The Russell Creek Review - Campbellsville University

The
Russell Creek
Review
The Literary and Visual Arts Journal
of
Campbellsville University
2009
Division of Humanities
Editorial Staff
Editor-in-Chief: Dr. Susan A. Wright
Associate Editor: Dr. Judith Collins McCormick
Assistant Editors:
Kimberly Burton
Brittany Coyle
Sarah Cross
Rob Garrett
Elizabeth Harris
Jennifer Lily
Payton Polston
Sarah Smith
Emily Stivers
Levi Tims
Hillary Wright
Patrick Young
Special thanks go to:
Mack McCormick, Layout Consultant
and Emotional Therapist
Cover Art Credits
Front cover photograph:
“Tulips in France” by Ashley Holt
Back cover photograph:
“O’Keefe, Personified” by Elizabeth Harris
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Russell Creek Review
In 1900, the members of the Russell Creek Baptist Association, consisting of
churches in several nearby counties, recognized a regional need for Christian higher
education. In a meeting at Salem Baptist Church in Campbellsville, Kentucky,
the members appointed a committee to raise funds for the building of Russell
Creek Academy, which first opened its doors to students in 1907. Russell Creek
Academy became Campbellsville College in 1924, and Campbellsville College
then became Campbellsville University in 1996.
For the 2007 issue, in honor of Campbellsville University’s centennial year,
the annual literary magazine published by the Division of Humanities changed
its name from Connections to The Russell Creek Review. Russell Creek itself, from
its headwaters in nearby Adair County, flows northwest, deepening and widening as it gathers tributaries. In just such a way does the human mind deepen
and widen as it gathers information, experience, and spirituality. Literature, the
product of human minds, reflects that deepening and widening. We hope that,
as our students flow outward from the headwaters of what was once the Russell
Creek Academy, they too will deepen and widen, and that the words some of
them have inscribed within these pages will aid later generations of students in
navigating their own courses.
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Contents
Poetry
Jennifer Lily
A Stream Runs Through It
Kimberly Burton
Down the Rabbit Hole
Abby Lanham
The Silver Flute
Kelsey Madel
Student’s Work
Jessica Mayes
Dear Mr. Frost
Rob Garrett
The Lake
Rob Garrett
Number One
Judith Collins McCormick Autumn’s Rite
Jennifer Lily
Ode to a Notebook
Elizabeth Harris
Stubs
Hillary Wright
The Love I Never Had
Susan A. Wright
Elegy for Apathy
Patrick Young
I Celebrate Myself Sarah Cross
White Rose Birthday
Brittany Coyle
The Most Important Thing
in Life
Hannah Boyd
Girls at Eighteen
Darrion Terrell
Never Say Bye
Trask Murphy
An Old Forgotten Hill
Trevor Ervin
Death Be Proud
Lauren Di Gallo
My Salad
Brent Warf Life Continues
Janna Polston
High School Man
Janna Polston
Dream
Matt Egbert
Coke and Pepsi
Matt Egbert
Shall I compare thee to an ogre’s
stench?
Chasidy Shelton
Secrets Yet Untold
Toni Davila
The Memory
Sara Beth Mattingly
Tests
Austin Blakeman
The One
Photographs
Sarah Smith
Ashley Holt
Ashley Holt
Jennifer Lily
Jennifer Lily
Jennifer Lily
Sarah Smith
Sarah Smith
Sarah Smith
Susan A. Wright
Susan A. Wright
Rick Wilson
Cathedral
Painting in Reality
Solitude
A Monet Moment
Butterfly Interrupted
Frozen in Campbellsville
Coliseum
The Beach
Gondola Ride
Into the Mountains
Stream in the Wilderness
Golden Daffodil
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Contents Cont.
Fiction
Ashley Holt
Sarah Smith
Lindsey Hammers
Elizabeth Harris
Hillary C. Wright
C.S. Branam
Beauty and Death
Gaze of a Different Kind
Dearly Departed
Statistic
The Love Finally Explored
The Depression
Editorial Policies
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The Russell Creek Review 1
Poetry
Jennifer Lily: A Stream Runs Through It
The Russell Creek Review 3
Down the Rabbit Hole
Kimberly Burton
Don’t be afraid
To go chasing after white rabbits,
Even if they lead you wandering into dark holes.
It is often a shadowy chasm
That takes you to new places
Where excitement lingers
Waiting like the Cheshire Cat
For you to either capture it
Or instantly disappear.
Be persistent; look high and low—
Up at trees in the forest,
Under tables at tea parties—
For what you’ve been pursuing.
But don’t forget to enjoy
The stops on your quest.
Make time for a chat with the Tweedles,
A song with the flowers,
Contemplation of a caterpillar’s riddles.
But be careful not to offend
By counting them as inferior
To what you’ve been following.
Be cautious of whom you tell.
You never know who may want
To chop off your head,
Disturb your dreams,
Or go rabbit hunting.
And in the end, if what you’re seeking
Doesn’t turn out as you expected—
Perhaps a brown hare—
Make sure to have a cushion below the clouds,
A safe place outside of Wonderland
To dream.
4 The Russell Creek Review
The Silver Flute
Abby Lanham
So much depends
Upon
A silver
Flute
Playing beautiful
Music
Beside the black
Piano.
Student’s Work
Kelsey Madel
Teacher told me,
“Learn to write.”
But I only learned
how to sit
and stare blankly
while ideas rushed furiously
through my head.
Dear Mr. Frost
Jessica Mayes
Dear Mr. Frost,
I too have been acquainted with the night;
I have walked out in the rain and past the city lights.
I know how you can feel all alone
far away, it seems, from home.
Dark and grim, alone and dreary,
sometimes I can get sad and weary.
But to quote something you once told:
“Life goes on,” even on a lonesome road.
The Russell Creek Review 5
The Lake
Rob Garrett
Birds dart to and fro through the evening sky.
A toad croaks his hellos to no one in particular.
Ducklings follow ducks in single file, leaving gentle ripples in their wake.
Occasionally, a fish makes its presence known on the water’s surface—
Only a splash to a non-observer.
As the stars appear one at a time while the moments pass,
Deer and fawn lie down to rest in dens tucked among the trees.
Birds find their nests more comfortable than they had remembered,
And toads give final goodbye croaks to no one in particular.
And I am there, sitting by the lake,
Enjoying nature.
Number One
Rob Garrett
I sit and wait for the day to arrive
When I can hold you in my hands again.
To be without you cuts just like a knife;
If it was a game I never could win.
Your taste, always divine, moves me to tears.
Your scent could drive the sanest man crazy.
Your touch, like a feather, so soft and dear
Makes me regret the times I’ve been lazy.
I’m in my car coming closer to you.
The anticipation drives me to sweat.
I’m longing and longing for every chew.
This will be a night I’ll never forget.
Please, reader, do not be taken aback.
My love is real—real love for a Big Mac.
6 The Russell Creek Review
Autumn’s Rite
Judith C. McCormick
Bitter spring’s walled garden has dreamed this dance, I know.
That marble idol in the smooth grass,
pitted, scarred, darkened by malignant mold
from swaying limbs above,
envisioned these contortions
among moon-glazed leaves’ decay.
Nowhere can it twirl now, I know.
It thrashes, imprisoned, tortured,
maims and blinds, night’s magic
loving the splendor of its moon falling—
short-lighted, heavy-sighted.
I know.
And yet—it is love, perfectly disappearing
into the seed, the idea
exploding.
In this grass, whirling centered, pink flesh
becomes ivory light flung wide.
And so I dance,
until love crystallizes, until human breath
strikes the cold skin, dissipates
under the cold gaze
of this youth.
Let me finish.
Let it finish.
Let me
dance.
Ode to a Notebook
Jennifer Lily
You know the words I wrote to Billy
and how to solve quadratic equations.
You hold my doodles and my dreams.
Thank you.
The Russell Creek Review 7
Stubs
Elizabeth Harris
Aside from the fact that my legs are lopped off at the knees,
I’m a fairly attractive man.
You wouldn’t notice the absence of my shins
if I was sitting at a linen-shrouded table.
Or lying in bed, with covers to my chin
and a pillow substituting for my phantom limbs.
Or if a countertop concealed my physique
from the waist-down.
But you don’t see the ripple of my biceps
beneath the cotton-spandex blend.
You don’t smell my after-shave.
All you notice is gangrene
and stubs.
The Love I Never Had
Hillary Wright
Does he know, I wonder?
I smile, I laugh,
but then she appears.
He’s taken aback by her beauty,
so life crumbles before my eyes.
No more smiles, no more laughter—
Only streaming tears at night,
Hopeless and heartsick.
How will I ever survive?
By supplication, prayer, my two allies,
and faith, my only hope.
8 The Russell Creek Review
Elegy for Apathy
Susan A. Wright
They buried another child today.
The earth was so baked and dry they strained to dig a grave;
the dirt crumbles as they fill in the hole.
Scorched summer grass won’t grow there,
and the mother won’t allow brown leaves to rot there.
Snow will come, and she will say, “Poetic.”
Her soul frozen and lodged in her throat.
If only she could squeeze a scream past the lump.
I gaze at the cemetery from my porch.
My nose is frostbitten, but sweat lines discolor my shirt.
I don’t just watch the black hearses, I’ve followed them:
grandparents, parents, friends.
Grief takes out my hair in clumps, leaves it to fertilize graveyard plots,
but I don’t notice. If I did, I wouldn’t care.
They buried another son or daughter, mother or father,
Pet dog, severed hand, marriage, religious faith.
Flushed a gold fish down the toilet tank.
If I’m allowed to bury anything,
then let it be the burden of my apathy.
Don’t leave a marker.
I Celebrate Myself
Patrick Young
I celebrate myself and sing myself:
My life’s pace is as steady as a cheap watch,
Either taking time when a deadline is near
Or rushing full speed with nowhere to go.
My will is strong, and I always achieve my goals,
Although this happens with several trips to visit
My good friend, procrastination.
I have good intentions but never follow through.
I am perfect, and my perfection lies
In my imperfection.
The Russell Creek Review 9
White Rose Birthday
Sarah Cross
Whenever I see the fragile petals
Of a single stark white rose
I am reminded of birthdays—
The sunshine beating down
On the entire extended family
And all of our friends
Gathered outside.
New spring grass tickling sandaled feet
And everyone softly recounting memories
Of years gone by
That can never come again.
But this is not my story.
My story is of my ninth birthday.
The day we buried Granny.
The day we buried my best friend,
My only confidant.
I stood amidst my cousins
In the sunshine
That did not deserve to shine.
Why didn’t the clouds mourn with us?
Did they not understand?
Tears slid down my face
As I kissed the delicate white rose
And threw it on the cold, steel casket.
The Most Important Thing in Life
Brittany Coyle
Demons from my past come to haunt me.
My life is far from perfect, but your love renewed my soul.
This happiness is one I’ve never known, but will God let us be?
Still, against all odds I’ll fight for us, so never let me go.
My hands are small compared to His, and His knowledge far surpasses mine.
But in your arms I understand the most important thing in life.
10 The Russell Creek Review
Girls at Eighteen
Hannah Boyd
Girls at eighteen,
Stepping forward
Out of tea party and dress-up days
Into the world of responsibilities.
Driving to a new place to call home,
Away from Mommy and Daddy,
Where decisions must be made
Day by day, big and small.
While asleep,
Dreaming of the future that awaits them:
Hopes of a family and career,
With a white picket fence around the perfect home.
While awake,
Stressing about how to make the dreams reality,
Trying to maintain a social life and relationships,
Not forgetting the importance of schoolwork.
A never-ending search
To discover who they are and where they belong
After they depart from the days of dress-up and tea parties
Into the world of responsibilities.
Never Say Bye
Darrion Terrell
The last words I heard from my dad:
“Never say ‘bye,’ always ‘see you later.’”
The words I live by now
And the words I’ll teach my son before it is my time to go.
The words tattooed on my brain,
And the words I swear by every day.
Bye is not just an ending to a conversation or a meeting,
Bye is the end. Period.
I’m not ready to say bye to anyone or anything.
So for now it’s “Never say ‘bye.’”
It’s always “See you later.”
The Russell Creek Review 11
An Old Forgotten Hill
Trask Murphy
I find myself alone, embracing all that is still,
sitting by myself on this old forgotten hill.
The cool, autumn air fills the atmosphere,
as I hear in the distance something drawing near.
It gradually grows louder, but the source remains concealed—
hidden from my sight, but a presence I can feel.
I remain silent, sitting humble and docile,
waiting for this peace that left me for a while.
I take in a deep breath and exhale all my grief;
a gentle hand on my shoulder gives me sweet relief.
The world fades away as I cling to this yoke of ease,
and the presence of my Father lingers in the breeze.
In the calm of Creation the Creator can be found,
if you simply stop and listen to His loving, diverse sounds.
The soft voice of God is calling you still,
a voice that can only be heard on an old forgotten hill.
Death Be Proud
Trevor Ervin
Death be proud, though some have denied thy power.
Supreme and frightful, thou art so
for those who doubt thy control
die. What victory—ye kill those who doubt thee.
Some say thy experience is of sleep and rest,
But they, ignorant of thy power, will not gain pleasure.
Ye take not just the best of men, but all,
And do not rest their bones nor deliver their souls.
Thou art not a slave but rather a master,
With thy poison, war, and sickness.
Thou can’t be compared to poppies and charms
Because thou induce sleep not.
Those who believe that eternal life be true
Know not what thy powers be.
12 The Russell Creek Review
My Salad
Lauren Di Gallo
My salad without dressing
Left me skinny and so depressing.
Life Continues
Brent Warf
This hole in my heart cannot be filled,
It cannot be felt,
It cannot be healed.
Why does this world not stop
At least when people are killed?
We watch souls sucked into oblivion.
Life continues.
We congregate around their corpses,
Lay them deep within the earth,
And we pay the casket fees,
Yet everything remains the same.
Life continues.
Grave stones arise anew,
Another “quote” to remember the forgotten,
Centuries pass,
And ages begin.
Life continues
Save the weak,
Save the unsaved,
Save the world,
It doesn’t matter.
Life continues.
The Russell Creek Review 13
High School Man
Janna Polston
He is not goals, values, or ideals
but a good accessory, designed to make girls squeal.
Dream
Janna Polston
Perhaps it was just a dream:
The remembrance of pattering little feet and big hearts,
greeting me with a sloppy kiss,
wanting chocolate milk and strawberry no-crust Poptarts.
It sets my soul agleam.
The channel changes. I wish I could savor that bliss.
Coke and Pepsi
Matt Egbert
Some say the earth will stand asunder
for all eternity.
From what I’ve tasted I’m in wonder
of this, the world’s colossal blunder.
For in my wisdom I clearly see
this truth that within me awoke.
No more lies, worthlessly glitzy,
for what is Coke,
but glorified Pepsi?
14 The Russell Creek Review
Shall I compare thee to an ogre’s stench?
Matt Egbert
Shall I compare thee to an ogre’s stench?
Thou art more putrid and more revolting.
Your winds doth Zeus’s golden gates entrench,
Even wretched Hades flees there, bolting.
Sometimes too near the sulf ’rous fumes approach
And around your head drift swarms of vermin.
With soap I encroach, with Scripture reproach,
“Please be gone from this God-fearing woman!”
But thy eternal stench, it will not fade,
No matter the countless threats against it.
I can only pray the boatman gets paid
A payment or blessing that he deems fit,
Else far and away, in the darkest night
Doth end your life, doth end your plight.
Secrets Yet Untold
Chasidy Shelton
You assume that I, I have no clue.
Oh, but how wrong, how wrong are you.
For one day I’ll say as I arise,
“Real eyes do realize your lies.”
The Russell Creek Review 15
The Memory
Toni Davila
The memory of you that is in my head will never fade away,
And I will use all the things you taught me from day to day.
Tests
Sara Beth Mattingly
As I study for a test, all I do is think.
But when I start to take the test, I find my thoughts all sink.
The One
Austin Blakeman
By design we are imperfect for sure.
By design we murdered the only man pure.
The Russell Creek Review 17
Photographs
Sarah Smith: Cathedral
Painting in
Reality
Ashley Holt:
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Solitude
Ashley Holt:
The Russell Creek Review 19
A Monet
Moment
Jennifer Lily:
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Butterfly,
Interrupted
Jennifer Lily:
The Russell Creek Review 21
Frozen in
Campbellsville
Jennifer Lily:
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Coliseum
Sarah Smith:
The Russell Creek Review 23
The Beach
Sarah Smith:
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Gondola
Ride
Sarah Smith:
The Russell Creek Review 25
“Into the
Mountains”
Susan A. Wright:
26 The Russell Creek Review
Stream in the
Wilderness
Susan A. Wright:
The Russell Creek Review 27
28 The Russell Creek Review
Rick Wilson: Golden Daffodil
The Russell Creek Review 29
Fiction
Ashley Holt: Beauty and Death
The Russell Creek Review 31
Gaze of a Different Kind
Sarah Smith
As she glared at the sunshine outside the window of room 104, Francis Morton
contemplated possibly refusing her medication again. She was settled in the orthopedically approved nursing home wheelchair with a typical scowl crinkling her face.
When she actually released the glower, which was seldom, she had very few wrinkles
for a woman pushing eighty. Perhaps the iron gray knot mercilessly wrought to the
top of her head pulled her severe face taut. Whatever the reason, the sparse wrinkles
present on her glaring countenance were merely frown lines and crow’s feet.
If I refuse my pills maybe they’ll move me out of here…anything will be better than
this….
“This” was Edith. Edith was the newest occupant of Room 104. Although
she met her less than a day ago, Francis Morton had already formed a solid opinion
of her new roommate. To put it delicately, she was a little eccentric. Mostly, Francis
just thought she was loony. Among her tamer traits, Edith apparently had a habit of
walking and talking in her sleep, so precautionary guard rails were in place to keep her
confined to her bed. Currently Edith was spewing forth a steady stream of nonsense
under her breath involving wheelbarrows, mailmen, and single malt whiskey—clearly
finding it very funny as she chortled away her afternoon nap.
Wrapped snugly in a fluffy sage afghan, Francis was still glaring from her
wheelchair by the screened window. She turned her attention back outside where the
fully blooming irises in their waves of lavender glory were hailing in the springtime.
Though their scent was wafting deliciously and filling the room, Francis glowered at
their gaily swaying heads before lowering her gaze back to her knitting. Unfortunately,
the tremors in her hands were growing more violent, so the needles clashed together
and tangled the yarn.
“Dern these dagum shakes, spoilin’ my work,” she grumbled as the project fell
from her gnarled hands to the floor. Unable to lift herself from the chair or lean
forward enough to reach it, Francis was in quite a fix. She was momentarily distracted
from her predicament as Edith’s monologue suddenly became explosive.
“Henry,” she beckoned. “Henry, you hush up!”
Francis soon found that silencing Henry was a usual dream of her roommate’s—
although contrary to first assumption, Henry was not Edith’s husband. Henry happened to be her dearly departed poodle. He had been dead and gone for some years
now but nearly every time Edith would drift into the haze of an afternoon nap that
old dog resurrected himself and commenced to barking. Apparently the poor old
woman preferred the silent version of Henry, so in between her sleep walking and
other pain-killer induced fancies, her goal was to keep the pup quiet.
Still trapped in her wheelchair, Francis stared in disgust as she slowly came to
the annoying realization that soon she would need to relieve herself. Since the slow
decline in her health had confined her to bed rest, she had ventured several times
to make the journey to the toilet on her own. All of said attempts had ended in her
lying stranded on the floor until an attendant could come, scold her like a child, and
tuck her back in bed. Twice she had badly broken her wrist, and another topple had
resulted in a fractured hip. Unwilling to risk more injuries, Francis had reluctantly
reached for her buzzer when she heard, over Edith’s steady flow of nonsense (now
about the best burger she had ever tasted) a knock at the door.
The smiling face of her eldest granddaughter poked around the corner, followed
by her lovely figure gliding across the room to administer a hug.
32 The Russell Creek Review
“How are you doing today, Gran?” she asked, setting down her purse and car
keys. Francis’ face distorted with yearning as Jen leaned nimbly over, easily snatched up
the stranded knitting and pulled up a seat opposite her grandmother’s wheelchair.
“How do you think I’m doing, Jen?”
“Gran, are you still not happy here? If you’re mad about the nurses again—”
“It ain’t all the nurses, it’s just them male ones. It ain’t fittin’. An’ on top of that,
one of them dern fools took all my candy. That warn’t no cheap stuff neither.”
“Gran, you know you can’t have candy because of your diabetes, and your other
health problems. How about I go get you some sugar free candy?”
“That stuff ’s downright terrible, and you know it. And about these dern male
nurses. T’other day one of ‘em came in here and tried takin’ off my slippers while
I was a-sleepin’. I tell you what, I let that rascal have it. I cursed him up one side
and down the other.”
“Oh, Gran. He was just trying to check the circulation in your feet.”
“Well, I don’t care. He shouldn’ta snuck up on me like that while I was restin’.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but there’s not a whole lot we can do about it.” The young
woman possessed a tone that suggested the finality of the matter, and Francis just
scowled in discontent.
“Anyway Gran, I noticed you have a new roommate. That’ll be nice to have
someone to talk to.”
The disgruntled grandmother was about to express her distinct distaste for her
new, very vocal compatriot. But the words didn’t have a chance to leave her pursed
and frowning lips. Edith had appeared suddenly beside them and was happily peering
out the window at the glorious spring day.
Now that she wasn’t confined to a hospital bed, Edith’s physique could be
clearly observed. Previously Francis had made her out to be sickly and frail with
little strength to do much of anything. Now though, she could see where the slim
but strong leanness had been mistaken for ill health. Edith wore a long cotton gown
with small ruffles on the sleeves and hem. The faded, pale green hue offset the near
translucency of her skin. Blue veins spidered their way up her hands and arms and
crept across her temples into the sparse, snowy whiteness of her straggly hair. She did
seem a little pitiful. But if she was, Edith didn’t take notice of it. She merely smiled
absently and searched the room for some other form of entertainment.
She must have practically vaulted right outta that bed to get over them rails. Francis
marveled at her roommate’s agility. But she couldn’t ponder Edith’s escape for long
because the aptly nimble old woman was now petitioning Jen to turn around and
look over her shoulder.
“Look…look right there. Watch out!” She pointed. “You see? There’s a devil
up there on top of the cabinet. He’s ‘bout to jump on your back. He’s gonna take
you for a ride!” she continued gleefully.
The young woman whom she had been addressing simply gaped back at her with
a mixture of astonishment and pity. In fact, after the initial shock had worn off, the
only expression present on Jen’s face was sympathy in the most condescending sense
of the word. She looked at the blathering lady as if she were a small sickly child being
abandoned by her parents. However, Edith paid no heed to the patronizing change in
expression on the girl’s face. She was happily carrying on an animated conversation
with the flowered bedspread next to Francis. Or rather, she was addressing someone
named Walter who had apparently forgotten his coat at the barber shop yet again
and should hurry-back-to-get-it-before-some-no-good-ruffian-walked-off-with-it.
Consequently, Walter must have followed orders and set off for the barber’s because
Edith then turned again to Francis.
The Russell Creek Review 33
“You know, I was walking down that hall yesterday and I saw a man with glasses
and a white coat slink up next to the dinner cart and put some kind of poison in the
food. I did! I saw it!”
She kept going on about what the man looked like and how he was poisoning
everybody when Jen asked her grandmother, “Gran, do you think we should ask
someone about that?”
“Well, Jen, I don’t kno—”
“And just when he was about to put something in my cup of chocolate pudding
a struttin’ little penguin with a bow tie came walking up and knocked that poison right
out of his hands. He saved me.”
“No. No, I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Francis commented.
Francis and her granddaughter continued to observe the mumbling Edith wander about the room, picking up a comb here, a picture frame there, marveling over
each one. Occasionally, she’d converse with the pair of women about her love of
croquet, and then begin to upbraid the bedpost for sneaking cookies before dinner.
In her blissfully altered state of reality she warmly visited with friends of long past;
caressed her sleeping children; perched upon her grandfather’s knee and renewed her
vows of love and commitment with her husband. She even drove a car for the first
time, ice-skated with a young beau, and attended her first opera.
The faces of the two observers by the window both depicted sympathy, but of
starkly different kinds. The youthful, rosy blush of Jen’s face blanched slightly with
some unforeseen dread. She was witnessing Time and Age without any hope for
happiness. The pity was tinged with a slight horror as she saw what she perceived to
be the inevitable. She swallowed the egg-sized lump in her throat and recomposed
her features to reflect mild pathos.
Francis, however, possessed a gaze of a different kind. Her features softened
to a warm blend of compassion and longing. The transformation on the severity
of her face produced an altogether pleasing effect. Her eyes reflected not the bleak
destruction of the human mind, but rather Francis saw Edith’s disconnection from
a harsh reality. From her confining chair Francis looked at her roommate as if she
could fly to the moon and enjoy freedom from that dreaded weight of gravity pressing down.
And she probably can fly, Francis thought. In fact she’ll just take a trip to the skies for
the afternoon and leave me here by this window.
Edith was now inspecting a potted plant by the window when a small robin
flitted lightly to the sill.
“Well, hello there, little fellow,” Edith crooned. “Are you enjoying the lovely
day? I think I’ll join you.”
And with that she made an about-face and shuffled towards the door. Upon
reaching it, she turned over her shoulder, leaned on the frame and inquired of the
two viewers, “Have you seen Henry? My dog? I think he wandered off again. He
does that so often. I just can’t think of where he’s gone—Wait…I hear him barking.
Henry! You come back here!” She swung around and dashed into the hall, chasing
Henry through the nursing home.
“That poor, poor woman,” Jen finally whispered. “How awful it must be.”
“No,” Francis said. “No, Jen. She’s content—that’s not awful at all.”
And the frail grandmother stared at the now vacant doorway for a long time
before reclining her head and closing her eyes. The faintest of smiles gently played
at the corners of her lips. When she opened her eyes again, it was to see her granddaughter feebly smiling through a fresh stream of tears.
34 The Russell Creek Review
Dearly Departed
Lindsey Hammers
It was late, and Johnny Carson was over so she turned off the television set,
or the “blue tube” as her husband used to call it. Ever since they had gotten married, they watched Carson every night before bed. She pulled off her daily clothes,
draped them over the cedar chest, and picked up her worn, pink lace nightgown.
It was his favorite one, and he had given it to her for their 65th anniversary. She
looked over at him resting in the bed, smiling to herself as the nightgown gently
and gracefully cascaded down her wrinkled, eighty-four-year-old skin.
Sitting down at her vanity, she undid her long grey hair. It floated down
out if its bun and landed beneath her shoulder blades, gently tickling the middle
of her back. She picked up the heavy tarnished silver hairbrush and began to
lightly stroke it through her coarse hair. Her feeble hands, aged and covered in
liver spots, shook with every stroke. She glanced at her frail face in the vanity
mirror and wondered where her beauty had gone. Her once-sparkling green eyes
had dulled, being hidden behind thick glasses, and her chestnut brown hair had
faded into a mundane grey tone. She stretched out the wrinkles that overlapped
on her cheekbones as if she was looking for her face, but it was buried under
something she couldn’t remove. Her face filled with gloom, and her eyes glazed
in a glassy look—the look that twists a person’s face right before she starts to
cry. She wondered if her husband still considered her beautiful.
Slowly, she moved from the vanity chair, sat on the edge of their bed, and
kicked off her slippers. Reaching for her oxygen mask that the doctor ordered her
to wear every night, she knocked off a picture that rested on the nightstand.
“Shoot,” she mumbled low under her breath, the words barely coming
out. She picked up the picture frame and dusted it off with great care. It was a
black and white picture from the early 1930s, showing them standing together
as husband and wife in front of their first house.
“You were so handsome,” she said as her thumb gently stroked the picture
of him. His pompadour-styled hair, jet black, was passed down to all four of their
children. She placed the photo back on the nightstand and put on her oxygen
mask, leaving the light on.
She lifted her legs onto the bed and scooted over beside him underneath
the monstrosity of a comforter. She looked over at him and then at the ceiling.
Sometimes she liked to just lie in bed, next to him, and think. It was very relaxing for her and a good way to clear her mind. She thought about the life that
they had shared together and the children that she hadn’t spoken to in years.
How they had worked so hard to give their children the best life possible, with
the chances they never had, and in return they received the cold shoulder. These
same children thought she was no longer mentally stable and needed to move
into a nursing home, but she refused, saying that she could never leave him. She
thought about the neighbors and how everyone in town thought she was crazy.
She was comforted in the thought, though, about how there was only one person
who didn’t make her feel unloved and unneeded, and that was her husband. So
for that reason, she never left his side.
“Well, goodnight, my love,” she whispered in his ear, but he was already gone,
in the deepest sleep imaginable. She reached for his boney hand and intertwined
her fingers through his skinless ones. She turned out the light, closed her eyes,
and then drifted off to sleep.
The Russell Creek Review 35
Statistic
Elizabeth Harris
Flopping down on my bed, I popped open the bottle of aspirin and stared
at its contents. There looked to be about thirty-five to forty pills still in the bottle.
What would happen if I emptied them all out? I thought. Surely it would kill me…maybe
half the bottle would be better. What if I took fifteen? If I only take fifteen, I’ll just get sick.
It will be just enough to scare everyone. Somebody will find me before I get too sick. Nobody
leaves me alone long enough to let me die. Besides, too many kids kill themselves today for
stupid reasons; I don’t want to be just like every other problem child. I deserve to be different.
I’m smarter than that—I know when to stop. It takes a lot of thought to calculate just where
that line between sickness and death is, and I know I can do it. I poured a stack of pills
into my hand, counting them slowly. I counted out seventeen, the same number
as my age. After staring at the simple, unassuming white tablets, I dumped them
back into their container.
My age isn’t the right number, that’s too cliché. No… I should probably take one for
every problem currently plaguing me; now that’s creative. No one will understand that system.
Even better: the worse the problem, the more pills I’ll take. Whenever they find me and fuss
over me for a while, I’ll explain everything to them. Maybe then they’ll understand the life
they’re forcing me to live. I started with my family. One pill for the comment my dad
made about young marriages being stupid, another three for the way my mother
made me feel about having the door to my room closed when my boyfriend was
there. Did she have that little trust in us? Two more pills for the sorrow I felt over
my dog’s death, a seventh pill for the way my sister made me feel irresponsible.
Rolling the pills over in my hand, I mentally congratulated myself for such an
ingenious idea.
Next, I chose relationships. I plucked out three pills for the pain I felt in
my relationship with God, saying a small prayer. God, I used to be your daughter. I
loved you, and you spoke to me. I knew what you wanted me to do, and I did it. How did this
fall apart? Now, I don’t even give a damn whether or not you’re real. You see? I’m cussing in
prayers. I wouldn’t do that if I thought you were real. Four more pills were added for
the relationship I had with my boyfriend. We were in love, of course; everyone
agreed. But I had sworn to myself I’d never let a relationship progress to the
point ours had until I was married, and now my body was acting suspicious. Don’t
let yourself think about that, it will only make things worse. Focus on the problems, not the
details. Besides, if you have a baby in there, these drugs will take care of it before anyone knows.
I chided myself a little more while shoveling out two more pills. I studied my
hand, counting how many pills I had so far: sixteen. That wasn’t nearly enough
to make me sick. There had to be more problems than this. If this was all I had,
what was the point in doing this?
I propped myself up on plush pillows, careful not to spill aspirin across the
sheets. I tried to think of what purpose my life held, why I was still stuck in this
same boring abyss I had found myself in since birth, but nothing of meaning
surfaced. Slowly, I measured out five more pills. How much damage could twenty-one
pills do to my body? I wondered. I only weigh ninety pounds, so I have to consider that, too.
Finally, I could wait no longer. I added four more pills while telling myself that
if my boyfriend didn’t love me enough to let me know where he was when he was
36 The Russell Creek Review
supposed to be here, he must not love me at all. Before I could change my mind,
I tipped my head back and began taking them five or six at a time, chasing each
dose down with a swig of water. I chugged them greedily, starving for the sweet
medication and its magical effects. At first, nothing felt different. I sat still for
a full fifteen minutes before doubt began creeping into my thoughts. Surely that
was enough to at least do something! I thought. I began counting out more pills when
I realized my hand was shaking. It started out as a trembling but began to grow,
and the tremors started shaking my entire body, causing the small aspirin bottle
to rattle like a baby toy. That’s when I knew the pills had entered my bloodstream.
Sweat began to break out in large, heavy beads across my forehead, but I was
so cold. My stomach felt as if it was twisting in knots, and I could feel sickness
bubbling up in my throat. I struggled to choke the nausea back, commanding
myself not to throw up. If you throw up, it won’t do any good! Besides, the medicine isn’t in
your stomach; it’s in your blood! I kept repeating to myself that this is what I wanted:
I wanted to be sick. I wanted someone to find me here and think I was dead. I
wanted that attention. No matter how many times I drilled those thoughts into my
head, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was doing this. Maybe my plan wasn’t as
smart as I’d considered it. The shaking grew worse and the nausea overpowering.
I forced myself to lean over the edge of the bed and throw up, violent heaves
that wracked my entire body, leaving me sweaty and breathless. The nausea might
be gone, but I still had to get the drugs out of my blood.
Slowly, I lurched towards the bathroom without stepping in the puke that
covered the floor. Three sinks wavered in front of me, each with matching pink
razors sitting on them. I reached out my quaking hand and groped for the one that
was real enough to cut through my skin and into my veins. I finally landed upon
something substantial, and I grasped the cold plastic handle. Pulling furiously, I
removed the blade and instantly pushed it into the underside of my forearm. I
cut and cut without any pattern, watching as the blood gushed down my arm. I
kept slicing until I felt weak. The shaking subsided. There, I thought, that’s what I
needed to do. See there, I feel so much better now. I should have known how stupid it was to
abuse drugs—people die that way. I kept repeating this in my head until the edges of
my vision darkened, and I realized that I had made a mistake. I shouldn’t have
cut so many times. The drugs weren’t out of my blood—my blood was out of
me. The world around me became fuzzy and black. “No, no! I’m sorry! I didn’t
mean to!” I screamed, my words slurring as my body lost power. I slid to the
ground, not feeling the impact of my head against the sink or the thud of my
body against the floor.
I had become a statistic.
The Russell Creek Review 37
The Love Finally Explored
Hillary C. Wright
A headline scrolled across her television:
PLANE CRASH NEAR BALTIMORE AIRPORT; FEW SURVIVORS
Shae had flipped on the local news channel and seen the inconceivable.
Delta Flight 125 had crashed. Hoping and praying it wasn’t Brody’s plane, Shae
frantically scoured through her planner for the blue Post-it where she’d scribbled
down his flight number.
“Delta Airlines Flight 125” it read.
“No!” she screamed in desperation and heartache. “It can’t be him….”
The tranquil sound of birds chirping seeped through Shae’s bedroom
window. The early-morning Baltimore sunshine delicately lit her brownstone
townhouse. She was awakened by the alarm on her BlackBerry. It belted out an
all-too-familiar song—one that she’d partied to at a concert with Brody just five
months earlier: “City of Blinding Lights” by U2. As she raised her head from
her feather pillow, she began humming and then singing the lyrics. “And I miss
you when you’re not around/I’m getting ready to leave the ground/Ooh Ooh
Ooh/Ooh Ooh Ooh/Oh you look so beautiful tonight/In the city of blinding
lights.”
This is your day! she thought to herself.
It was her day. Tonight was her first official date with the man she’d secretly
adored for the past six years: Brody, her best friend. At just the thought of him
she felt butterflies in her stomach.
Shae plopped down on her living room couch with a bowl of cream of
wheat to watch a beloved episode of Dawson’s Creek, of which she owned every
season on DVD. Images of Brody kept appearing in her head.
She and Brody had been best friends since college at Columbia. He was a
tall man who had reached the pinnacle of style and charm; he could easily have
come right out of ER, with blond hair, blue eyes, and beach-tanned skin. She was
proud of him and all of his accomplishments—performing difficult surgeries;
sacrificing his mental and physical reserves to save lives; and becoming one of
the top surgeons in the nation for his specialty—but most of all, for his compassion towards his patients.
They’d both confessed their feelings for each other over dinner at Brody’s
flat in Manhattan the previous month. Brody had cooked her favorite dinner of
grilled salmon with fresh asparagus and red wine. Midway through dinner their
admissions surfaced.
“How long are we going to pretend that there’s nothing going on here?”
Brody asked, much to Shae’s surprise. In shock, she tried to gracefully gulp down
her mouthful of buttery asparagus.
“What are you talking about?” she replied.
“You know what I mean,” Brody said. “This. Us. We’ve been dancing
around the issue too long.”
By this time, tears were welling up in Shae’s eyes. Is this really happening? she
thought. Is Harrison Brody Wellington telling me that he has feelings for me? The next
words he uttered stunned her.
38 The Russell Creek Review
“I’m in love with you, Shae,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so
long, but I was just…scared. I didn’t want to lose our friendship.”
Tears streamed down her face, but no words would form in her mouth.
Brody reached across the table and took hold of her hand, stroking the top of it
with his thumb. Finally, after a minute of wiping tears, Shae collected her thoughts.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve loved you since our sophomore year of
college, and I’ve waited so long to hear those words.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly.
“Me, too.” Shae squeezed his hand and smiled. “So where do we go from
here?”
“Well, I’d like to take you on a proper date.”
“Really?” Shae asked, somewhat taken aback.
“Yes,” he said, “but I know your flight leaves tomorrow, and you go back
to work on Monday. So I was thinking I could fly in next weekend.”
“That’s perfect!” She grinned, then excused herself to go to the bathroom
and freshen up her face, adding a tad more bronzer, mascara, and chocolateflavored lip gloss.
When she returned to the dining room, Brody handed her a saucer with
a slice of chocolate cheesecake. They ate their dessert and sipped more wine
before popping in Hitch, a chick-flick they both enjoyed. Shae snuggled next to
Brody, and he put his arm around her.
It was just like old times, she thought, but with a wonderful twist of romance.
Unexpectedly, Brody turned toward Shae, brought his hand to her face, and kissed
her. It was one of those soft kisses that reminded her of why she liked kissing
in the first place. His lips caressed hers again and again, and they lay back on the
couch. As he planted soft pecks on her face she hesitantly shuddered.
“Brody, I can’t… I won’t….”
“I know,” he said. “I just couldn’t help myself.”
She kissed him back this time, but staying true to her convictions, Shae slept
alone in Brody’s gigantic king bed that night while he slept on the couch.
She flew back to Baltimore Sunday afternoon, still feeling ecstatic. He texted her that night, asking how her flight was, which led to them messaging each
other all through the night.
Shae finished her last spoonful of cream of wheat and washed off her hydrating facial mask. She dressed in her favorite black pinstriped suit, and somehow
work was not as stressful today. She walked into her office beaming. Even her
co-workers noticed a difference.
Her Gmail account was filled with miscellaneous items, but the only one
she cared to open was the one from Brody:
Had a great time. Can’t wait to see you!
Brody
She beamed with excitement and looked over her “to-do” list and calendar,
which consisted of news releases to write and a book proposal to finish.
Over the next few days, Shae and Brody texted, emailed each other, and
talked on the phone. They’d agreed to try a long-distance relationship, at least for
now. After all, they were both just getting established in their careers.
He sent a text to Shae on Friday afternoon before boarding his plane:
Getting on the plane. See you soon.
Brody
The Russell Creek Review 39
Now she really couldn’t wait for him to come. She dressed in a pale pink
sundress and pinned her hair into a sleek updo.
She drank a glass of white zinfandel, waiting patiently for a cab to pull up
to the sidewalk next to her house. As the hours went by, she flipped through the
episodes of Grey’s Anatomy she’d TiVo’d over the last month.
Try to stay calm, he’s probably okay, Shae tried to convince herself, only for her
mind to rebel. How could this be happening? This was finally my chance to be with the man
I love, and now it could be over forever!
She sat on the couch, trying to contain herself, but she couldn’t slow her
tears.
He’s okay, I know it! she kept repeating to herself.
Shae called the news channel to see if they had received a list of survivors.
They hadn’t. That depressed her even more.
At about 2:16 a.m., Shae’s cell began ringing. Tired and frustrated, she
turned to look at the caller id. It was Brody. She nearly fell off the couch trying
to hit the talk button. When she answered, she heard the most beautiful sound
in the world—Brody’s voice.
“Are you okay? What happened? Where are you?” Shae asked, nearly hysterical with relief.
“I’m in a cab on the way to your house. Just hang in there until I arrive,
okay?” Brody replied calmly.
“Okay.” Shae hung up, freshened up her makeup again, and combed out
her now destroyed updo.
When her doorbell rang, she ran as fast as she could to greet him. When
she opened the door, all she could do was fall into his arms.
He kissed her. “I love you,” he said, then shook his head. “I can’t believe
we nearly lost what we have together right as it began.”
“I love you, too,” she replied, taking him by the hand and pulling him into
her apartment, “and it’s a love I won’t be taking for granted.”
40 The Russell Creek Review
The Depression
C.S. Branam
It’s easier to be sad than it is to be happy. She thought about this as her
stomach growled. Regina spoke to her belly, stretched to its limit by the little one
inside. “I’m sorry, dorogaya moya, please forgive me.” It was easier to be sad.
It hadn’t always been true. It wasn’t true when she was a child. It wasn’t
true when she first met Samuel. He was 18 and had just returned from France
where he had been fighting in the war; she was 16. That was 1919. Now it was
1932. Things were getting worse all the time. Neither of them had known riches;
both of their parents were immigrants—his Irish, hers Russian—but it is the way
of children to not understand poverty. Now, though, they understood poverty
all too well.
As her stomach growled again, she thought, It is easier to be sad.
The apartment was empty in all senses of the word. There was nothing
in it. There was no carpet on the floor. The yellow wallpaper fell from the walls
like dead skin. No furniture except for a mattress and a box they used as a table.
And there was no one for Regina to talk to; often she would go all day without
speaking until Samuel got home, and even then sometimes the words were few.
The loneliness made her stomach feel even emptier.
Regina left the apartment, and while climbing the stairs—not an easy task
this late in her pregnancy—she heard “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries” playing
over someone’s radio. When she finally made it to the top of the stairs, she took
the door out onto the roof. It was a hot, muggy night in New York City, and the
air was thick with the sweat of millions of New Yorkers. She and Samuel had
started a garden on the roof. She pulled a potato and a beet from the dirt. The
potato was small and had a green spot on the skin, the pink beet’s roots were small
and the leaves were filled with tiny holes. She headed back downstairs. Tonight
she would make borscht for Samuel. She chopped the potato and beet and added
them to the pot. She added a little vinegar to the beets for flavor, and then she
added some water and a few spices to the pot. This wasn’t the borscht she had
eaten as a child, but it was the best she could do. Regina poured the soup into a
ceramic bowl with a large chip in one side.
“Such heat I have never seen,” she said as she poured a cup of water from
the faucet. Regina took a long sip from the glass as beads of sweat formed on it
and her. She ran the glass along her forehead and around the side of her neck.
The nightgown she wore was damp with sweat. It hung off her shoulders by
two thin straps and was snug against her plump belly. Regina walked over to the
window next to their bed—an old mattress set on the floor. She set the glass on
the wooden crate that had become their nightstand and sat on the floor. The
floor was made up of crooked, uneven wooden boards. Regina lay back on the
floor and put her feet up on the bed. She stared at the ceiling with the water stain
that looked like coffee spilled on a white shirt. She looked but she saw nothing;
she looked past the ceiling into her future, into her baby’s future. Where would
they be in another year? Would Samuel have a job that was steady? Would the
baby have clothes to keep it warm, food to keep the stomach full? Would there
be a bed for the baby to sleep on? She looked past the ceiling into her past. She
saw the time when the new dresses in the store were not too much money. There
The Russell Creek Review 41
was a time when the lights of the marquis welcomed her with movies like Greed,
The Gold Rush, and Metropolis. There were times which were better—never times
of wealth, but times when there was enough money to go out on the town. All
of that was before the miscarriages, before these dark feelings.
Now as Regina tried to look forward to the good times to come she saw
only the ceiling, with the bare light bulb hanging down. So used to tears running
down her cheeks, Regina was unaccustomed to the feeling of them running out
of the outside corners of her dark eyes and across her temples. They mixed with
sweat as they dropped gently across the tops of her ears. She wiped them off
her face, but could still feel them damp in her hair. Regina pulled her nightgown
above her pregnant stomach and lifted her head so she could see the evidence
of life growing inside of her. Her fingers ran across her stretch marks, counting
them. She had seen Samuel touching a bayonet scar he had on his chest, his eyes
always went back to the moment he had gotten the scar: pain, but also pride was
in his eyes. She too was proud of these discolorations along her stomach.
Just then the door opened, and Samuel walked into the apartment. Regina
lifted her eyes and head so that she could see him. Samuel was not a tall man,
but his frame and muscles had a strong, equine look to them. His Irish roots
showed in the red hair he parted down the middle, and the fine red hair that
covered his forearms.
“Regina, what are you doing on the floor?” he asked as he walked to her to
help lift her. He placed a hand on her back between her shoulder blades, and he
grabbed her soft fingers in his rough, muscular hand. He helped her to a sitting
position against the wall.
“Look at all my belly marks. See how many?” she asked.
Samuel in a ludic tone said, “I would love you if you had a million more of
them.” He leaned down and kissed the stretch marks across her belly. Then he
looked in her eyes; he could tell she had been crying but didn’t say anything. He
knew how women became when they were pregnant, but he couldn’t remember
the last time she had been happy.
“Hello, love,” he said.
“Hello. How was your day? Work was good today?”
Samuel stood and began to undress as he told her about work. Work was
something Samuel and Regina were familiar with; work was constant; employment
was temporal. He hung his hat—stained with the salt of the sweat he had poured
into it for the last 10 years—on the side of the chair. He told her of standing
outside the shipyard while men behind him hadpressed against him. He took
off his shoes, accidentally flashing the bottom of the right sole and the hole in
it. She frowned at that. All of them had been trying to get to the front, where
the owner of the shipyard was doling out jobs for the day. Samuel slid off his
suspenders and threw his trousers over the chair. The owner could take only five
men, so Samuel had puffed his chest out and tried to look like the best man for
the job. He demonstrated this as he stood there in his boxer shorts. The owner
had picked him and told him he could come back tomorrow as well.
“Samuel! That is good!” she cried. “Now you need to eat something. I
made borscht.”
“Did you eat anything?”
“I had some earlier,” she lied.
He brought the bowl over to her and set it on the floor. “Well, you’ll eat this too.”
42 The Russell Creek Review
She pleaded with him. “Samuel, you must eat! You work all day in this heat.”
She hardly ever saw him eat. He always gave his food to her. She knew he went
into the soup kitchens, because he would sometimes sneak her out something.
He was a proud man, she knew, and it was hard for him to stand in that line with
his head down, admitting he couldn’t provide.
“No, you must eat. All you want to do is sleep and eat nothing. I want a big,
fat baby, Regina,” he told her. “Speaking of….” Samuel walked out the apartment
door into the hallway and returned with a very large box he must have hidden
by the door before he walked in. He brought it over to her; he set it on the floor
in front of her, but where she could not see into it. She sipped the soup out of
the side of the bowl as she watched him.
First, he pulled out some apples. “You can eat these tomorrow.” There was a
surplus of apple vendors in the streets of New York; it was a step above panhandling and Samuel had trouble saying no to these people when he had money.
Now he stood and leaned over the box. “I was working with a fellow today,
and I got to telling him that I had a wife that was pregnant and about ready to
bust if she didn’t have this baby soon. He told me that he was a father of three
girls and a wee boy, and that they had all got so big they’d outgrown some of their
things. So I followed him home and….” Samuel put his arms into the box and
pulled out a handful of old baby clothes. Regina was speechless as he laid them
in her lap. She ran her fingers across the soft, worn-in material of the gowns,
running her other hand across her stomach at the same time.
“There’s one more thing,” he said as he delved into the box again. This
time he pulled out an old wooden rocking cradle and set it before her. Regina
was barely able to utter a sound as she reached into the cradle to feel the cushion
inside. She imagined her child sleeping in it. A sudden warmth began to build
inside of her and burst out in the form of tears, but unlike any tears she had
cried before. These tears came with a happiness and peace she had thought she
would never have again. The passion with which she cried took Samuel aback,
and he had almost begun to wonder what he had done wrong when she opened
her arms to invite him into her embrace. He smiled as her delicate arms wrapped
around his neck with more strength than he thought her capable of.
“I will always be there, for both of you,” he said with one hand resting
upon her belly.
She pulled away from him and, looking at him with red eyes, said in a delicate
voice, “Can we sleep outside tonight?”
“Of course we can; anything to escape this heat.” Samuel helped his offbalance wife to her feet and then began dragging the mattress to the window. He
stepped out onto the fire escape and pulled the mattress out with him. Stepping
across the mattress, Samuel went back over to the window to help Regina out
and onto the mattress. Several families were out on their fire escapes; the night
air was growing cooler, and it was a welcome relief from the heat. As Samuel
lay back and put his hands under his head, Regina lay her head on his muscular
chest. She felt the rise and fall of his torso and could hear the air filling and
escaping his lungs. Regina looked up into the dark night. It all looked flat, like a
dark blanket thrown over the earth to hide the sun. She knew there was depth
there though, and she peered into the black sky searching for something. Then
she saw it. Making their way through the black, three stars all in a row winked
and shone through the steel frame of the fire escape.
The Russell Creek Review 43
“Samuel, what is that?” She nudged him and pointed up at the three stars.
He opened his eyes and looked at the constellation.
“Oh that’s that guy’s belt, Irish fellow—O’Ryan. Yeah, that’s O’Ryan’s belt.
Those three stars are always next to each other.”
She pulled herself closer into his body. “Samuel, will we be okay?”
“Yeah, Regina, we’ll be okay.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and they slept.
44 The Russell Creek Review
Editorial Policies
The editorial staff of The Russell Creek Review encourages submissions of
poetry, short fiction, creative nonfiction, and artwork from any current Campbellsville University student. While preserving the freedom of creative expression,
standards of decency regarding language and images are carefully observed. The
editors reserve the right to edit both the form and, in rare cases, the content of
submissions. Final decisions regarding the acceptance or rejection of questionable content are reserved for the editorial staff.
All submissions to The Russell Creek Review must be typed and contain the
following information: name, phone number, local address, class, major, and
hometown of the writer/artist. All artwork and photographs should be submitted in camera-ready black and white. Any submissions accepted for publication
must be sent electronically to the editorial staff by the deadline announced upon
acceptance.
The ideas and views expressed in The Russell Creek Review are solely those
of the writers/artists and do not necessarily reflect the ideas and views of either
the editorial staff or Campbellsville University itself.
Comments and inquiries may be e-mailed to:
Dr. Susan A. Wright
[email protected]