the bus passes, it leaves behind the smell of diesel and some downward drifting feathers. The chicken lies in the middle of the road . It is dead. loapo runs to it and retrieves it. He is only five but he knows what to do; he has seen it before. He hungrily licks his lips and begins pulling out the feathers . Running from a Stranger The stranger Among all the empty faces A beautiful stranger With a glance my heart races What am I doing? Romanticizing forbidden thoughts I know I should not feel Looks like I've been caught My head is spinning It's myself I am afraid of Confused I just don't know Love has always been my enemy Time is an old ex-friend The wind is my alibi The earth is my end Questioning a Shadow Where should I run? Where do I hide? I should not admit to this stranger How I feel inside I am beside myself Wondering what it is in this life I am meant to do Surrounded by darkness Lost in the light Thoughts flood my mind Of what is wrong, and what is right? The drive, the push, the sacrifices I go through Why do I exist here on earth? What is it I am meant to do? Do I stay on the shore? Do I jump right in? I should ask myself If I can remember how to swim Struggles.I know I must endure Friends or foe, I'm not quite sure But I have learned Keep your friends close But your enemies closer Yet I still get burned What am I doing? Looking for a smile Do I even deserve happiness? I better stop and think for a while Broken promise, Loves that never last Empty dreams Of lifetimes that pass Spinning, spinning out of control People, places so many empty faces A burning desire A desperate struggle from within What does it all mean? Will I ever really win? �Shea'ton Russell BARE* How does one write to forget? It can't be done, or can it? How can some things make some people happy, And yet, the very same things make others sad? How can one person enjoy pain, When it makes another mad? How does a writer write, Without letting a piece .of themselves go? How does the writer separate himself or herself, As the story unfolds? Undressing yourself in public, As the ink flows on; How does the writer hide it, When he has no clothes on? The deepest thoughts Must come from within But how do they do it, Without showing their skin? Is the writer a pathological liar, A daydreamer, Scholar, or maybe Just an old friend? Is the writer a succubus, That seduces you, as she sucks you in? Or maybe it's their soul they're baring, Re-living the nightmares or the dreams, Over and over again. Re-living them, but this time they are not alone. The writer has brought with him a friend. The Reader. The empathetic, or maybe the skeptic, Who screams, "I am tired of hearing all the rhetoric!" Or the follower that hangs on every word, Or the idiot savant who shouts, "That's absurd!" Maybe it's the victim who says, "That's not fair. " Or maybe it's the recurer who says, "There, there." Or maybe it's the villain who says, "That's what you get!" Or maybe it's your parents, who don't give a shit. Is it the pain that presses the writer on, Or is it the happy thoughts, Or things they wish they never did, Or is it just them reminiscing, when they were a kid? How does the writer do it, When all eyes are at a stare? How does he do it, When his clothes are not there? *Second Place Winner, 2002-2003 Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Competition �Erica Esplin Erica Esplin Sweet Obsession* When I Become a Rock Star After a poem by Jenny Joseph It is on my rotten days to you I turn To ease my woes and belittle my stress 'Tis for no other but you I do yearn I relish in the sweetness you possess I constantly think of you day and night You're unhealthy for me but I don't care A love-hate battle I endlessly fight Without you I'd be in bitter despair This selfish obsession has gone too far I long for your sweetness against my lips I treasure you more than the brightest star Yet this great pleasure goes straight to my hips Chocolate will always be my soul's delight And main reason my pants fit too tight *Third Place Winner, 2002-2003 Annie Atkin Tanner Memorial Poetry Competition I shall wear nothing but tight green leather bodysuits With a purple feather boa for a belt. And I shall spend my money on outlandish hairstyles And bejeweled toe rings and say I've no money for charity. I shall shoot out of a rocket at every concert And launch free string cheese into the audience. And I shall own 323 pairs of high-heeled boots and only wear 251 of them. And I shall have a cheap imitation of an action figure doll modeled after me And learn to hit a high note while doing acrobatic flips. I can make the "Worst-dressed" list in People magazine And wear obnoxiously pink lipstick And eat French toast topped with buttered peas every meal Or nothing but Diet Coke for a week And autograph fans' heads and auction off my earwax on E-Bay. But for now I must dress in respectable clothing And eat well-balanced meals and be frugal with my money And refrain from being loud and obnoxious in public places. I will attend my classes and go to my minimum wage job. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I become a rock star And start to wear nothing but bodysuits made of tight green leather. �Leslie Carter From Descri ption of a Farmer's Kitchen Standing at the sink across the small square room , looking out the window, stands my beloved wife. Her shiny black hair pu lled back in its customary bun, is in perfect contrast to her lovely nape. Her nape is expose as usual, with only a few tiny strands of hair interrupting the lighter perfection of her neck. Hairs too short to fit into the bun. Hairs that tickle my nose every time I nuzzle that tempting part of her anatomy. Watching her causes an almost physical reaction. I can feel my muscles tighten in response. Her slender waist is decorated with the neat bow of her apron. She always wears brightly colored skirts with her "peasant " blouses. This is part of her culture that she has refused to give up for the jeans or slacks of most women today. This too fills me with pleasure. She stands barefoot, seemingly ignorant of the rough rag rug under her feet. It appears that she is unaware of the half peeled cucumber she holds in her slender hand, or the paring knife in the other. Even more disturbing , she still seems unaware that I've come in. My perusal of the kitchen has only taken seconds. How long has she been standing there , staring out of the window? What was she watching that had her so absorbed that she was unaware of everything else round her? The question shows on my face as I walk up behind her. It feels like I can hardly breathe. I look at her seemingly sightless reflection in the window next to mine. The evening dimness makes it easy to see our reflections in the window along the view of the back ya rd. She just continues to stare out the window as if unaware that I I'm standing next to her. The white curtains that hang in the window are speckled from something splattering on them from the sinks. Probably the tomatoes she had bottled yesterday. The first time I had come home to find her crying, was the day she had sewed those curtains. My sister had spent the day helping her as she had never used as sewing machine before. They hung crooked and the seams were none too stra ight. I had assured her they were perfect. She cried even harder after that. It was several days later that I noticed they had been redone. She spent hours sewing them by hand in the fashion she had learned as a child. I often comment on how proud I am of her. And I am. The view out the window is one of total normalcy. At the back of the yard stands an old outhouse, long si nce replaced by indoor plumbing, but not removed because a lovely vine of wisteria has grow up the sides and presents a colorful back drop for the vegetable garden. The vegetable garden is neat and weedless. Kept that way by loving , capable hands. The same hands that so lovingly care for out home. The large apple tree stands tall and full. It has been some time since I have had the time to prune it properly. Much of the tree full of little twisted branches that very badly need to be cut. Apples have fallen to the ground and some are beginning to spoil. The old tire swing holds a pile of apples that have fallen from the branches directly above it. Every time an apple hits the swing it wobbles a bits. Seeing the apple tree prompts me to look down into the single sink below the herb bedecked wi ndowsill where the compost bucket sits. In the bottom of the sink several handfuls of apples swim around in a couple inches of water. The stove stands at my right. Turning toward the stove I realize that the fire in the old cook stove has not been lit. Keeping the stove lit is a lot more work than I had ever wanted to impose on my fragile young wife. Right after she came home as my bride, some ten years ago, I offered to get Camille a new electric stove, but she refused my offer. She had only ever cooked on an earthen wood fire stove before and is not only extremely adept, also very ta lented in that arena. The metal shelf at the top of the stove holds spices of all kinds, a can of lard and a box of matches. The stovetop is empty. No smells of cooking pies, bread, meat , or vegetables come from within. Right next to the stove is the old basket that holds wood. The wood looks no different than it did when I filled it earlier, right after lunch before returning to the field. Again looking at the reflection in the window, I can see the fear I'm feeling expressed in my face. I look at Camille's expression and can almost feel her pain as well. Gently I touch my wife on her sh_o ulder. She jumps and turns her face into my shoulder and sobs. Over her shoulder I survey the kitchen one last time. Other than the absence of dinner cooking, everything is as it should be. Everything is in its place. The tools clutte ring the table, the furnishings, the counter top with a very average array of clutter, the stove and the wood stacked to the side of the stove are all here. Everything looks like it should look. So why does it feel so different? �Joi Campbell Joi Campbell The Hope-To-Be-Brides Within The Girl Pink chiffon And perfumed daisies Fill their heads with dreams of nonsense While they search For a man Who will rescue them Swirling In their minds Are wasted thoughts Of ribbons and rice When in reality Their perfect princes Are but a facade Rose petals dance To the love music Of the self-dubbed Cinderella's Enchanting themselves They look to find But still nobody comes To paint their dreams alive Their tears wash away What their foolish hearts created Soon they start striving For something much more than a fairytale Slowly the beauties without Become beauties within With stardust In their eyes They finally find their true loves divine And sealed with a kiss The once hope-to-be-brides Are wedded at last Julie Marshal Summer In St. George In the twinkle Of her eyes Shines her soul In the depths Of her heart Miracles happen In the palms Of her Hands She holds love In the poetry Of her spirit Melod ies dance In the dreams Of her mind Beauties unfold In the quiver Of her voice Tenderness escapes In the eyes Of her beholder A goddess is found Scorch ing, Scalding , Blistering. I am suffocated by its intensity. I am beaten by its density. Soaked by the plague of severe perspiration, I stumble towards the A.C. in utter desperation. I can not get a job. I can not wash my car. I'm a hermit on my sofa, And winter seems so far. An enormous fatal sauna, It never seems to end . My enemy, that blazing ball, It's sinking through my skin. What have we done to deserve such torture? Us folks will never know. We just growl and bear it, And daydream of the snow. One hundred and sixteen degrees! It's 8:00 at night. The moon and stars are in the sky. This simply is not right. Is there any mercy? Does it ever end? I'm delusional, I can't remember. Heck, give me my Cosmo and remote control. I'll see you in November! �Pauline Hansen J. J. Gilmore Becoming From Changes On a grassy hill by the edge of a brook, Sitting under the shade of a big oak tree, I gaze at my beautiful newborn My heart is full of joy! She is so beautiful! And yet I feel a burden weighing on me. Do I have what it takes to raise her well Am I strong and capable, unselfish, teachable? I stand and glance around me; I see strength And beauty all around. There is much I can learn from nature's wonders That have stood the test of time. They have great things to teach me; I can feel it, I can see it. I kneel down and kiss my baby's cheek, breathing In her sweet scent, and I whisper, "I'll be right back, I won't go far." Down to the edge of the brook I go, kneeling to Feel the wet earth between my fingers. This is where Life begins. I shall begin here, too. RICH SOIL, my firm foundation, I am thankful For the generous bounty you provide; Lend me your life-giving qualities, that I may give life and hope to those around me PRECIOUS, CLEAR WATER, cool and refreshing, You make it possible for so many things to live. We would not survive without you. I know I can't make a huge difference in this world, But nevertheless, help me to carve a pathway worth following. SILKY GRASS, smelling so sweet, your surface Is much used, trampled and weather beaten; Lend me your durability, that I may withstand Any burden I am asked to carry. Racism has been a bitter part of my life. Being bi-racial, I have had to deal with the weig ht of injustice that Racism carries. It is as if racism has molded my character, manipulated my personality and controlled my thoughts for a very long time. I never knew of a person who could look at being racially different as a positive and dominant feature until I read Martin Luther King Jr.'s "Letter from Birmingham Jail." The effects of reading Dr. King's letter have helped change my outlook. For so long I loathed myself-my bi-raciality. It feels so good to say that the "Letter from Birmingham Jail" validated me. Growing up in Salt Lake City, Utah I quickly learned that my family and I were very different from everyone else. I remember going to the grocery store with my parents and wondering why people stared at us. Even as a child, I could feel that the cashiers were uncomfortable with my parents in the checkout line ...... . Soon I would discover that not only did white society reject me but also the Navajo part of my heritage would turn its back as well. My family and I moved to Kayenta, Arizona (Navajo Indian Reservation) when I was thirteen. Half white and half Navajo, I thought I would finally find a place where I could relate with "my people." I was wrong. I was treated worse on the reservation than I was in Salt Lake City. I was looked at as an "[outsider] coming in"(2). Although I was living in a different area with a different race of people, the tables of injustice were still set with the same ugliness. Once again I had to decide whether or not I would engage in fights on the playground. This time it was not because I was seen as a minority but as a white boy. This hurt more than anything else. I already hated the whites! The Navajo hatred of me caused me even deeper pain. I had always regarded myself as a proud Navajo. Now that I had been stripped of both worlds, I was left in a mental jail cell where all I could do was, "write long letters, think long �Russell Estlack thoughts, and pray long prayers" (48). How would I ever fit in? I hated. Although I have been the victim of racism and abuse, I recognize the fact that these experiences have strengthened my character forever. Just as Dr, King stated, "Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. The yearning for freedom eventually manifests itself and that is what has happened to [me]" (30). I have broken the "mind-forged manacles" of which have bound my spirit. This freedom has helped me to appreciate my personal accomplishments. I was one of thirty-six students nation-wide to be accepted into the Phillips Academy Summer School Program in Andover, Massachusetts. I was accepted into one of the nation's most prestigious private institutions at Oberlin College. I answered an L.D.S. Mission call to dedicate two complete years to the people of Ghana. Now I am working on getting my degree at Dixie State College of Utah. Through all of these experiences, whether they were good or bad, I recognize that they have contributed to lifting myself "from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity" (26). Dr. King's words truly lifted my soul and comforted my heart. From his letter, I have come to realize that I am not the only one living who has ever faced injustice. His words reassure me that if I look beyond the scars of the past and develop a new view for my future, my future will always be "ripe to do right" (26). Many opportunities have opened for me to succeed, and hopefully this will help me develop "in some not too distant tomorrow ... radiant stars of brotherhood [that] will shine over [my thoughts and actions] with all their scintillating beauty" (50). The Sometime River Snow-capped mountains reach out in supplication to the heavens. Shades of white blanket the highlands in silent awe. Time passes and the world turns, seasons change and seasons die. A warm breath of spring caresses the green forested hills. A river commences its serpentine journey to the sea. Just a trickle at first, imperceptible to the naked eye. A creek, a stream, a mighty river fighting to break free. The runoff swells to a raging torrent, imprisoned by narrow banks. The roots of ancient cottonwoods twisted and knurled with age. Give reverence to the mighty river for nourishment and life. Wildflowers create an explosion of color against the muddy water. Jackrabbits and coyotes drink from the s·wirling currents. Cries of Canada geese fill the skies As they wing their way north from their winter sanctuary. The silence is shattered by a thunderous roar. White water races through lonely canyons until it breaks against the brooding cliffs, and the river moves on in search of tranquility. Sun sets, darkness engulfs the land, The spirits of the night roam free. Timeworn pueblos stand like sentinels from the past. The shamans give thanks to the gods of the river. The watercourse crawls onward like a thief in the night. Meandering, undulating, giving sustenance to a barren land. It creeps along its muddy bed like a rattlesnake ready to strike at some passing prey. It bides its time, waiting, waiting at the dam, For a human hand to open the floodgates. Crystalline liquid pours through the open spillways Irrigating, watering, giving life to parched fields. The verdant greens of spring supplant the variegated browns of winter. The night gives way to dawn, The shadows dissipate into nothingness. A daystar ascends in the eastern sky, and bathes the earth in its golden light. The eternal fires of a summer sun blaze across the cloudless skies Time passes and leaves fall from trees, swept away on winter winds. Snow-capped mountains reach out in supplication to the heavens. �Keith Kelsch Keith Kelsch Lindsay Ott Crack In th e Barn Wall The lmagistic Manifesto The Birthday Bike Through the crack In the Barn wall Came The Great Spirit Spotlighting dust. Philosophy without imagery Implies both spirit without foundation And action without objectivity. My birthday still came, even thoug h my arm was broken. It had been broken for just a few days. Mom had kept me home from school, and my first grade teacher called and said the class was really worried about me-would she please bring me by so they could see I was all right? I brought cupcakes to the class on my birthday, but then I had to go home again, even though I wanted to stay with the kids. We had my birthday party later that day. I opened a light box to find a slip of paper: "This present is too big for a box. Go look outside." And there was a bike. My bike. Pink with white tires and black training wheels. I was ecstatic and crushed in the same instant. My arm was in a sling; it had broken just below my shoulder, the pieces of bone overlapping-too high up for a cast. Would I be able to ride? I climbed onto the bike and slowly rode it around the patio, steering with one hand, family chee ring-Queen of the backyard. I watched a speck float, Rise And descend, Bellow Golden God. When the sun Descends, How does the dust Of the earth know If it is still floating aloft And not riding the back Of some goat? Of what forms the action, And of what constitutes entity, When we see no animation? Void the object, what is entity? Since entity must action the object. Without entity, this poem has no imagery. All lays out as philosophy, Much mimics the noble epistemology But nothing denotes reality. You must bury your philosophy In imagery, animation, and action. Then he who has eyes to see Will see The whole reality. The Woman Warrior I have always been a fighter. I don't let my guard down and I don't easily get to know people. Some call it shyness, some call it conceit. I call it survival. In fifth grade, I beat up the perverted little boys in my class. They took away part of my innocence, I took off a couple of layers of their skin. Ever since then there has been an unmistakable war between myself and every member of the male species. Guys I've never met before pick up on it right away, no matter how cordial I attempt to be. It has been a source of great frustration, this war I didn't intend to start. I've tried to call truce with various people, but they seem to get a masochistic pleasure in fighting with me. As much as I thoroughly enjoy a good battle of wits, the impersonality of these relationships can get to me. The warrior in me loves the fight; is proud of my anti-male, anti-young marriage, anti-boyfriend status. But sometimes, on late nights when the warrior is asleep, my frail femininity longs for the touch of a masculine hand. �Eli Stevens Brandon Lamb Hopeless From Hard Work Your cold dark heart will shatter one day As you have let others dwindle in lies To leawd them on And throw them aside You will end alone Or unhappy wherever you go Till eternity ends That is your fate As love is true and hearts of gold With love unfailing since days of old The life you lead will end in tears No times of joy No happy years No love returned No one to care You heart is cold Love is no longer there The dehydration was beginning to set in. "I need water!" desperately I gasped in a raspy voice. I dropped to my hands and knees. Dramatically I crawled toward my water conta iner. Quickly I inhaled the lukewarm liquid. I looked to the sky to see if the vultures had started to circle. The sky was empty except for the scorching sun. Slowly I returned to my shovel. I held it as if it were salt being poured into the cuts in my hands. I pushed it into the ground and extracted another clump of half-dead weeds that covered the field in front of me. I stared blankly at the dirt-covered watch that hung limply on my wrist. "It must be broken ," I mumbled to myself. Time seemed to come to a drastic halt in this barren desert wasteland. My first day working on Greg's ranch had become a living hell. The ranch was endless. He had it all, a rodeo arena, field after field of crops, and fenced enclosures full of horses and other farm animals. The hardest thing I had done before that day was beat the Mario Brothers game on my Nintendo. My dad decided that that summer he didn't want me hanging around the house complaining of nothing to do and harassing him with devilish acts of mischief. I snapped back to work when Greg came out of the house. He shuffled out toward us. Greg was a short stubby man. He wobbled around like a hyperactive penguin. His arms would swing back and forth as if they were little featherless wings. I hated how he would pull his pants over his protruding belly and cinch it tight just under his chest. His pepper-colored hair made him look older than he was. His oversized hat sat lightly on trop of his chubby head, waiting for a slight breeze to steal it away. His tiny bead-like eyes were magnified by his huge coke bottle glasses that pushed heavily on his round cherry-colored nose. "I just hired a new foreman. Could you send him in the house when he gets here?" Greg spit the words out of his small pursed lips. He was impatient, and I could sense his intolerance of truancy as he spoke. "Show thing, Massa!" I answered. "You would shut that smart mouth of yours if you knew what was good for ya," Greg threatened . "Why don't you do something other than hold that shovel up?" Shortly after Greg returned to his air-conditioned house and comfy sofa, the foreman arrived . His truck stopped, and the heavy cloud of dust it had stirred thinned and disappeared. A long thin skeleton face peered at me with squinted eyes half hidden by Sarah Mathis What Is Gone Mysteriously scathing through the months There was something that left you I recognize it. Because the part that left Ultimately Sarah Mathis Enough If you have scars because of her It's quite amazing I haven't already bled to death because of you. Concerns me. �the dusty rim of a crusty old cap. The foreman was younger than I had guessed, maybe twenty-two . The door creaked open and a skinny stork-like leg slid out to the ground. He stretched his arms above his head as he stood. He was covered in dusty cowboy attire. Dust lifted and shifted around him as he came toward us. He emptied the phlegm from his th roat, and his unshaven jaw dropped to speak. "Howdy! Do you know where I could find a man by the name of Greg Keyzler?" He asked with heavy hick twang. "Greg took off a few hours ago. He said that you should answer to me until he returns." I tried to look important as the foreman approached me. "The namez Andrew, nice to meetcha," he said as he thrust his long bony arm toward me. His calloused hand took mine and shook it heartily. He was very tall, and well built for as thin as he was. "How old are ya?" I could see he was confused by the mismatch of my age and alleged authority. "I'm seventeen," I lied again. "Greg said when you got here I was supposed to put you to work. Here, take this shovel and start clearing these weeds. I've got to go see a man about a horse." Andrew took the shovel while I went to get some grub. Greg came out of his house just as I returned .. "You must be Andrew," he said to the foreman. "Yes sir." "Eli, where is your shovel?" "Andrew has it." "What's he doing with it?" Greg's face turned bright red, and his nose even a deeper red. "Looks like he's clearing weeds, " I said with a calm sarcastic tone. Greg ignored me and took Andrew aside to explain the responsibilities he was to take on. Andrew looked at me as Greg wobbled back to his lair. "I've got to keep you busy," Andrew said "Let's get some lunch and get back to work." We ate, then finished clearing the field. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning," Andrew sa id as he prepared to leave for the evening. "Get up, Mr. Stevens!" I woke up to my mom yelling and shaking me. "Someone is outside waiting for you." She laughed at my messy hair and the unique cross pattern the pillow had left on my cheek. I wiped the dried saliva from the corners of my lips to speak. "What? Who is it? What time is it? Where am I? What's going on?" I asked grog gily alarmed. "He says his name is Andrew. He is here to pick you up for work." I dressed and stumbled out the door half asleep. The boss-man needs us to go fix fence and brand some cows." Andrew seemed excited about the tasks. His chipper attitude seemed to rub off on me a little. I hopped ) ) ) ) into the truck wondering exactly what it meant to fix fence and brand cows. We drove to the middle of nowhere. Andrew instructed me to dig three-foot holes ten feet apart from each other. The holes were for fence posts. My hands hurt from the day before, and I wasn't too thrilled about getting reacquainted with the shovel. I cou ldn't complain because Andrew had already finished one of the holes. I couldn't believe how hard this guy worked. He seemed to enjoy the labor. . He vigorously maneuvered the shovel in and out of the circular crevice. I didn't care about the holes, the fence, the cows, or helping Greg. I started to dig. Andrew and I worked side-by-side laughing and talking. I enjoyed his company and even started to enjoy the work. Sweat poured down my face, and my muscles started to ache. It was a new and exciting feeling. I was accomplishing something. With the holes dug, we inserted the poles. They weren't evenly spaced, and some holes were deeper than others, but I thought our creation was beautiful. I had no time to gloat because Andrew had already started to connect the poles. I helped him wrap the wire from pole to pole. We gave it the final touches and sat back to observe our work. Andrew had built many fences. He laughed at the look of pride and joy on my face as I stood staring at my masterpiece. "Can we go home now?" I asked. "I'm exhausted." "No, we 're jest getting started!" "The fence is done. What else do you want me you do?" "It's time to brand some cows!" he responded. "Hell no!" "Hell yeah!" he laughed at my reluctance. "How am I supposed to brand a cow?" We walked over to where all the cows were being held. At one end of the fenced area was a gate that connected to two fences parallel to each other. At the end of these fences there were two five-by-five foot rusty metal plates. The metal plates were in a V shape. Toward the back of the metal plates was as long pipe with a handle on the end of it. It was a wooden tunnel leading toward a huge steel trap. When someone pulled the handle toward the ground, the metal plates would clamp together then turn horizontally. The calves were to be singled out from the herd then forced into the parallel fences and then clamped and turned onto their sides. "What are you doing now?" I asked Andrew. He was gathering wood to build a fire. "What do you need a fire for?" "To heat the branding iron," he said. He laid the long heavy rod down on the fire he had started. The rod was four feet long with two Ds on the end of it. "What are the Ds for?" I asked. Andrew told me Greg's ranch was called the Double Dollar Ranch . �"That is such a stupid name," I responded. "Are you ready?" he asked me. Before I could answer, he had the first calf separated. He prodded it down the tunnel toward me. Just as it entered the metal plates he screamed, "now!" I obediently pulled the lever to the ground, picking the calf up off its feet and putting it onto its side. The calf squealed with fear and surprise. Andrew quickly grabbed the hot branding iron and moved toward the small cow. There was a hole on the top plate, revealing the calf's side where the brand would be. Andrew quickly pressed the hot metal against its body. It let out a god-awful moan. I almost let go of the lever. "Hold it still!" Andrew yelled. "I got it!" It took all the muscle in my little body to hold the lever down and keep the calf horizontal. The smell of burnt hair and flesh was unbearable. The calf's feces were shooting out and splattering everywhere. The smelly goop hit the fence and ricocheted back on Andrew and me. Drool dripped from its w rithing tongue extended out as if reaching for me. Its eyes were bulging with alarm. I couldn't hold the lever any longer and Andrew gave me the word to release. I was horrified. I stood there with my hands blistered, my clothes torn , my muscles aching , and covered head-to-toe in mud and feces. The small cow trotted away unconcerned with its new tattoos. Andrew had a quick laugh at the bizarre look on my face and then went to separating another calf. We branded one after the other hour after hour. The procedure took all night. We were just finishing as the sun came up. "I never thought you'd make it. Ya did real good today." Andrew said as we drove home. "Ya think y'all be back toomaurra?" "Yessa, Massa!" I never complained that day. I didn't dare. I wanted to impress my foreman. I looked up to him and tried to copy the things he did. I no longer wanted to be a lazy little boy at home with his Nintendo. I wanted to be as hardworking man. As we sleepily gathered ourselves to leave that morning, I felt six-feet tall and invincible. Margaret Stringham Soup Deprivation It is somewhat odd to say that soup could make me sad; that the sight of It could make me want to cry my sloppy tears into a bowl of lukewarm, Over-watered chicken noodle soup. (The condensed kind that comes Prepared in a can and substitutes real chicken with rubbery chunks Of something meant to taste like chicken, but tastes more like Paper, in order to deceive the buyers and eaters of the Deprived soup into thinking that it could actually Be something wholesome). It is strange to say that soup can make me sad; on warm, sunny days when I want to be barbequing hamburgers on the beach, but being a college Student, am so poor that the only thing I could afford is to turn on The microwave long enough to nuke the shit out of my soup. As I pull the bowl out of the microwave all that I can feel is misery And deprivation. So I stare at the bowl of water and noodles, Wondering if I may have poured to much salt into the bowl And compromised the edibility of the soup. After staring At the soup for several moments I finally muster up the Courage to slide the scratched, metal spoon into my Partially dehydrated mouth, and swallow. I promptly Pull the spoon out of my mouth as my taste buds Yell to me, warning me that if I place so much As a drop of this annoying concoction into my Mouth again, my tongue would be forced to Rip itself from my body and commit suicide By jumping down my throat into the massive Amounts of stomach acid, stopping along The way just long enough to ask my Digestive system for a cremation Opposed to a burial. (I suppose The soup was a little too salty.) Without change of expression, I return the bowl of salt and Water to the microwave and Move toward the pantry. Perhaps there is a can of corn Laying in there. �Douglas Wardle Rubina Rivers Her Kiss Coming of Age We Kissed when we first dated. We Kissed when we graduated. We Kissed when we celebrated, And we smiled the whole day long. When I came of age in Samoa My breasts grew brown and firm From sun, sea air and coconut oil. Lisa Leavitt From Fire Sleeps On the North Slope We let the fire consume the underbrush for a while. The flame's radiant heat started to burn at our eyes and faces, so we stepped farther back into the trees, watching with droopy eyes, waiting for trouble to arise. "R.H. is at 7%," someone said. Flames are really beautiful things. They lick and curl their way through fine brush, lovingly they hug the fallen logs like boa constrictors, and slowly they start to climb up the tree sides, consuming their prey. Then stealthily flames jump to the branches. They climb higher and higher, roaring as they savagely eat pine needles and fine branches. Then they painfully bore their way into the thicker bark and torture the captured trunks and limbs. There was a loud crash a hundred ya rds off. I brought my head with a jerk. This time I slapped myself to wakeup. The wind had thrown a burnt tree down to its grave. The dragon was awake. We had to be the ones in control this time. Wake up! Stay alert! Watch for spot fires! Look out for falling trees! Stay awake! We Kissed when I left home. We Kissed when I cam home. We Kissed when we married, And Kissed all night long. We Kissed when we went to work. We Kissed when we came back. We Kissed when she gave birth, And took turns walking the floor. We Kissed for celebrations. We Kissed for remembrance. We Kissed tenderly when she fell, And the medics took her out the door. We Kissed our last kiss, And I cried as she dies. With eyes closed I feel her Kiss, And my lonely heart sighs. When I became a woman in America I covered them with stiff padding And wired white tricot, Protocol in a new world. Just the other day In the mirrored dressing room Of the lingerie department Of an upscale store, Seeing their true shape In the cold light, I recalled a childhood day Naked on an island beach The sun burning my back, W?rm sand cradling my chest, Watching my mother Seated under a coconut tree, Flowered lavalava wrapping her waist, Breastfeeding her child in the shade, Both of us knowing a natural happiness. �Brenda Wastlund A Valued Possession When I was very young I received an extraordinary gift. The gift was merely a large rock found in a dry riverbed, an unlikely reminder of just how innocent, yet powerful, a child's imagination really is. This gift, my rock , first came into my possession after I had become quite fond of another rock. This is my story. My family celebrated "Easter Saturday" annually at the same place, a dry riverbed in the Arizona Gorge. Relatives from my father's side of the family would gather together and picnic in the shade of an underpass on the Interstate 15 south of the Black Rock interchange. All the kids would participate in the traditional "Easter egg hunt" while the adults visited. There is a lot of diversity on my father's side of the family. One brother in particular, Uncle Deloy, is a mountain man by trade. He is known for his very unique personality, sense of humor and self-engineered creations. One year, in the early 1980's, he brought a "pet rock" to the picnic. It was large, oblong boulder that looked like a huge petrified bone. The rock had a long rope wrapped crisscross several times around the middle and extended out like a leash. I remember my cousins and I would take turns dragging the pet rock up and down the dry riverbed. If we weren't looking for water for the pet rock to drink, we were taking it for far too many walks for a normal pet to survive. Deep down I am sure all the kids knew the rock was not a "real Pet", but there wasn't a child who didn't pretend it was real and wanted to play with it; even the adults supported our wild imagination. My uncle brought the rock with him every Easter, and every year all the kids were excited to take the pet rock for a stroll. However, one year he forgot to bring it. I was heartbroken when I found out my Uncle Deloy had left the rock home. With tears in my eyes my uncle took me by the hand and together we went looking for a pet rock of my own. We walked a half-mile down the dry riverbed looking for the perfect rock. It was as if we were shopping in a pet store for a new puppy. Then we found it. Partially hidden in the earth, was a large, round quartzite metamorphous sandstone shimmering in the sunlight. The surface was relatively smooth with several cracks and dings. It was obvious this rock had pounded into other rocks as it tumbled along the bottom of a once rapid river. My uncle carried the rock back to the picnic area because I could barely lift it. I remember how excited I was to have a pet rock of my very own. I listened carefully as Deloy explained the responsibilities of taking care of my pet rock. I shared my pet rock with my cousins, and I remember being concerned that my rock would "run off' so I kept a close eye on it the whole time. I was emotionally attached to this new member of the family and couldn't wait to take it home and show my friends, but first I had to ask my mom. When it was time to pack up the Easter festivities I approached my mother with my rock. The rock was so heavy that I had to stop and put it down a few times on the way. Mom was loading supplies into the trunk when she noticed I was lifting the boulder into our old, blue station wagon. Before I could say a word she told me to put that "thing" right back where I found it. Had she known it was a half-mile hike to put it "right back" would she have said something different? Needless to say, I was devastated and not about the hike to put the rock back either. There was no way I was leaving my pet rock behind! Before I could defend tbe fate of my pet, it was final. "I mean it, Brenda!" Her words pounded the air like thunder. Mom was serious; the rock was staying. My Uncle Deloy must have heard me crying and figured out why on his own. I remember he said, "Sometimes parents don't understand." I watched as my uncle picked up my rock and put it inside his van. I knew I would see my rock again. The next day Uncle Deloy came over to our house to say goodbye. Before leaving he whispered to me the whereabouts of my rock. Not long after he left, I ran out the back door. Sure enough, my beloved rock was in the dirt area on the north side of the house where we kept our family dog, Dusty. To keep it safe, I buried my pet rock in one of the holes that Dusty had dug. I remember packing my rock to a friend's house a few times to sit on it and play with it, but I always brought it home where I could take care of it. The rock stayed in the dog pen for many years until I was able to take it with me. When I got older the rock stayed in the trunk of every car I owned and proved to be quite useful. For instance, my pet rock assisted me in the removal of my Volkswagen Bug from being stuck in the mud on more than one occasion! Despite being a non-living element, it was the only family member to attend my "shot-gun" wedding a few years ago. So far, my pet rock has traveled all over Utah, Arizona , Nevada and California. This past year, my rock spent all summer basking in the sun in my beautiful flower garden. However, when I moved, my rock returned to its former housing, the trunk of my car. Currently, my pet rock has taken up residency on my desk, inspiring me for this essay. My husband believes I am a "few stones short a wall", but tolerates my pet rock because he loves me. Although my pet rock is not worth any amount of currency, the sentimental value I have for it is priceless. �Ed Poehlmann Ed Poehlmann Fifty Yea rs Ago Prey and Predator Do you remember our second date? I had gone to Las Vegas to drive you back home to St. George. Little brown leaves scurrying down the street in front of the wind like a herd of mice. Large tumbleweed cats, spiny thorns extended, Powered by the breeze, Chasing them. sharp claws reach out , gobble up a few the chase goes on. The wind stops. Before I took you up to your Mother's home, We stopped at my place and sat on the back lawn. Full of apprehension, I did'nt want to be on the road when ... I asked you to marry me. You teasingly replied, "What took you so long to ask me?". And at that tiny instant, at that millesecond moment, our romance flared and blazed across the sky, a fiery flame, radiant as the sun, as high as the moon, paling the sparkling stars above, lighting up the universe, in celebration of our love for each other. We vowed to each other to be lovers and friends forever. We have kept that sacred vow and the flame is ever burning bright. all are friends for an instant. The wind powers up again And the chase goes on You got home pretty late that night. Do you remember? I do. �Ed Poehlmann Ed Poehlmann Butterflies Little Girls i yawned lazily out of my profound sleep, but i could not remember anything what afflicts me, amnesia ?? where am i? what is this ?? i stretched my wings (wings ???) they were soo awesome, soo beautiful big orange patches, trimmed in black with white spots on the edges my body was black with tons of white polka dots all over i was somethin' else wow!!! and i could fly (fly ???) this was really nice i was a butterfly !! ! and i was extremely beautiful and now i bounced from yellow and blue flowers to red and orange flowers, sipping sweet nectar from them all all the boy butterflies chased me but i teased them and always got away but then one day something changed i sat on a large orange cosmo flower and a boy butterfly caught the scent of my desire and i became his desire he flew in front of me and up to the top of the sky he dove down toward me like an f-1 6, but with a seductive whisper, not a sonic boom up and down he soared, back and forth plying his butterfly love song 'til our desires merged and became one as did we now i am going to be a mother and i wi ll lay my eggs on green plant leaves and watch my little babies grow and they will be bright butterflies too One day at Sand Hollow, as I sat and watched my granddaughter, playing in the shallow water, I saw a young girl, about seven, her bathing suit, slashed with lightning like blue and yellow and red flashes she was darting th ru that very shallow part of the pool as bright and beautiful as a butterfly as she flew around the sparkling water. four boys were chasing her but they were no match for this little butterfly girl. If you have a garden where you can watch you may have seen one butterfly darting thru the flowers, being chased by a bunch of others The ones who are the chasers, I think, are boy butterflies. And the one being chased, I think, is the girl butterfly. Isn't that the way it usually is? The boys never seem to catch the girl. at that age, ...... (but wa it). I thought about this brilliant butterfly girl splashing thru the sparking water, and I thought "Someday, little girl, when you mature you will want some boys to chase you, and then you will want one to catch you, and one will, and then two heavenly souls will join together as one and create more brightly colored little butterffly girls and boys to brighten our world." �Ed Poehlmann Ed Poehlmann Mining, 1949, Tiger, Arizona You Thought She Was Yours I was lonely, she had come to me she was my girl come true she was the one who rescued me, I thought she'd be forever I knew she was the one for me we'd marry and have kids the nights were moments full of love and waking in her arms she put me down and slammed at me. every moment, all the time I should have seen it long ago she's never been MY girl I thoug ht I had a date with her she was nowhere to be seen so I headed down the mountain road, just where I thought she was I saw her at the old dance hall days like grandmas sweet old pancakes at Beaver Dam Resort sloshed with maple sugared syrup She was smooching with a another I never saw the cracks that came guy, until it was too late "and YOU thought she was yours?" I had four weeks of love and care before it all crashed down do you think she's really worth it all? is it worth your living life? I should have left her there and then but I had that spark of love you're drivin' down the mountain road at 90 miles per hour I thought it was enough for me to restart our loving flame you know you're goin' straight to hell if you crash into the ditch I tried once more to make it work but it was just no go get over it , give up you rage there's always other chances I'm working in a mine. In desert hot Arizona. Place called Tiger. Yes, it's a town. Mining camp more like it. Look it up. It's on the map. The mine. Drop down a thousand feet. Like a giant elevator in a hard rock shaft. Think Empire State building. Headframe stands like a wooden skeleton over this black hole deep in the earth where desperate men dig out riches for the owners. Ever work in a mine? Probably not. Hot. Noisy. Clattering jack-hammer rock drills. Dynamite. Body covered with rock dust. Grease and iron stains. Lead and zinc mineral dust, pasted on with sweat. Seven hours. Total darkness. Little flashlight lamp on your hardhat. Shoveling hardrock all day long. Five days a week. Don't dare stop. Boss always watching $1 .75 an hour. Don't like it? 10 guys up top waiting for you job. Shift whistle screams every morning like a Tortured Banshee. One hour to get up, dressed, fed and up to the mine shaft headframe . Living in a bunkhouse with seven other guys, Arizona Charlie. Drunk all the time, my roomate. Gravel Gertie women in his bed at night. Shakes my bed. Pillow over my head. Do you want some, Ed. God no, Charlie. Chris Rometti, Josep Mikalovich. Two alpha male bohunks. Really hang one on every saturday night and fight their way down the broken whiskey bottle covered hill below the bunkhouse toward the messhall. Milktoast, an old old man. Blew his memory back in 1935. Face like skim milk. Follows directions, if you give him any. Mostly stares out into his own pale infinite universe of nothingness. Why am I doing it. Trying to work my way thru Colorado School of Mines. Now I am 23 years old, just out of the army, World Wa r II. Young. Strong. Immortal. Invincible. Hadn't we just wh ipped the Japs and the Nazi's? I always wanted to be a mining geologist since I saw the Seven Dwarfs digging sparkling crystals out of their mine in Snow White when I was a kid. I had been working 8 months now and figured I had enough money saved to finish my degree program at the school of Mines and buy a war-surplus jeep for transportation. �Three miles down the hill, below the mine works , was the town of Mammoth. Town? yes. A very small one, It's on the map too. Three bars, one with a dance hall. One general store with a gas pump. That's where the miners went after work, or weekends or "recreation" or whatever. The Mine Boss. He was a Welshman, name of Dick Eddy. His brother, Harry Eddy.. Dick was married, never did know her name. Had an old, early thirties black box kind of car, probably a Chevy or a Ford. Drove to Mammoth frequently after the day shift for a drink or two. Mrs. Eddy always sat in the back, looked straight ahead, never moved. Always dressed in black up to her chin, always wore a black hat, looked like a Victorian statue in the back of the car. She never got out of the car, just sat there looking straight ahead, never turned her head to glance at her surroundings, never spoke. Just sat there until the men came out and they all went back home. Harry Eddy never worked at anything. Just stayed at home. Dick Eddy was the day shift underground mine boss. In charge of all the drilling and ore extraction. Anything which had to be done. Always had a lit pipe in his mouth. And a slight smile on his face. But don't screw up. He walked the underground operation all day long. Checking up. Arizona Charlie, my onetime roommate in the bunkhouse. A good looking man when he got cleaned up. Always dressed up with coat and tie after the shift. Probably well educated. Most beautiful cursive handwriting. Frequently wrote letters to somebody. Played the violin. A binge drinking alcoholic. He saved his paycheck to get his teeth fixed. Headed for the bus stop in Mammoth. And that is as far as he got. Bought five or six bottles of alcoholic stuff, and usually disappeared for three or four days. He was a good miner when he did work so he never got fired. Just came back to work. Never caused me any concern until he brought a woman back to the bunkhouse. Then I gra bbed my pillow and blanket and went out on the porch to sleep. Chris Rometti, Josip Mikalovich. Two Bohunks, eastern European descent. Two obstinent men always competing for the Alpha Male position. Both very strong, muscular, would have made great football linemen. Extremely aggressive, They had some real good fights. They started on the porch of the bunkhouse, rolled their way down the rocky broken glass strewn hill below toward the messhall. When they got tired they went down to eat and then down to Mammoth to start drinking again, seemingly the best of friends. They were good miners. They both left for another mine. Chris got crushed in a mining accident in Bisbee, Arizona. Never heard anything more about Josip Milktoast, can't remember his real name, but he looked like a glass of skim milk full of white bread. He was employed at the mine to pick up stray fallen rocks from the rail tracks in the mine. That's all. He could handle that. He mostly sat on the porch smoking his own hand rolled cigarettes. Never got into any conversations. Kept his memories and everything else to himself. I had some radio experience in the Army and one time when I had had too many beers, tried to explain the electronics of television to him. He kept nodding his head, saying nothing. Still have to laugh at myself. Might as well have been talking to a rock. The mine closed in 1950. I had a little money and my Jeep. Went back to school. I was lucky, I guess. The rest of them, all the men, their families, were out of work. No unemployment insurance. Nothing. Oblivion. �Ben Green Ben Green True Love At Last! An Ode To Jocks Jennie Oleen Love She sits and waits; silently watching the world around her. Quickly offering her last dollar, last bite, last drink of water. Last breath ... She has so much to offer. Easily pleased; smiling for everyone to see. Eagerly helping those in need, a friend, her family. A beautiful sole .. . An angel she is indeed. My mother. I see you every day on my way to the Udvar-Hazy building, Lollygagging about near the Fitness Center, Communicating in wheezy, monosyllabic grunts, Reminiscent of a herd of water buffalo Whose private parts have become jammed in a trash compactor. I hear you grunt such witty, insightful remarks as, "Ugg ...football! Me like football! Dallas Cowboys!" And "How much you bench press?" And "Huh huh! Nice butt! Wanna go out with me?" It is a rare sight indeed to see a woman Who is not driven insane with desire At the sight of your enormous bulging biceps, The sweat gushing from your pores like Niagara Falls, Your "Beavis and Butthead"-esque senses of humor, And your IQs, which generally rank down there With some of the less-bright heads of cabbage. It's dark and hellishly hot inside the old McDonald's. Clouds of black smoke billow over the linoleum, Burning the eyes of the filthy, miserable souls Who blindly claw at each other with Gorgon-like fury In a struggle for survival amidst the riotous horde. Far in the distance, shining like Olympus above the smog, Can be seen the glorious service counter and its godlike service attendant, Whose thunderous voice booms out across the chaos, "Number eight!" His ethereal words of wisdom fill me with an unknown courage, Courage to inch my way forward and not be trampled by the writhing masses. At times my strength nearly fades and I am forced backwards Like a hamster in a wind tunnel, but as my eyes spy my wondrous goal Shimmering like the Holy Grail atop the service counter, I regain my endurance, knowing my crusade is nearing its end. With a cry of exultation I burst forward through the thrashing throng, Now ignorant to the mournful wails of desperation, For you, luscious Quarter-Pounder, are my goal, With your steaming patties of the finest lean ground beef, Piled high with crisp Romaine lettuce, tomato, and a slice of onion. I worship your heavenly melted cheese, That slathering of Special Sauce like the fi nest ambrosia, And your pickles - ah yes, your pickles! Which seem to call out to me with their melodious sirens' song. With nearly Herculean strength I smash throug h the opposition Like a bulldozer through a mountain of cottage cheese. At last, long last, I take you into my hands And am filled with joy beyond compare, For I know that you are mine and I am yours - there is no other. Unable to hold out against temptation any longer, I press my lips into your soft sesame seed bun And am filled with delights I have never known nor seen. Who needs a woman when I have you? �Ben Green Murder and Murderability I was nervously fidgeting in my seat, absent-mindedly tapping my pen against my clipboard, when a single spotlight suddenly illuminated the stage, revealing Worthington University's prominent Dean of Sciences, Stan Mellard. Professor MacFlernigan, the Harvard-educated geneticist responsible for all of the recent hubbub, stood next to him, smiling broadly. In the shadows nearby I recognized Mr. Gilmore, MacFlernigan's skinny, effeminate lab assistant, who was nervously scratching his rear. A few more biology students filtered in through the door, arguing over which of them was going to get some action that evening and who was going to win the big game and who among them could bench-press the most. Upon realizing the lights were off and everyone was waiting on them, they hurried to their seats. Mellard rolled his eyes in annoyance, and I found myself agreeing. I doubted that even half the students in Worthington's biology program could locate the spleen on an anatomical chart if their lives depended on it. It was even more doubtful that any of them had the tiniest inkling of what was going on here today. If the rumors were true - if MacFlernigan had indeed perfected cloning technology - then we stood before the threshold of the greatest era in the history of mankind. Mellard quickly introduced MacFlernigan and then sat down nearby while the whitehaired professor took his place behind the podium. He breathed in deeply, then began: "Ladies and gentlemen. Students of Worthington University and people from the community. My esteemed colleagues among the faculty. You are all about to become eyewitnesses to perhaps the ... no, the greatest advancement of humankind since the discovery of electricity. Years from now, when those of you who are still young have grandkids and great-grandkids, they just might gather' around you and ask for a story. And you'll proudly tell them how you were there, when Robert MacFlernigan discovered the technology behind the ClonoMatic 3000! How you were there when he cloned the first human being from genetic material extracted from the tooth enamel of her skull! How you were there ... " he paused for dramatic effect, then continued, "when he introduced her to the world!" There was not a sound from the entire lecture hall. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said slowly, "may I present to you ... Miss Jane Austen!" The students in the lecture hall were so stunned that hardly anybody remembered to applaud as a short, pale young woman with a long white gown and sharply pulled-back hair stepped out of the shadows and stood next to MacFlernigan behind the podium. I was so astonished that my clipboard fell out of my hands and hit the floor with a bang. It truly was Jane Austen, exactly as I had seen her in portraits (or somebody in an excellent disguise). Behind me, not a sound could be heard from the students in the lecture hall. MacFlernigan motioned towards the microphone, and Miss Austen leaned forward, about to speak. Then she suddenly drew herself back and looked helplessly at MacFlernigan. I completely empathized with her stage fright. After all, she had been brought back to life in a world she had never dreamed could exist. "Go on, little one," MacFlernigan insisted. "Introduce yourself to my students and colleagues." Miss Austen turned again towards the microphone and I guessed that this must be her first time ever having used such a device. Her voice, which to her must seem not more than a whisper, echoed forth uncomfortably loud across the lecture hall: "G ... good day to you all." The microphone squeaked and Miss Austen leapt back in shock, then quickly regained her composure. There was silence throughout the entire room. What transpired next was like a festering wound in everyone's mind from that day onward. From the back of the lecture hall there came a deep-voiced shout: "8000000000000000000! You stupid witch! Your books suck! Do you realize I failed English 101 because of you? Pride and Prejudice was the most boring garbage I ever read! 80000000000000!" On the stage, Miss Austen's face had become deathly pale. She stepped back, her hand on her chest and her breath coming forth in ragged gasps. MacFlernigan grabbed her wrist in an effort to keep her on her feet, but she pushed him away. Meanwhile, the insults continued to be hurled from the faceless idiot in the back of the room. As if that weren't enough, a second male voice from the side seats joined the first, followed by yet another voice this one female - from the center. In seconds the entire lectu re hall was filled with the deafening shouts. Dean Mellard was attempting to call for order and MacFlernigan was shouting back at the students (something along the lines of "How dare you insult my creation! How dare you!") and Gilmore was scratching his rear end and Miss Austen, who had appeared before to be nearing the bawling point, now marched, soldier-like, towards the west side of the stage, her previously-pretty face now hideous and twisted from the rage burning inside her. MacFlernigan glanced in her direction and gasped in alarm. "No! What are you doing?" he cried. From offstage there came the sound of smashing glass. Gilmore cursed silently, then tugged on his employer's shirttail. When MacFlernigan, his eyes riveted offstage, failed to acknowledge him, Gilmore proceeded to lean over and whisper something in his ear. MacFlernigan spun around and shouted, "Lizzie BORDEN?! You used Lizzie Borden's DNA to patch up the holes in the strand? Can you even begin to imagine the catastrophe that will befall this city if she escapes? You stupid, stupid little twerp!' Before anybody could let these words sink in, Miss Austen reappeared onstage, a fire axe in her hands. "You bleeding sod!" she hissed, snake-like. "I never asked to be brought back to a world of such ignorant fools!" She then slammed the axe into her creator's back. MacFlernigan sank to his knees, moaning his last moans. Gilmore shrieked like a five-year-old girl and took off down the aisle of the lecture hall and out the main entrance, never to be seen in Worthington again. Dean Mellard backed slowly away from the sneering demon in front of him, and, in so doing, tumbled backwards off the stage. Nobody laughed. In fact, the lecture hall was now as quiet as a graveyard. Jane Austen retrieved the red-stained axe, then, with a blood-curdling shriek, darted through the lecture hall's fire exit door and disappeared into the night. �Cami Cox Cami Cox when best friends become roommates Smile I stare at my lights and then new tv I hear them all talking the Thomas Crown Affair is up way too loud. I hear her voice and every word she says crawls across my skin over my brain like tiny spiders, too pale to be seen too small to be crushed but felt like huge drops of rain falling, splashing, bombing the same spot on my forehead over and over and over... I wonder why I have to feel such irritation now why her? I fall asleep watching Drive Me Crazy with my glasses in my hand I think I'm beginning to understand the deadness. When You smiled Cami Cox Two Kinds of People In This World A Haiku Trying Desperately To Recover From Childhood--Or To Reclaim It. i thought You smiled at me. But did You? did You smile at me? If so, were You thinking of me when You smiled? A smile can mean Anything, or nothing ... A smile can mean You were thinking of .me ... or not of me. i smile at You--But I'm not Always Thinking of you When I smile. �Shara Drae Pity Cycle Cry Cry out Scream at the top of your longs You hate your life You hate your friends You hate your job and school and home Cry for it Cry out for it Scream at the top of your lungs for it All you want is attention All you want is love All you want is to be held and kissed and comforted Cry Cry out Scream at the top of your lungs Get someone's attention Shock the hell out of someone I'll come running and so will he and so will she Cry Cry out Scream at the top of your lungs But oneday the attention will stop Your game will be found out I already know and soon so wil he and so will she So cry Cry out Scream at the top of your lungs Drive us all away Peater out all your friends Live alone until you "heal" and rejoin society and make new friends And cry Cry out Scream at the top of your lungs Again Shara Drae Dance Damp sweltering air Fueled by hundreds of bodies writhing in rhythm Muscles burning, booties shaking Hands on skin, hormones aroused Blood on fire, tempers aroused Slow song Comes on I stand alone Shara Drae Write Something moves me to write But no words come The pen is waiting The mind is dry The soul is frustrated But the mind is dry �History of the Southern Quill Shara Drae Harder Still It's hard to tell how much you can take Before you reach the edge Harder still to know which hearts will break As you step from the ledge It's hard to say who will be there When you need a friend Harder still to know who will despair When the friendship ends It's hard to see whom you wrong With your incessant woes Harder still to know that it's your own arm Which throws these thunderous blows It's hard to accuse another of sin When you do the same Harder still to know how it's possible to win In the game of blame It's hard to tell which friends are true When you're scared to trust Harder still to know who'll stay by you When all you deserve is dust It's hard to hope you're still my friend After all I've put you through Harder still to know this is the end Of a beautiful friendship with you It's hard to face the fact That our timeless talks will end Harder still to know the way I act Cost me this great friend It's hard to tell how I'll cope Knowing I drove you away Harder still to dare to hope That you'll love me once more someday It's hard to say "I love you" When you'd misunderstand Harder still to have to face you When I've dealt so underhand It's hard to say "I love you" When you'd disbelieve Harder still to regain the trust I repeatedly forced to leave It's hard to say "I love you" To a shoulder that I turned cold Harder still to live without you Your friendship, your love, your arm's enfold It's hard to say "I love you" It's a phrase too often said Harder still to say "sorry that I hurt you" When it's a thing under said Year Editor(s) Advisor(s) 1950-51 1951-52 1952-53 1953-57 1957-58 1958-59 1959-60 1960-61 1961-62 1962-63 1963-64 1964-65 1965-66 1966-67 1967-68 1968-69 1969-70 1970-71 1971-72 1972-73 1973-74 1974-75 1975-76 1976-77 1977-78 1978-79 1979-80 1980-81 Loraine Taylor Loraine Taylor Rose Workman No magazine published Karen Vawdrey Karen Vawdrey Barbara Larkin Titine Spillsbury Joan Esplin Joan Esplin Ilene Harmon Emily Cottam Kay Lichtenwalter James Force James Force Linda Sue Hunt Linda Sue Hunt Roxanne Schmidt Michelle Thomas Gordon J, Peterson Connie Gifford Cathy Pam Heaton No magazine published Michael Perry Marilee Camp Bill Batzlie Laura Lee Graff Kurtis Crist, Linda Hedrick' and Aderianna Smith Melanie Madsen Dianna K. Kearney Dawn Houghton Julianna Burton Janae Daley Bonnie Mccowan and Kris Shipp Karen Hansen and Kris Shipp Stephanie Chidester and Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Rose Esplin 1981-82 1982-83 1983-84 1984-85 1985-86 1986-87 1987-88 1988-89 Juanita Brooks and Betty Allen Juanita Brooks Juanita Brooks Reed Blake, Jr. Robert 0 . Dalton Robert 0 . Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Robert 0 . Dalton Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy and J.G. Hacking Pansy L. Hardy and J.G. Hacking Janice F. DeMille James Force Pansy L. Hardy Pansy L. Hardy Ace Ace Ace Ace Ace Ace G. G. G. G. G. G. Pilkington Pilkington Pilkington Pilkington Pilkington Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington Ace G. Pilkington �1989-90 1990-91 1991-92 1992-93 1993-94 1994-95 1995-96 1996-97 1997-98 1998-99 1999-2000 2000-01 2001-02 2002-03 Ace G. Pilkington Chris Metcalfe Stephanie Chidester and Chris Metcalfe Ace G. Pilkington Tiffany Durrant and Joni Jones Ace G. Pilkington Christian Arial Ace G. Pilkington Jandi Jones, Natalee Nilsson, and Chris Pellew Ace G. Pilkington Jandi Jones and Natalie Nilsson Ace G. Pilkington Dina Gerhauser Ace G. Pilkington Aubree Howard Ace G. Pilkington Diana L. Blakley and Ace G. Pilkington Bart Jay Mitchell April Davis, Amber Hyde, and Kelly Leatham Ace G. Pilkington Heidi Madsen Ace G. Pilkington Darryl Barfuss, Liana Kempton, and Cindy Lee Wallace Ace G. Pilkington No magazine published No magazine published Daneen Deuel and Cami Cox John F. Cartier Special Thanks To: Jerone Wedig and the musicians from the Blues Barbershop Juke Joint 673-7997 37 East St. George Blvd. St. George Utah, 84770 also Janeen Cowley and Laura Hughes. �IK: DIXIE STATE CO LLE GE O F U TAH � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016 Title A name given to the resource The Southern Quill Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State University Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context UA016_2003.pdf Title A name given to the resource Southern Quill 2002-2003 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dixie State College of Utah Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2002 2003 Description An account of the resource The Southern Quill is an annual publication of poetry, short fiction, and artwork of Dixie State University students and community members. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource eng Subject The topic of the resource Poetry--Collections Prose Art Ceramics Sculpture Photography Drawing Is Format Of A related resource that is substantially the same as the described resource, but in another format. Scanned with a ESPON 10000XL as a 400 dpi TIF Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived UA016 Southern Quill Table Of Contents A list of subunits of the resource. <table><tr><th>Table of Contents</th></tr><tr><td>Sacrifice </td><td>(Joe Alisa)</td></tr><tr><td>Chickens I </td><td>(Joe Alisa)</td></tr><tr><td>Chickens II </td><td>(Joe Alisa)</td></tr><tr><td>Running from a Stranger </td><td>(Shea'ton Russell)</td></tr><tr><td>Questioning a Shadow </td><td>(Shea'ton Russell)</td></tr><tr><td>Bare </td><td>(Shea'ton Russell)</td></tr><tr><td>Sweet Obsession </td><td>(Erica Esplin)</td></tr><tr><td>When I Become a Rock Star </td><td>(Erica Esplin)</td></tr><tr><td>Description of a Farmer's Kitchen </td><td>(Leslie Carter)</td></tr><tr><td>The Hope-To-Be-Brides </td><td>(Joi Campbell)</td></tr><tr><td>Within the Girl </td><td>(Joi Campbell)</td></tr><tr><td>Summer in St. George </td><td>(Julie Marshal)</td></tr><tr><td>Becoming </td><td>(Pauline Hansen)</td></tr><tr><td>Changes </td><td>(J. J. Gilmore)</td></tr><tr><td>The Sometime River </td><td>(Russell Estlack)</td></tr><tr><td>Crack in the Barn Wall </td><td>(Keith Kelsch)</td></tr><tr><td>The Imagistic Manifesto </td><td>(Keith Kelsch)</td></tr><tr><td>The Birthday Bike </td><td>(Lindsay Ott)</td></tr><tr><td>The Woman Warrior </td><td>(Lindsay Ott)</td></tr><tr><td>Hopeless </td><td>(Brandon Lamb)</td></tr><tr><td>Enough </td><td>(Sarah Mathis)</td></tr><tr><td>What Is Gone </td><td>(Sarah Mathis)</td></tr><tr><td>Hard Work </td><td>(Eli Stevens)</td></tr><tr><td>Soup Deprivation </td><td>(Margaret Stringham)</td></tr><tr><td>Fire Sleeps On the North Slope </td><td>(Lisa Leavitt)</td></tr><tr><td>Her Kiss </td><td>(Douglas Wardle)</td></tr><tr><td>Coming of Age </td><td>(Rubina Rivers)</td></tr><tr><td>A Valued Possession </td><td>(Brenda Wastlund)</td></tr><tr><td>Prey and Predator </td><td>(Ed Poehlmann)</td></tr><tr><td>Fifty Years Ago </td><td>(Ed Poehlmann)</td></tr><tr><td>Butterflies </td><td>(Ed Poehlmann)</td></tr><tr><td>Little Girls </td><td>(Ed Poehlmann)</td></tr><tr><td>You Thought She Was Yours </td><td>(Ed Poehlmann)</td></tr><tr><td>Tiger, Arizona </td><td>(Ed Poehlmann)</td></tr><tr><td>Love </td><td>(Jennie Oleen)</td></tr><tr><td>An Ode to Jocks </td><td>(Benjamin Green)</td></tr><tr><td>True Love At Last! </td><td>(Benjamin Green)</td></tr><tr><td>Murder and Murderability </td><td>(Benjamin Green)</td></tr><tr><td>When Best Friends Become Roommates </td><td>(Cami Cox)</td></tr><tr><td>Two Kinds of People In This World </td><td>(Cami Cox)</td></tr><tr><td>Smile </td><td>(Cami Cox)</td></tr><tr><td>Pity Cycle </td><td>(Shara Drae)</td></tr><tr><td>Dance </td><td>(Shara Drae)</td></tr><tr><td>Write </td><td>(Shara Drae)</td></tr><tr><td>Harder Still </td><td>(Shara Drae)</td></tr></table> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="https://rightsstatements.org/page/InC-EDU/1.0/?language=en"_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">IN COPYRIGHT - EDUCATIONAL USE PERMITTED</a> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Digitized by Utah Tech University Library Rights Holder A person or organization owning or managing rights over the resource. Materials may be used for educational purposes. Please credit Special Collections & Archives, Utah Tech University.