The Harbinger - Bethany College

cover
The Harbinger
the student literary magazine of bethany college
2009
The Harbinger
2009
Dedicated to Dr. Larry Grimes for his decades
of devotion to the literary arts at Bethany College.
Editor
Jade Bragg
Genre Editors
Poetry / Jade Bragg
Visual Art / Haley Fedor
Nonfiction / Brittany McAdoo
Fiction / Jenny Preston
Readers
Catherine Papp, Amanda Thomas,
Kelsey Kirschmann
Faculty Advisor
Wiley Cash
Front and Back Cover Art
Kelly Medkeff-Rose
Table of Contents
Jeff Seglin / A Deep Well // 1
Kelsey Kirschmann / Wooden Bench // 3
Ben Cope / 2/11/1973 // 4
Jenny Preston / Bark Deep // 6
Stephanie Laine / The Frog // 8
Justin Elkins / Jan’s Suicide // 10
Jade Bragg / Tuesday // 13
Ben Cope / An Ode to the Frozen Burrito // 14
Brian DiCola / Haiku U // 15
Kevin Clancy / Whiskey Is Liquid Sunshine // 16
Jenny Preston / Grape Soda Kisses // 21
Haley Fedor / Le Maître Rouge // 23
Pasha Utt / Path // 24
Anastasia Kydonieus / Worship // 27
Jade Bragg / Two-Sided Time // 28
Kelsey Kirschmann / Man+kind++rag+doll=(-or+)? // 30
Stephanie Laine / The Gifts of the Gods // 32
Amanda Thomas / The Drought // 37
Ben Cope / An Exploration of Self // 38
Haley Fedor / Mud and Baby Boots // 39
Jenny Preston / My Beloved // 40
Justin Elkins / The Mind of a Truth Manufacturer // 45
Marcie Zampini / A Misc. Monologue. // 48
Ben Cope / The Storm // 51
Marcie Zampini / Untitled // 52
Haley Fedor / The Nymph // 53
Kelsey Kirschmann / Embraces Ascending with Fingertips Opening // 57
Anastasia Kydonieus / Narcissa: A Tale of Toxins // 59
Hannah Farwell / The Morgue // 68
Emily Stewart / Hospice // 69
Amanda Thomas / A Personal Vicissitude // 70
Gerad Cervanak / Ode to an Elder // 71
Stephanie Laine / Horse Play // 74
Art/ Photos
Devin O’Leary / 5 // 25 // 67 // 75
Kelly Medkeff-Rose / 12 // 19 // 44 // 49 // 50 // 55 // 66
Amanda Reeder / 20
Jennifer Fleahman / 26 // 56
Elizabeth Foy / 29
Kimberly Foflygen / 36 // 73
Jeff Seglin
A Deep Well
In 1978, Larry Grimes took a sabbatical from Bethany College and
went to Europe. I was a senior at Bethany at the time – an English major. I
was also the editor of the Harbinger.
On a thin blue pre-paid airmail post, Larry sent a handwritten poem,
titled “End,” to be considered as a contribution for the magazine. I typed
out the poem to include with the other submissions that were slated for the
issue. I got one line wrong. I interpreted Larry’s handwriting as: “Beyond
the worn limestone steps over the old well.” It should have been: “Beyond
the worn limestone steps over the old wall.”
Larry’s poem was featured on the back page of the issue. He didn’t mention the mistake until I asked him about the issue.
“That line doesn’t make sense with the typo,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He pointed out the mistake and then told me that the reference was to
the limestone steps over the wall in the old cemetery in Bethany. Had I
been a more attentive Bethanian, or a better reader of poetry (few wells
have steps over them), I might have caught the error.
Larry taught me to be a better editor.
In the 1970s, when there was a larger enrollment at Bethany, students
were permitted to live off-campus. I was the last student to live in Larry
and Carol Grimes’ basement. Occasionally, I would join Larry and another
professor at Bethany, Ron Walden, on a morning run up Castleman Run
Road to the lake and back. None of us were seasoned long-distance runners back then, so the run back from Castleman Run Lake was far more of
a challenge than the run to it.
On one morning run, Larry joked about hitching a ride back home. As
we reached the lake, there drinking from it stood an old gray horse. I believe I dared Larry and Ron to ride the horse back home. They didn’t but
its appearance gave us the boost we needed to easily complete the second
leg of the run.
Larry taught me that the imagination may not always yield what you
envision, but it can sometimes produce a horse.
After I completed a graduate degree at Harvard Divinity School, I visited
Larry and Carol for dinner. Larry had gone to divinity school at Yale, as
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had Bethany professors Richard Kenney and Hiram Lester, who joined us
for dinner that night. When dinner was finished, the three of them presented me with a framed photocopied Yale Divinity School degree. On the
degree, they had written my name.
“We figured that if you’re going to put in all that work,” Larry said, “you
ought to get a degree from a real university.”
Larry taught me that humility can be a funny thing.
Several years later, Larry agreed to perform the wedding ceremony for
me and my soon-to-be wife, Nancy. The ceremony was in the Andover
Chapel in Harvard Divinity School’s Andover Hall. The morning of the
wedding, he noticed there was no bible in the chapel. (Yale, of course,
would have had a lovely bible on hand.) The only bible we could find was
a dog-eared bright-red copy of the Oxford Annotated Bible.
“Is this the only bible available?” Larry asked.
A friend went home and retrieved a leather-bound bible we could use.
“Much better,” Larry said.
Larry taught me that attention to detail can transform an experience.
We received the call we knew we might eventually get. Larry and Carol
had promised to phone us if they thought our last opportunity to be with
Helen Louise McGuffie, who had been both Larry’s and my professor at
Bethany, was drawing near.
“It’s time,” Carol said when she called.
Nancy and I drove directly to the hospital where Helen Louise had been
since suffering a stroke and falling in her house. We were going to meet
Larry and Carol there and help move Helen Louise from the hospital back
to her house.
Helen Louise had lost the ability to speak. It was unclear what she was
aware of as she slipped in and out of consciousness. As the four of us
helped roll her bed into her house, Helen Louise looked up and said one
word, “Home.”
Larry taught me that a teacher can become a friend, and that there are
few things stronger than the bond of friendship.
Jeff Seglin, a 1978 graduate of Bethany College, is currently an Associate Professor at
Emerson College. His weekly ethics column, “The Right Thing,” is syndicated by the
New York Times Syndicate. His essays have appeared in The New York Times, Fortune,
and he is the author of The Right Thing: Conscience, Profit and Personal Responsibility
in Today’s Business.
2
Kelsey Kirschmann
Wooden Bench
This
is living.
Waiting,
lying on my back
thinking,
arms folding,
listening to the creaking
of my boots
as my legs
are bending over
the side of the bench.
My eyes surface
to the bright lights flooding
from a floating white ceiling
to stale yellow walls.
I hear her say
My heart hurts
I hear.
Breathing.
3
Ben Cope
2/11/1973
Pittsburgh, PA.
West Liberty Ave.
Tom’s Diner
2:17 a.m.
I sit across from you,
inhaling the harsh tobacco incenses
of the diners.
I place my hand on yours
and unsettle your legs.
Eros curbs our conversation.
A waitress comes by and burdens us
with coffee too hot for anything
except your timid exhale.
I breathe in the wafted scent, of
coffee, perfume – and
your breath.
I get the check
and walk you home –
over the snow-dusted streets.
4
Devin O’ Leary
5
Jenny Preston
Bark Deep
For whom does the weeping willow weep, I wonder? Maybe it is not a
whom but a What? Perhaps a Why? She stands with her back hunched, her
ratty locks skimming the darkened waters of the pond. Why does she look
so lonely?
“Willow tree,” I ask. “Why are you sad?”
“Look at me child. I do not stand tall like the mighty oak, my bark
doesn’t shine like the beautiful birch, and my leaves will never look like
the majestic maple.” I sit in silence for a few moments, contemplating
what she said. An idea sprouts inside me, as a grin paints itself on my face.
“What are you smiling at?” The willow tree inquires.
“I’ll be right back! Don’t go anywhere!” I realized how silly it was of
me to say that. She is rooted to the ground, after all. I ran to the oak tree,
my legs carrying me as fast as they could. “Mr. Oak Tree, Mr. Oak tree!” I
huffed trying to catch my breath. “I need your help! My friend, the Willow tree, wants to stand tall and mighty like you do. Can you give her
lessons?” The mighty Oak tree stiffened straighter, if it were possible, and
said to me, “I’d be happy to give the old woman lessons, child. However,
nobody can stand as mighty as I do. I have noble blood you know.” I sat
and listened to everything the Oak tree had to tell me on how to reach for
the sky. When he was finished, I thanked him and galloped away once
again to the Birch tree on the hill side.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Birch. My friend, the Willow Tree, wishes to have bark
as beautiful as yours. Would you give her some of your bark so she too
feels pretty?” The Birch tree tossed her branches and laughed innocently at
me. “I work so hard to keep my bark in good condition. There is a lot of
exfoliation involved, and that is rather painful, mind you. Never-the-less,
I’d be happy to lend my beauty to the poor old woman. She may need a
bark lift as well. Also, would you tell her that the pond water reeks havoc
on her leafs. She should really look into using spring water, it’s the only
water I use.” I nodded, and helped myself to a few flakes of bark.
“Thank you!” I scampered off to my last destination; the maple
tree. He was majestically handsome, I had to agree. His trunk was
just the right width and his branches fanned out in perfect symmetry. But the leaves were absolutely perfect. It was no wonder the Willow Tree envied him. “Hello Maple tree. I was wondering if I could
borrow some of your leaves to give to my friend, the Willow Tree.
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She wants to have beautiful leaves too.”
“Look at my leaves, they are perfect aren’t they? Marvel at my branches
too for they are perfect as well. Notice my trunk, perfect in width is it not?
Because I am without flaw, I would be delighted to lend out my perfect
leaves. Take as many as you’d like, but be sure everyone knows that these
leaves belong to me.” I plucked a handful of leaves from the oaks branches and hurried back to my waiting friend.
“I have a gift for you, Willow Tree. Look! Lovely leaves from the Maple
tree, beautiful bark from the Birch tree, and standing tall lessons from
the Oak tree! We’re going to make you beautiful. I scattered the flawless
flakes of bark around my friends knobby trunk and intertwined her locks
with beautiful maple leaves. “Now, Mr. Oak Tree says that in order to
stand tall you have to grip the ground with your roots and reach for the sky
with your branches. Try it! You too can be tall and mighty!”
The Willow Tree laughed, “Okay, child. I’ll humor you.” I felt the earth
tremor as she dug her roots firmly into the ground. Her heavy branches
reached for the sky and her gnarled trunk straightened ever so slightly.
“How do you feel!” I yelled excitedly.
“Ridiculous,” she replied. She let down her branches, removing the
leaves one by one. She settled her trunk, upsetting the birch bark and it
floated to the ground. “Child, listen to me. I am the Weeping Willow tree.
I do not reach for the stars, my bark is scarred and harsh, and my leaves
aren’t really leaves at all. I was not meant to be majestic, nor beautiful, nor
handsome. I am a Weeping Willow, and my job is to weep.”
7
Stephanie Laine
The Frog
Sitting on
his muddy throne
with yellow
eyes that watch
the stream see everything
a fly
a fish
a falling
tree branch.
His sleek rubbery
body is muddy
brown and grassy green
indiscernible from
the scum
and leaves he’s swaddled in.
The stream
roars past
him on some busy
errand, a silver
lined fish slithers
over a rock in haste.
Twigs and leaves
are screeching by, not
pausing to see
the mud
king sitting
there waiting and
watching and
sitting
oceans
of water flowing
past in a single day.
Cool mud
below
above
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around.
A fly
comes closer,
his yellow
eyes don’t blink.
9
Justin Elkins
Jan’s Suicide
Jan saunters into work this Friday with a Mona Lisa smile. She’s
worked here at Greenville Mortgage as a secretary for more than 20 years.
No surprise she’s sauntering; she’s been here longer than the manager.
She knows everything there is to know about this place, and she can do
what she wants. For everyone else in the office, Casual Friday’s attire has
limits, but Jan has always considered herself an envelope pusher – the pun
gets her every time.
“Love the shirt, Jan,” says Kathy as she passes by Jan’s desk. Her tone
rings of poorly masked contempt in Jan’s ears.
“Uh huh,” Jan replies as she looks up from her work at Kathy. “Oh, that
Kathy is such a bitch,” rattles Jan’s mind. “Next time she comes by, I’m
gonna tell her how that purple pantsuit makes her look like Grimace. It’s
ugly. The color of a box of ‘Good and Plenty’ candies. Hah, good and
plenty. The same thing she hides under that hideous pantsuit.” Jan smiles
approvingly at her internal wit.
Kathy had commented on the light blue t-shirt Jan bought on vacation
two winters ago. (Jan knows that vacations to sunny locales are cheaper
in the winter.) The shirt reads, “Hawaii is for Lovers,” and shows a
landscape of the sun setting over a beach with two palm trees adjacent.
Unmarried, she had vacationed alone. But while on the island of the setting sun, she met a nice boy in the hotel bar who was on a trip with his
parents. The parents had gone to an expensive restaurant, so both Jan and
the boy were alone, together. Inside her shirt, Jan recalls the heat she felt
from the humidity and the sticky muck left on her knuckles when she
and the boy returned to the bar from the empty beach. Jan feels power in
wearing such a provocative shirt although no one else in the office knows
the story.
As Jan scans the mail addressed to her coworkers, she begins preparing
for the night ahead. It’s only 9:15, but Jan and her two remaining office
friends are going to Applebee’s for happy hour after work. Jan considers
it her time to be the crowd-pleaser she knows herself to be. The four years
spent at Randolph-Macon College, the 6th biggest party school according
to The Princeton Review, taught her the value of friendship by exclusion,
and now she’s a master of it.
The layout of the cubicles in the office is mirrored in small boxes above
Jan’s desk, which are horizontally lettered and vertically numbered. Jan
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holds a letter addressed to Chris in cubicle B2. She’s looking at the letter
while imagining herself seated on a barstool at Applebee’s. “Just because
he shaved his head, are we supposed to imagine that he’s not going bald?”
Jan’s thoughts get a roaring laugh of approval from her friends though
she’s still seated at her desk. “And did you see his girlfriend in the parking
lot yesterday? No wonder he told her to wait outside!” Even the bartender
is laughing with Jan.
The clean white envelope glides into the box marked “B2”. She lovingly
runs her pointer finger down its edge, thanking Chris’ failing follicles and
poor choice in mate for her side-splitters. She rattles off a few more digs
before moving on.
“Patsy in D5 got a letter from the home office in New Hampshire. I bet
she’s getting fired. Hell, she ought to be fired for wearing those awful pinstripes. I swear she looks more like Babe Ruth every time I see her!”
She’s so pleased with herself that she slaps her desk in sober revelry. She
imagines doing the same at the Applebee’s, spilling her Presidente Margarita across the bar. No worries. The young bartender thinks it’s so funny
he brings her another one on the house.
The next letter in her stack is addressed to an old friend. They don’t
talk much anymore since their once-confidential conversation. “And what
about Ben in E3? Did you see the calendar he hung up in his cubicle?
Yeah, buddy. I’m sure your patriotism made you buy the one with hunky
firemen. That guy is gayer than AIDS!”
Jan repeats this virulent and hilarious cycle for each person who receives
a letter in the office – her pointer finger poking each envelope as if it were
the recipient’s sternum. Finished with sorting the mail, an intern comes
by and collects it. He turns his back without a word and walks off into the
maze of cubicles to distribute the inspiration for Jan’s thoughtful zingers.
Having nothing left to do, Jan resigns herself to play Solitaire until
lunch. She mindlessly moves the mouse over alternating reds and blacks
thinking about minority jokes. When she gets all the cards into four neat
columns, she moves them one by one into their assigned spaces. The last
card, the King of Hearts, also known as the Suicide King, falls into place.
For some reason, she remembers a childhood visit to the doctor and the
games in the waiting room. She always loved the shapes game – the round
peg goes in the round hole, the square peg goes in the square hole. It’s
simple to put everything in its place. It’s simple to win.
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Kelly Medkeff-Rose
12
Jade Bragg
Tuesday
We are off the beaten path
shedding inhibitions like
peacoats and gloves without
fingers at doors where dim
lights cast promising glows
on dirty hands holding
dollar bills and half smoked
cigarettes.
We are in the red-veined room
reclining and embracing
when the aortic beats reanimate
one by one by twos and threes
and reggae soul flows
from fingertips down legs and
laughter travels through
clapping.
13
Ben Cope
An Ode to the Frozen Burrito
Oh! Frozen burrito,
I love you so!
Even if you are just plastic
colored like dough.
You appease my appetite
when I’m hungry at night.
Your molten bean filling
to me, is just -- thrilling!
Oh! How I wish I could spend everyday
eating you up. I’d get carried away!
Perhaps I am a hedonist?
But who could resist?
Burritos to me,
are simply delish!
14
Brian DiCola
Haiku U
Bouncing around from branch to branch,
tramping with ease so free.
This monkey might not stand a chance
living in the city.
The canopy to him, my home
as carelessly at ease.
His fruit, my fruit, juicy to please
we fly to brighter leaves.
Climbing the vine escaping apes
whose rudeness suits unkind.
I’ll follow him the smarter chimp,
in mind of what’s behind.
15
Kevin Clancy
“Whiskey Is Liquid Sunshine.”
-George Bernard Shaw
“Why don’t you talk to me anymoa?” The sun shone through the
double slider basking his neck and back in summer. The ceiling fan oscillated as he ate, the chain ticking rhythmically against it’s copper housing
as it rocked and creaked.
The amber and lamp light serenading one another was intoxicating, the
strong smell of cedar and smoke. The bite in the back of his throat was
like heavenly release from the chains of the daylight drama as he sank
deeper into his seat, the cold gripping his fingers and joints.
“You never speak a word to me these days!” His mother stood in the
kitchen arms crossed. He stared for a time at his empty glass and took a
deep breath as if to reply but only sighed and shrugged without looking up
from his plate of eggs.
His fingers were numb now as he stared at the grain of the wood, he remembered staining it a beautiful cherry red, now it was scuffed and faded.
The desk lamp lent little light to the small basement room and the wallpaper had been stripped long ago leaving the rough glue behind. Where
the brightness faded into shadow only red remained, and as he stared into
the black the cherry from his Camel illuminated his face in the previously
void space where his mirror now portrayed a skeletal figure.
He stood up from his seat at the table and made his way into the kitchen.
Without raising his gaze from the floor he walked around his mother and
opened the refrigerator, she turned as she huffed and snorted and walked
into the living room muttering to herself.
He stared at the red drops mingling with the steel on the mahogany and
the crimson clouds billowing like thunder heads perhaps ten miles high
looming over the horizon. He raised the glass to his lips once more.
“Get your brotha, I think he’s gone.” He looked up from the mahogany
desk he and his father had built years ago into his doorway. His mother’s
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face was contorted and flush from tears, she held a phone in her right
hand.
“What?”
“Just get your brotha!” she choked and raced out of the room. He could
hear her hysterical sobbing as he walked into the living room and stared
at the lifeless body on the bed. She had not stopped crying as he ascended
the stairs.
His throat burned and his heart pumped and his hand ached as he sat in
the darkness and still the red consumed his thoughts and still the amber
filled his vision casting a spell upon his tongue. He took another drag from
his cigarette and felt his head spin momentarily as he closed his eyes.
His father stood in front of the double slider staring out into the afternoon as he approached. He seemed much older now to him, thin with a
face of stubble and sunken eyes. There was a quiet calmness about him
that he had never seen, both calming and frightening.
“I never noticed how beautiful they were befoa.”
“What?” The white powder sat upon the branches, heavy and taxing. It
was mid-November now and the snow had come early and hard this year.
“I never stopped to look at how beautiful the trees were this time a yea.”
They stood there for a long time staring out into the woods beyond their
yard without saying a word.
He stared at the wall as his thoughts came back to him, his cigarette having burned all the way to his fingers. He could smell the aged aroma of the
hundred and fifty year old cask emanating from his desktop as he raised
another shot to his lips.
They sat together over lunch as the cool August breeze blew through the
open slider jingling the light-catchers against the glass.
“I want you to know that I love ya, and there are things that I wish I had
done an’ said,” his father’s voice quivered as he spoke.
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“When I’m gone you’re gonna have to take care a things.” He looked up
from across the table unable to say anything in return.
The pain in his fingertips had subsided now and the bucket of water reminded him of rubies as it picked up the lamp light; his head began to spin
as he drank. He took another long drag on his Camel as his vision blurred
and his head swung back like a broken branch. He stared up into the darkness of his ceiling as he exhaled.
His father stood up from his seat and walked toward him beginning to
cry,“You have to take care of ya motha and ya brotha for me.”
He rose from the table and embraced him, frail and helpless. “I love you
Dad, it’ll be alright.”
He could taste the salt as the tears rolled down his cheeks mingling with
the whiskey on his lips. His head rolled forward and he could see the empty bottle throwing the lamp light across the desk, the straight razor reflecting it into his eyes and the red. He closed his eyes and let his shot glass
shatter off of his desktop as the light danced on in it’s crimson lagoon. He
could hear the front door slam through his ceiling and the footsteps as they
made their way to the kitchen. He began to stutter and choke as the words
left his lips, speaking to the familiar face in his mirror. The sunken eyes.
The unshaven face.
“I’m sorry.”
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Kelly Medkeff-Rose
19
Amanda Reeder
20
Jenny Preston
Grape Soda Kisses
“We have to practice for when we’re older, Ben.” The young girl
pushed the boy’s shoulders, her nine year old body over-powered him. He
lost his balance and crashed into the hydrangea bush.
“I don’t understand why, we won’t be all grown up for a long time,” he
stated flatly. He stood up from the indented plant and made sure he wasn’t
bleeding. He went to push her back but was smartly swatted away.
“Don’t you ever want to get married? You gotta be able to kiss when
you’re married. That’s the rule.”
“What if I don’t want to get married, Jenny? Girls have cooties, anyway. I’d have to get a shot every day if I got married.” The girl sighed and
rolled her eyes the same way she had witnessed her mother’s face when
Daddy hogged the remote.
“I don’t have cooties, Ben. I’m your best friend. Best friends don’t give
each other cooties.”
“Says who?”
“Says ME!” The two children were silent. The birds that once sat lazily
in the branches above their head flew away, bothered and visibly annoyed
by the sudden change in atmosphere. Ben averted his eyes to the ground,
and Jenny stared at him with contempt. A summer breeze stirred the stale
muggy air. It played with the girl’s copper hair and carried her scent of
Dove soap and rain to Ben’s freckled nose.
“You won’t…tell Tyler at school tomorrow…will you?” His voice was
soft, and he flicked his hazy grey eyes in her direction before throwing
them back at the ground. He shifted his weight from foot to foot waiting
for her response.
She softened and reached her hand across the short space that was separating them and took a hold of his pinky finger. “Pinky swear” she smiled.
They embraced pinkies before letting their hands fall to their sides.
“So…now what?” he stammered. His palms began to sweat, and he
shifted his weight uncomfortably. He worried the hem of his shirt and stole
a glance at Jenny. She was smiling at him, her green eyes flickering with
mischief. She took a tentative step towards him, testing the temperature
of the water with her toes. He stood fast, nearly swallowing his Adam’s
apple.
A few ginger steps later, they were standing toe to toe. Her peppermint breath fell on his eye lashes, and he raised his head to meet hers. He
21
squeezed his eyes shut like the grown-ups did in the movies and slid his
lips over hers. Her lips were smooth and soft. When he bumped his nose
against hers, she couldn’t help but giggle. As she drew back she tasted
grape soda on her lips. It bubbled and fizzed and tingled her nose. He
blushed. She smiled. A few awkward moments passed before they were on
their bikes, racing to the park as if nothing had ever happened.
22
Haley Fedor
Le Maître Rouge
Gilded, noble Phoenix
with plumage just like coals,
you are hot and scarlet, yet
bound to bones.
There is a reek of smoke and ash,
left from your rebirth.
I wonder if I have the strength
to rise up from the gray ash
of past destructions.
You leave a blackened trail for all to see.
A fleeting courtesan of affection,
your lilting words are stuffed with grace.
I see a hammer and anvil in your eyes—
cherry red,
to make and un-make as you see fit.
All will quiver in your wake.
A drunken cadence rises,
tribute to your fierce, stubborn pride.
You blaze a nearer, smoking sun,
that burns everything it touches—even me.
I think I should have loved you, before
you burned the temple I had built—
to worship you.
23
Pasha Utt
Path
“Bismillah Irahman Irahiim”
In congregation, we are one
during Ruku, there are no idols,
save Allah,
We rise in unison
His slaves and followers
Their guns raise together
as we prepare for Sajdah
the rubble from the mosque falls
The weak flee in fear of life
the Shaitaan’s fire, relentlessly
I press my head calmly to the mat..
They can kill my people,
force their ways,
have our oil,
but they’ll never have my faith
Act as you will in this test
I will gladly take my last breath
uttering my last words,
“Subhanna Rabi’al Ala”
24
Devin O’ Leary
25
Jennifer Fleahman
26
Anastasia Kydonieus
Worship
Enveloped in darkness,
My eyes fight for sight,
As his hands secure the blindfold,
His mouth darkly claims my own,
This is the way we pray.
Shackled hands extend as far as steel allows,
To stroke the phallic idol,
Constrained beneath raiment.
My breath catches in my throat.
This is the way we pray.
Offering prayer to a dead carpenter,
Makes no sense to us:
So bound to the flesh.
The sweet release that comes with pain,
This is the way we pray.
His hymn: a coarse moan.
His rosary: a cat of nine-tails,
His incense: the scent of sweat and blood,
His altar: my body.
This is the way we pray.
27
Jade Bragg
Two-Sided Time
The warm water at my back is not enough. Time cleaning my own body
is time wasted. I hurriedly twist off the water faucet and make a beeline
for my bedroom door. I refuse to look at the clock. I refuse to look at the
mold spores in my week-old coffee mug. I glance ruefully at the stack of
books that is yawning in my direction. Rummaging in the annals of my
closet is always a task, but this time the yellow-orange prescription bottle
is just within reach. It’s an old bottle of antibiotics I never finished taking,
and I am always glad I didn’t throw it away. Little pink pills of productivity and ONE TWO THREE I am rocket launching into a usefulness that
never comes natural. For hours I am set alone with three bottles of water
and homework that never reaches a stopping point. I am hurtling, jumping,
hot flashing, jibber-jabbering, just-one-more-pink-pill popping.
******
I am reclining against the brick wall of some bullshit scholarly looking
building at four a.m., smoking my third cigarette in a row and wondering
why I never write poetry on nights like these. My hair is unkempt, my pupils spinning plates, and there are sweat stains beneath my armpits. I look
far worse than your average study-a-holic. I laugh to myself and know
that my struggles will remain unnoticed, as usual. I know, I MUST know,
that tomorrow (and every day) there will be a Volkswagon driving, bouncy
ponytail bearing, American Eagle flip flop wearing bimbo who has all the
answers. She will be wide awake IT’S MORNING with typed out notes
and painted fingernails. Time management is her life skill and NO SHE
CANNOT miss her beauty sleep. I hum a song and I am lighting another
cigarette and I console myself with the fact that the girl of tomorrow will
never know the poetry of four a.m. Yes, yes, she will never pitsweat her
way through dawn.
28
Elizabeth Foy
29
Kelsey Kirschmann
Man + kind ++ rag + doll = (- or +)?
Like a fish I swim deep beneath your bed-boards. I smiiiillle like a
Siberian brown-and-white panther [did you hear me growl?]. My daughter’s name is Minehaha [The laughing waters]; my aura is a light emerald
green.
De –
codelimitendbeginagain
Me.
I am the writer lost in a sea of limited opportunity,
the writer without hands, but with fingers [The people of Athens without
Athennnnawhereareyou]. The quiet little prairie girl,
My Antonia?
Or shall I be no-thing,
and
forgotten.
That would be peace.
P.S. or A Side-Note
Les Miserables at 11, The Good Earth when I was eight. Fascinated. Drawn-in. I, how would you say it, “understood.” I lived in peace
through torment and woke up to your “liberal” + “arts.” You have
stripped me of my last dignity [the dignity of peaceful vitriol, OF VOICE
¬that overwhelms, the acid slowly dripping your soul to pieces] of the
mind.
I have no father, white,
bearded, a picture of your
tormented Jesus… who
stole my body & gave me
existence
with the same rib from the same
rotten corpse-eating father,
rib of
AdamAristotleAbrahamAnd Rachel?
30
Now. Where is my lipstick;
the peach blossom gloss,
went where. I must put “it” on
Before you come back.
I, Colette, re-born. You were the leaves blown lightly. We meet again, Sir.
31
Stephanie Laine
The Gifts of the Gods
Compassion. A virtue. An admirable virtue at that. The thing considered
so important and so lacking in both mankind and the gods. My downfall.
The reason I’m chained to a rock on the top Mount Caucasus.
I could lie and say it’s not as bad as it sounds, but the truth is that it’s
worse. Not because it’s so uncomfortable to spend the entire day slouched
up against this bare rock, not because I’m completely isolated, not because
it gets frigid up here at night and tends to rain a lot, and not even because
of that vulture. No, the reason that this fate is something men would refer
to as worse than death is because as a Titan I’m immortal, which means
there’s no escape, even in death.
I wonder if anyone even knows I’m up here, anyone who could do anything about it, that is. That’s the problem with trying to help mankind; you
make a lot of enemies. And I suppose that when you have as many as I do
the only thing you can expect is to someday end up chained to a rock with
only a vulture for company who comes to eat your liver every day.
I can’t say I didn’t see it coming; after all, a Titan on Mount Olympus
is an obvious target despite the fact that my brother and I helped them
win the war against my own kind. Probably not the brightest move, but
any fool could see that he was going to win, and if he did he would completely crush mankind – my creation. And Zeus seemed to accept us easily
enough in the beginning; he even offered us both rich rewards, but I turned
them down and told my brother to do the same. Never accept gifts from
the Olympians, I told him. Their wine is laced with poison.
Gifts. They’re never free you know; they always cost someone something. All I wanted was to give mankind a gift, something to help them.
Zeus wanted the mortals to live as primitives until they died off, and I suppose it’s foolhardy to interfere with a god’s wishes, but compassion – once
again – put me in a corner, and I did what no one, mortal or immortal had
ever dared to do. I followed Zeus out into the woods, and when he slept
with his mistress, I crept up beside him and stole the lighting he always
kept near at hand. Trembling, I wrapped it in a hollow stalk of fennel and
raced back to Mount Olympus, my heart beating in my throat. Once there,
I went straight to the only one that I could trust besides my brother, Epimetheus: Hephaestus.
He was completely floored when I rushed into his forge that day, and can
you blame him? I honestly expected him to kick me out, but instead he
32
was silent for a long while before he turned and went out back. He came
back with a small chest containing knowledge of how to use this fire. He
handed it to me wordlessly; we both knew what would happen if Zeus
found out what we’d done. I had a pretty good idea he’d suspect me immediately, and I resolved to leave Hephaestus’ name out of it.
I still smirk inwardly when I think about his face when he found out,
though the whole earth shook with his wrath. He had me brought before
him in his columned hall, chained, and thrown down on my face before
his mighty throne while he thundered down on me. The floor trembled
beneath my knees, and mortar fell from the ceiling. I couldn’t look at him
in his fury; no one could, so I stared at the carved base of the throne while
the guards cowered, no doubt grateful not to be in my place. I think Hephaestus was only one there who pitied me. Everyone wondered what Zeus
would do to me, and I’m sure they all expected him to strike me down
then and there. Only he didn’t. After what seemed like days of raging he
stopped and stood up. I could hear his steps and then his feet were in front
of my face. I looked up and saw that his face was no longer contorted in
fury. Instead it was calm, but my stomach still twisted. It was hard as a
stone, and a layer of steel was in his eyes. When he spoke his words were
quiet; I don’t know if anyone else heard them.
“Prometheus, you are glad that you have outwitted me and stolen fire,
but I will give men as the price for fire an evil thing in which they may all
be glad of heart while they embrace their own destruction.”
That was when my heart failed me. I hadn’t cared what would happen to
me; I’d known all along that this is what it would come down to. But for
him to use mankind as a tool against me for his revenge… he knew me too
well.
“The mortals do not trust me, so I will have to send my gift to them
through your brother.” He continued as he paced in front of me. I watched
his feet, three steps forward, stop, turn, three steps back. I closed my eyes
and hoped that Epimetheus would remember my warning about accepting
gifts from Zeus. It was the only thing stood between the mortals and their
destruction.
Zeus looked down at me and smirked. “As for you, I suppose you think
you could rule better than I could? You wish for Mount Olympus to be
your own? Well, I can’t give you my mountain, but I can give you another.
To Mount Caucasus you will go. To be chained there for eternity.”
It was Hephaestus who chained me here. When Zeus gave the order,
his eyes met mine, and I held them, silently forgiving him. He had fought
for his place on Mount Olympus too long and hard to defy Zeus now. We
33
were both silent as his hammer resounded against the rocks, pinning the
chain to the stone while Zeus stood over us, dark as a thundercloud. Both
our faces looked down at the cracked stone. And then when Zeus turned to
leave, Hephaestus looked up. Rain was pouring down his face, disguising
any tears. I reached out; the newly forged chains clanked against my wrist,
and I clasped his rough blacksmith’s hand. He held on for a moment, then
he turned to follow Zeus.
So as you see, there’s really no one who cares to set me free, and even
if there were, who would defy Zeus? The only one would be Epimetheus,
but he’s got his hands full, so I’ve been told. The vulture never brings me
news, but other small birds do, and it was from them that I heard the story
of my worst fear was realized.There was something I failed to create when
I made man: a counterpart. Zeus went to Hephaestus and had him forge a
woman whom he named Pandora. Slimmer and smaller than a man, with
long eyelashes and a trick of rolling her hips when she walks. Who could
resist such a creature? Certainly not Epimetheus; he took her gladly along
with a box that was not to be opened under any circumstances. Epimetheus
no doubt wouldn’t be able to see the use in a plain box that couldn’t be
opened and would have put it on a shelf somewhere, out of sight and out
of mind. But the woman. Zeus had put a kink in her, a burning curiosity, not out of an eagerness for knowledge, but a longing to know things
just for the sake of knowing them. Which is why when Epimetheus was
out one day, she took the now dusty box down from the shelf and set it
on the table and gently undid the latch and lifted the lid. And then the gift
that was really a curse descended on mankind. Sickness of all sorts and
weariness and toils were spilled out over the earth and spread like a dark
cloud. And I could do nothing to stop it. As I listened to reports of deaths
and maladies I clenched my chained fists and cursed Zeus, in his greatest triumph while I sit here, unable to help the people who I brought this
destruction upon.
I’ve only ever told one other person this entire story before: Io, a priestess who had the misfortune of catching the eye of Zeus. Beauty and power
are always lusted after by mortals, but they come with a price, and sometimes I wonder if it’s not too high. Zeus tried to shield Io from Hera’s
jealousy by turning her into a cow. That’s what happens when you think
too much of yourself – you end up thinking that everyone else is a fool because of course they can’t be nearly as smart as you think you are. Hera, of
course, saw through the disguise and had her captured. When she managed
to escape she was followed by a gadfly, which continued to sting her and
never gave her any rest. Something like having your liver eaten out every
34
day, I would imagine. She found me by chance, and we talked for a while,
each taking comfort in the other’s affliction. I told her my tale, and when
she realized who I was, she wanted to know her fate since I have the gift
of foresight. I couldn’t lie to her, and I told her that her future would be
wrought with turmoil and hardship. However, if she could reach the Nile,
she would be restored by Zeus and would bear him a son.
She studied me with large brown eyes, and I could see her thoughts
swirling around like the fly near her flanks. Her tail twitched languidly in a
half hearted attempt to shoo it away.
“If there were anything I could do for you, I would.” I said to her. My
heart went out to her, a victim of the gods’ caprices. She raised her head
slightly.
“I will make it. I must.”
There was something deep inside her that I had never experienced before
in mankind.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“It’s the only way for me. I have to be.”
“I would think that you would be distraught, especially now. The times
are bleak for mortals. Things aren’t like they used to be before Pandora.” I
said. Curse that harlot.
“Perhaps. However we have something we did not have then.”
“What?”
She looked at me with a sideways glance, as if to say ‘you didn’t know?’
“We have the gift of Hephaestus: hope. It was told to me by a priest that
he wove it into Pandora when he created her; one last gift to mankind.”
It was a gift to mortals; underneath her confounding curiosity and seductiveness, he had placed hope, unreasonable, groundless hope that turns the
curses of life and the treacherous gifts of the gods into a blessing. Instead
of crumpling under the weight of Zeus’ gift, they have been made stronger
through Hephaestus’. But it was also a gift to me, I think. He had left me
here, but he hadn’t abandoned me. Io rose, flinching slightly as the fly bit
into her parchment-like skin. A line of blood dribbled down the white fur.
“I should go now.” She didn’t want to leave.
“You should. You have your own fate to worry about.”
“Maybe. But once I have looked after it, I’ll find some way to help you
as you’ve helped me.”
I didn’t take her words too seriously as I watched her tediously make
her way back down the mountain. But as the days have progressed, they
haven’t stopped echoing in my head, and I remember her tone and look as
she said them. She might come back after all.
35
Kimberly Foflygen
36
Amanda Thomas
The Drought
You are
Shuffling through
paper folds of cotton
My sustenance
Demeter reborn
Burrowing speech deeper,
Tugging at the seams
Nourishment—
My only reason
You are
So naïve,
Imagining yourself
As a shining god
They’re crying.
I’ve been selfish.
I am etched
Into folds of satin
You are
The same?
Just the same,
But Demeter let her crops run dry
A bad mother.
Sick obsession
Thinking seasons stall,
Your abduction was inevitable.
37
Ben Cope
An Exploration of Self.
1.
I once wanted a tattoo on my palm that would read
“Self.”
to make literal a figurative notion of identity
and individuality.
to affirm my spirituality as my own,
and not from that of conformity.
to affirm a sense of Self-awareness,
and to brand my-Self with the hope – the hope
that we can dissolve borders and dissent,
that we can embrace as a race
and together reinvent.
2.
we all want the independency.
the right given by our souls,
to govern how we see fit.
yet even the greatest can’t transcend society (and lets not even mention
religion)
with its ferocious demands,
leading the blinded to ethical bigotry.
where by nature it turns into over-arching subjectivity.
3.
what is Self?
it is self-it is no longer a noun worthy of capitalization.
it is what few strive to gain,
and what even fewer have gotten a hold of.
Self died long ago;
somewhere between Thoreau’s log cabin rotting,
and the obtrusion of fall upon the summer of love.
38
Haley Fedor
Mud and Baby Boots
There was mud everywhere, splattered on the secondhand smokecolored rug and on the curling yellow wallpaper. There was no feasible
start to cleaning it, because there was just so much. It would swallow her
whole if she bowed and began to scrub.
“Annie?” She called, the tendrils of anger and depression latching
on like little curved hooks. She had just had a breakdown this morning, in
front of Richard. And he sat there, protected behind his stale coffee and
worn suit, judging her. And now she had mud.
Looking down, she saw not only muddy footprints, but paw prints.
But they didn’t have a pet. “Annie!” She called, her voice more insistent
as she continued down the hallway. Had her daughter stolen the neighbor’s
trembling poodle again? The mud had begun to dry, caking itself to the
tough rug fibers. Red polished toes sifted carefully through the battlefield
as she stepped around the exploding splotches.
The trail led through the hall and to the stairs, climbing to the
second floor, where she heard a soft bark. It would have to go back immediately, and she would be forced to apologize again to their neighbor,
and scold Annie for snatching the poor thing. With a sigh she climbed the
stairs, leaning towards the edges so she didn’t step on the soggy trail of
dog and daughter alike. On the second floor, it was a repeated scene: mud
everywhere, leading down the hall. The door at the end of the hall was
open, spilling into her daughter’s room, filled to burst with stuffed animals
and pink decorations. But there was no mud in there, and no daughter or
poodle either. It curved to the right just before Annie’s room, with the door
open. Something barked again, louder, and it was followed by a burst of
giggling. Nostrils flaring, she stormed down the hallway, no longer caring
that she soiled her bare feet. Annie was not allowed in there. Pushing open
the door completely, the furious scolding died on her lips. And she didn’t
know what to say next.
Her six year old daughter had put the dog, not the neighbor’s
poodle but a small stray, in the crib that was to be for a baby brother that
never came home. There was mud all over the place, and Annie had fitted
a small blue cap on the dog’s head, but she saw none of that. She saw the
pride in her daughter’s blue eyes and the hope that this would make her
mother feel better, and fill a gap where another child should be. And she
didn’t know how to look at her.
39
Jenny Preston
My Beloved
The woman in the window gazed out at the lush land of the Hula Valley. The rolling hills swayed gently against the early morning sky and gave
way to rich farmland and large gatherings of water that glistened in the
early Middle Eastern rays. She tilted her sharp chin downward and flicked
her eyes to the neighboring pastures. Four horses were grazing peacefully, the wind gently tousling their manes. The three mares were a rich
chestnut color that burned in the summer sun. They were small and finely
sculpted with dished faces and slender limbs. The stallion, standing a few
feet away from the mares, was pure and white as a virgin. He was larger
than the mares but arched an elegant neck and tossed his noble head into
the summer air. The woman in the window let her eyes bathe the stallion’s
body from his silk mane to his ivory hooves. His feet where rather large
compared to the mare’s dainty hooves.
The stallion turned his head to watch the man walk down the dirt road
towards the woman in the window. His sandals scuffed against the earth,
causing a cloud of dust to lay idle behind his steps. He stopped at the
edge of the house and looked up to his wife. She looked back, her dark
makeup shimmering in the sunlight. Her eyes were searching, curious, and
demanding so he quickly stepped inside before she could speak.
She pursed her lips, knowing the news couldn’t be good. When she
heard him enter the room, she stood and moved to sit at the table.
“He refuses, Jezebel, he won’t sell me the stallion. His stable hides in
the shadow of my palace, and I can offer three times as much as what
that horse is worth, and he still refuses.” The room was silent except for
clinking of jewelry as Jezebel shook her head. “He said to me he could
not sell the stallion because his blood line has been in his family for five
generations.” The man furrowed his brow; his dark eyes grew cold and
distant. “That stallion, Dodi , is only fit to be owned by a king. He has to
be mine. If I can’t posses him no one can”
Jezebel laid her hand on her husband’s shoulder to quiet him. Her gentle
touch softened him, and he relaxed his tensed muscles.
“Hush now, Ahab, my husband. I will take care of it.” Jezebel patted his
shoulder before stepping away to fix him his morning meal.
The evening was pitch black, the moon hiding her face behind a shawl of
clouds. Jezebel pulled her garments closer to her small frame and gingerly
40
made her way down the street. She had waited at the window until she saw
the figure of her neighbor, Naboth, make his way to the stable to feed his
precious horses.
Her small feet padded against the soft earth as she approached the entrance of the stable. She stopped short and stepped off the path to pick up a
rock. It was heavy, and she used both her hands to hold it to her chest. She
sidled up the wall of the stable and listened for Naboth. She could hear
him cooing to his prizes, and the muffled sound of horses chewing their
evening meal. The sweet scent of horse and grain lapped gently against
Jezebel’s face.
She eased herself into the darkness and planted her hands firmly around
the stone. She stopped again to locate Naboth. She saw him before she
heard him. The moonlight poured through the stall door, and Jezebel
could see him standing next to his prized stallion, patting his shoulder and
speaking to him softly. His back was turned to her, and she took the opportunity to slide into the open stall carefully watching her step. Her small
body never made a sound, and the air itself seemed to step gracefully out
of her way. She put her shaking arms in the air and waited for Naboth to
face her. She didn’t have to wait very long.
The next morning the whole town was in a frenzy. Naboth’s wife could
be heard wailing from the distant hills. People on the street whispered with
soft voices and worried eyes. The receiver of the news took a few, slow,
hesitant steps before racing off to find someone to tell.
“Ahab, my husband, you should go to the neighbor’s. It would mean
a great deal to Naboth’s wife if you did.” Jezebel was brushing her hair
slowly, letting the waves of ebony roll down her back. “Perhaps you can
have that horse of theirs you wanted so dearly.” She set the comb down
and went about the room like she did every morning. Ahab nodded and
after fastening his sandals, he stepped out into the hot sun.
The room in Naboth’s house felt heavy and pressing when Ahab arrived.
Naboth’s wife sat in a solitary chair, tears bathing her cheek along with
smeared makeup. Women stood off to the side, rocking back and forth on
their feet and throwing worried glances back and forth to each other.
“Dido was his pride, his pet, his joy. I never…dreamed he would kill
him,” the wife whispered to no one in particular.
“I must inquire what happened,” Ahab stated, still sore at the refusal of
his offer.
One of the women stepped forward and placed her hand on her chest
before speaking. “Dido turned on Naboth and kicked him. The side of his
head was crushed in grotesquely.” She struggled with the last word, unsure
41
if it was appropriate.
“How do you know it wasn’t one of the mares?” Ahab asked.
“Oh, the mares’ hooves aren’t as big as the marking on Naboth’s head.
Hokmah , Chen , and Emunah are nowhere near the size of Dido.”
Ahab nodded his head and welcomed the silence. He remembered his
wife’s words. “Perhaps you can have that horse of theirs you wanted so
dearly.” Ahab smiled to himself. Would Naboth’s wife want to keep her
husband’s killer? He turned to her and called out, “Surely you don’t want
your husband’s killer. I can’t imagine waking up every day and looking
out to see a white stallion stained with blood. The pain it would cast upon
you would be an unmovable burden.”
Naboth’s wife slowly rested her swollen eyes on Ahab. She was silent
for a moment, thinking of his words. She stood from her chair and stepped
up to the window. The horses could be seen grazing peacefully in the sun.
Their tails periodically swatted their flanks. Ahab watched as Naboth’s
wife clenched her first and bit down on her lip.
“I never want to see that animal…that beast again. If it were left to me
I’d run him off this land and leave him for dead. Do with him what you
will, Ahab. Leave the mares. They could bring a poor widow some money.” She broke again into sobs and collapsed on her knees. The women
rushed over to her, shielding her from the eyes of Ahab. He was of no use
to her so he quietly stepped outside.
The stable was cool and damp when Ahab entered. He reached for the
nearest halter and chain. The leather was soft and oily against his rough
skin. He was proud of his cunning approach and even more proud that he
didn’t have to pay a thing for the stallion. He smirked as he stepped out
into the pasture and whistled at the four horses. The stallion raised his
head and flared his nostrils at Ahab. The mares continued grazing, shaking
their head free of flies. “Just like a woman,” Ahab thought. He called out
to the stallion and opened up the halter. Dido snorted and threw his head to
the sky before galloping towards him. His muscles rippled underneath his
velvet skin, and his sleek neck rocked rhythmically like a cobra charmed
by music. He trumpeted out a greeting before dropping his rump and
sliding to a stop a few feet from Ahab. He snorted and pawed the ground,
flicking dirt and rocks into the air.
“Easy, boy” Ahab soothed. He approached the stallion slowly and held
out the halter. Dido made a throaty noise before gently sticking his nose
into the halter. Ahab patted his neck while fastening the crown piece. The
chain clinked against itself as he took hold of his horse. He began walking
towards his house, and the stallion followed after, dancing on his hooves.
42
The woman in the window watched her husband, Ahab, and the white
stallion walk down the path. He walked with an erect carriage, and he held
the leading shank proudly. The stallion pranced beside him, unsure of the
destination but happy to be going. He glanced up at her, her dark makeup
glistening in the sunlight. He grinned at her, prize in hand. She smiled
back. When he disappeared around the house, Jezebel whispered, “You’re
welcome, my beloved.” She focused her gaze back onto the rolling hills
and lush land that surrounded her, embraced her, and protected her.
43
Kelly Medkeff-Rose
44
Justin Elkins
The Mind of a Truth Manufacturer
Arise and awake my brothers! For it is a new day. A day which will
bring much joy to our small society. Though our numbers may be small,
our joy is great! Salvation is at hand, and our Creator is returning very
soon. Though darkness abounds, our Creator brings light and endless
comfort. He will make us one in Him, and through Him we shall also be
one. We shall be taken into His Majesty, not by our doing, but by His doing. For where we were once formless, He has made us form! Where we
were once shapeless, He has given us shape! He has brought meaning to
that which was naught. For once we bent to the form of all vessels, but
were without purpose. He has brought us to this most pragmatic form.
Would something useful not be used? Would something real not be realized? We have been brought to this state so that we may serve Him, and
only Him. And, my brother, the day of our salvation is at hand for I have
seen the season. The sun again rises early and sets late, as does our Creator. This, this is the time in which our Creator needs us most! He is busy
upholding His own needs, and for this reason, we should serve Him in all
ways!
The time is very near. I hear the approach of our blessed Creator.
Stomp the mud off my feet before the girlfriend gets pissed about the
stains again. Been up since four. Work. Study. Rehab. Another goddamn
day in this shit hole and I’m going to kill myself. Lafayette, Louisiana?
The goddamn Ragin’ Cajuns? That’s like saying ‘Let’s start a university
founded on coonass, incestuous morals and name it after the belligerent
drunks that show up at the football games.’ What the fuck brought me here
and why the fuck did I decide to stay? Oh, well. I’ll make the most of it by
conforming to at least half of their standards.
I’ll take this bottle of Evan Williams whiskey sitting on top of the refrigerator, couple it with some reading, and be on another level before my
next class. Liquid lunch is always my fave.
He, the One and most Holy, is here. Do not be afraid, my brothers, for
His ways are golden. Trust in Him, and do not wish to remain stuck in this
place.
45
One glass? Check. A hefty serving of Mr. Williams? Check. Some ice?
Made some last night. Let’s see what we got: A tray of pretty white cubes.
Two should thin the mix just enough. I love how they slowly melt, hanging on to their air-filled souls as long as possible.
My brothers! The words spoken to you have become manifest. Our
Creator has removed two of our beloved brethren and placed them in
the golden brown love that resides in his chalice. They will soon become
united in Him, for they have been chosen!
But what is coming for us? He has taken them, but we remain.
Surely, he will make a second coming: An appearance to reassure our
faith in Him. For these times are hard on our Creator. He toils day and
night in His tasks. The hope of their completion rests in our bodies. Listen
closely, my brothers, for he shall return soon.
I will never understand Cyril or Nestorius. Jesus was either God or not
God. His form was human, but his divine nature lived in it. So if he died,
then God died? But God is eternal, so He couldn’t die. I say fuck them
both. Why should I care? It’s not like their debate has any influence on my
life. Damn, I thought Evan was going to help me see through these clouds
of confusion. Evan is like the sun that only shines to create clouds. He
may not be helpful, but he sure as hell can’t hurt me. Drink two – you had
better fix me up right before this class.
A second coming! Did you see? Our creator’s face shines with brilliance
from His cheeks. The salvation of our brothers has served its purpose.
They have made cold that which our Creator has deemed to be cold. Our
previous form served no purpose for the Creator. In our earlier state, we
were left to the dog. We, my brothers, are the chosen people, deemed worthy to enter the Creator’s body.
–What is this? An unexpected third coming! Do not question the ways of
our Creator, my brothers, and accept him!
What can I take out for dinner? Ice cream looks good, but I don’t think
Ben & Jerry’s ‘AmeriCone Dream’ is going to cut it. Chicken. Hot Pockets. Jim Gaffigan. He’s funny. Baby Voices. I was never able to hold a
baby. Fear. Brain contusion. Me in the Piggly Wiggly. My mother scream46
ing and crying. They said I wouldn’t have lived if my head hadn’t been
so hard. That’s why I can’t understand the debates of the Church Fathers.
It’s the bump on my head. My face is cold. You’re daydreaming with your
head in the freezer. Get back to work.
He has come again, but not taken us. Do not be afraid, my brothers. This
has nothing to do with our ultimate purpose of serving the Creator and
His golden brown love. I promise you that we shall all be saved from this
life of darkness. The Creator will not leave us here forever, but will return
soon to free us. Listen closely, and be aware of His presence. The light is
beginning to shine on us.
One more drink for the drive back to campus. Sure, I don’t need it. I’m
already feeling the lovely heat rushing through my veins, but one more
can’t hurt. Three more ice cubes, a couple more dashes of my main man
Evan, and I’ll coast through Late Antiquity class like a guardian angel
above a motorcyclist. I’m not sure how because I still don’t understand the
debate, but I have faith in my Evan to guide me through.
This damn ice tray. I can never get those little pieces out. I need to get a
freezer with an automated ice-maker. That would be the ultimate! But I’ll
live with it for the time being. Open the fridge door. A dash of Coke so my
breath doesn’t smell like my father’s, and I’m out the door.
He has taken three more of our brethren into His concoction of love.
This will continue until the last of us are accepted! But sir, where is the
‘AmeriCone Dream’ and frozen broccoli and hot pockets? All I see in this
place are containers of liquids! Our Creator has placed us in a home different from that in which we were created. Surely we cannot survive in this
place. He has doomed us to return to purposelessness! Our Creator has
given us life and then condemned us to die slowly in a place that is not our
home!
My brother, I am so sorry for my prophesies. Our Creator has abandoned us here in the land of the dull-minded and useless. Even the odor of
this area reeks of death. The milk is old and beginning to curdle. Mold is
growing on the vegetables next to me. My brother, we will suffer and die in
this place; we will once again be lost in our own purposelessness. I apologize for our Creator.
47
Marcie Zampini
A Misc. Monologue:
I wore red to his funeral. He would’ve understood, and I’m sure from
somewhere he did. I wasn’t supposed to be there, based on all the disdainful glances I got, but I was there nonetheless. He’d asked me to be. He
never actually said he wanted me there, but then again he never said a lot
of things to me outrightly. I couldn’t be certain of very many things I suppose, if you want me to measure that out for you logically, but I was certain he’d asked me to be there. I was not asked to leave. Honestly, I think
everyone was too scared to do it. That might have been the last gift he ever
gave me, that stupid man. The fun thing about the whole situation though
was watching his wife’s reaction: it seemed her brain simply stopped. She
knew our history very well, and although it’s nothing sorted or shameful,
she absolutely hated it. I’d love to say that one of these days she’ll snap
out of it in a glorious epiphany, but the sad fact is that some people don’t.
Ever. It’s those people that I love to unsettle simply for the joy of watching
their tightly kept coils unravel a little, and watching them try to put themselves back back together frantically. I especially like watching her try to
do this, because it just proves that she isn’t always right.
48
Kelly Medkeff-Rose
49
Kelly Medkeff-Rose
50
Ben Cope
The Storm
Lightning strikes
one
two
three
this cloud is coming caring calamity.
A rhino’s horn propped on a mid-west town,
with its vortex columns aerating
home
after home.
Flee from your ant beds,
tunnel.
Run through the mine -fields of streets.
There is no time for the dog,
--now.
Death is nothing more than a number
in a news paper editorial.
and you just rebuild -everytime.
51
Marcie Zampini
Untitled
It is quite possible,
I must say,
that as I sit here bubbling
on the back burner,
I may evaporate away.
(will you at least put a lid on the pot?)
52
Haley Fedor
The Nymph
It was quite by accident that she made the discovery. Sitting on the
bank by the lake, Naida was tossing flowers into the water. Decapitating
them, the heads of the flowers floated nicely on the still water. Her mother
always disapproved of the way she treated flowers. But she enjoyed seeing
their heads bob up and down, away from her. Naida envisioned someone
on the other side of the lake, seeing the purple flowers, picking them up
and holding them close like love letters. No one can ignore purple declarations of love, after all. Lying down, she let her head rest atop her arms,
watching the water bounce the flowers about. And promptly she was
engulfed by sleep.
When she awoke, it was dark, and oddly enough, no one had called
her in to dinner. It was as if the household had forgotten the oldest child,
instead of poor Alice, who one day had been left outside with the dogs for
a while as a babe. It was no wonder she preferred the company of their
pets than her parents, who were too caught up in each other to spend time
with their children. But it wasn’t hunger that had awoken her, but rather a
soft splash to the face. Wiping the water from her cheeks, Naida saw that
the water was still. Had it been a fish, jumping about to celebrate life not
caught between the claws of some predator? Sitting up, she saw a dark
shape move, and it caused her to stiffen. It was too dark to make out what
type of fish it was, but she didn’t move regardless. Then, what she saw
next, caused her to pause and wonder if she was still dreaming.
There was a face in the water. A woman’s face, pale with large, dark
eyes and hair that framed it like seaweed. She was the lost lover, drowned
at sea and found with milky eyes gazing towards the heavens. But she
was like nothing Naida had ever seen. The young woman’s face broke the
surface in the eternity it took for a raindrop to fall, then another. Then the
world spun with the sound of fresh rain, soaking Naida and glistening off
of the mysterious face. She had no desire to move from her spot, watching
intently as the woman began to surface. She didn’t speak, felt she couldn’t.
Her naked body followed behind that ethereal face, supple and as white as
if it had been wrapped in a burial shroud.
The nymph (for Naida swore she had to be a water being, or a goddess
perhaps) trickled onto the bank as water down a stone. Her firm breasts
and peaked plum nipples were stiff and slick with the water from the lake,
and the rain that had begun to fall softly, anointing both of them.
53
The being made a soft sound, of a hundred hungers, a thousand lusts, all
unfulfilled and devastating. It took all the poor, struck human-creature had
not to cry as she slid closer. The being’s arms reached out, touching the
girl’s soaked blouse gently. The rain was coming down steadily, pooling
and caressing her thighs after seeping through her dress. And suddenly
the rain became a pair of hands, cold to the touch, but knowing and eager.
Her wet blouse and skirt were pulled off, and next the cotton brassiere
and undergarments from her girlhood. It was as if static had jolted down
her spine like a railway car, bumping over the bones and rattling. Seaweed hair clung to her as the ghostly face and wide black eyes devoured
her whole. The pattering of the rain was enough to engulf the sounds of
ecstasy on her parent’s property.
Naida was soaked, with water that came from both the sky and the love
of a goddess. Her naked back pressed against the slick grass while that
seraph face nuzzled her belly.
No matter how many offerings of flowers she made after that, the water
goddess never returned.
54
Kelly Medkeff-Rose
55
Jennifer Fleahman
56
Kelsey Kirschmann
Embraces Ascending With Fingertips Opening
A tree
i s a man-wo-man. Strong and
Erect, stands still firmly planted. ever reaching up, sensuous
endless limbs
reaching upwards, less than ending,
Up to where the wind blows tips of your
petal-fingersDown slow to grass where blossoms get caught in that
wisp of too-long bangs right to the left of my eye (the one you like).
And
i am the leaf that falls
(loneliness?)
No,
you are the tree. The man (but
Eve-Am-I. goddess, not
opposition to the god,
but soft curvingarms
reaching ever upward to the wind,
she is the
Spacebetween-the-MANI-Am The Great.
am i?
How ugly is the language
) is i much prefer the space
The You.
i am: the for-you-i-am,
the bruised-heeled-mother-of-creators; the: i-am-not-withoutyou(arenotwithoutme).
i would be a tree,
(firming upward, resistant to all but the very tops of
curved, fragile spiderleg wisps –
strands of sun-smiled-hair, where
blossoms will
lodge on dark nights)
57
or a fern.
up there where the wind blows
the most beautiful children to whisperingearth.
58
Anastasia Kydonieus
Narcissa- A Tale of Toxins
When you assess a poisonous serpent, what’s the first thing you look
for? Fangs? Slitted pupils? A rattle? What’s the first thing you do? Approach carefully? Haul ass? Or call for help? Narcissa should be approached in the same way, assessed the same way. Except that, she’s worse
than a serpent. More lethal than their venoms combined. She possesses
only a single warning to her toxic nature: a tattoo of a Jolly Roger beneath
her left eye. The traditional skull and cross-bones that signifies danger or
poison. It’s embroidered neatly against her tanned flesh. Not that many are
staring at her face, per say.
She has got a body to be envied: a tall, lithe form of supple muscle and
the least amount of fat necessary wrapped in flesh the hue of rich honey.
Her form is not peppered with vibrant splotches of color like poisonous
frogs, nor is it equipped with a rattle like a serpent. Oh no, she prefers not
to have anything to give away her toxicity to potential victims. Except that
tattoo...
No slitted pupils, but eyes of a stark jade color that could make many
people wary even though. Full pouting lips don’t shield pointy fangs, but
a set of immaculately white chompers all the same. Sharp quills that pack
a sting don’t line her scalp, but a massive opulence of thick, rich locks
cascade down to caress her shoulders. The mottled colors of a Timber Rattler are the color of these tresses: caramels, auburns, lush chocolates, and
a few streaks of gold as well. Not necessarily patterned the same as the
reptile, but matching just the same.
Tell me, what’s the longest snake you’ve seen? Six feet? Seven? Perhaps, fifteen? Though Narcissa stands only about five feet and five inches,
no doubt she can lay you out faster than it’d take the largest serpent to
disengage you. Height is nothing in this matter, skill and cunning - traits
that are also associated with those sly reptiles - are what get Narcissa what
she wants and when she wants.
I suppose you’re wondering what in God’s name is this bitch so obsessed
with snakes and poison for? Well… it’s simple really. Poor little thing,
grew up in very close relation to the aforementioned creatures.
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Narcissa was born some twenty years ago to a woman and a man. Obviously. The mother named her ‘Catalina Elaine’… their last name is irrelevant. Well, little Catalina grew up in a perfect world. Cherished, spoiled,
sheltered… that is, until the happy family moved to a new town… in a
new place… with new and unforeseen dangers.
Catalina went missing around the age of twelve.
Tragic, no?
What the happy family failed to realize, was that the reason the home
they bought was so cheap was that it was adjacent to a stretch of acreage
owned by a proven molester and an -almost- proven killer. The man escaped the law due to lack of incriminating evidence. Everything had been
circumstantial…
The tabloids had nicknamed the man: Serpent.
Catalina had been playing near the border of the Serpent’s land. All that
was found was a scrap of bright blue fabric from her shirt. No prints, no
scents for the dogs, no blood. Nothing. Just a little patch of cloth.
The family hadn’t been from around those parts and had no idea about
what they lived near. It was rumored that once the authorities gave up the
investigation, both parents were found dead. The mother shot first while
the father then finished himself.
What happened to Catalina?
It’s a shame really. To have wasted such brilliance and innocence.
Catalina was abducted by the Serpent, who… got his name from the fact
that he housed - in a large barn - hundreds of snakes. Many were poisonous, as Catalina would come to learn.
In the center of the barn, was a large circular pit that was about six or
seven feet deep and about ten feet in diameter. Above the pit was a series
of lights that illumined the whole little display. Catalina learned that her
captor had no need for her to live and that only angered the child. She
vowed not to die and not to give up. Brave, eh?
60
Her clothes were replaced with only enough cloth to make her decent
and just barely decent at that. She wore no shoes either. She was pitched
into the pit, and cement flooring is very unforgiving landing space. She
learned to ignore the pain and move quickly… very quickly.
In the pit with her was a motley crew of serpents. Around eight or nine
to be exact. It was a game to the man. All were non-venomous except
two… and all were very ornery. They averaged around five feet each, most
were a little more. Catalina was only about four feet and a smattering of
inches herself.
It was a game… all a game to him.
He’d let her stew in there, watching as she dodged strikes and swiped at
oncoming heads. What angered him was that she never screamed. Silent
tears slipped down her features the first handful of times, but after that…
no more.
Catalina came to know the snakes… came to know which were poisonous and which weren’t. She started killing the poisonous serpents, much to
the dismay and anger of the Serpent himself. These little pets didn’t come
cheaply.
Two years passed like this. Living in squalor, hating, killing, and getting
bitten.
She learned to sit very still, no matter what. Patience making the snakes
lose interest in the creature invading their space. This didn’t work for
long… the scent of rodent was rubbed upon the girl to incite the reptiles.
She grew to be too much to handle: more poisonous snakes were added
to the mix. Soon, she just dispatched all the creatures. Blind anger caused
her to get bit one evening by the wrong snake.
Her keeper had a stash of anti-venom and knew how to use a needle.
She survived: only growing feral and more violent. By the time she
was seventeen, Catalina had no use for her name… she was never really
referred to by it anyway…
61
By seventeen not only was she being toyed with by the snakes. The
Serpent himself took a fancy to the female. A hatred of being touched and
sex were now added to the growing list of things that enraged the young
woman.
She injured him badly once…
While in the snake pit, she began to learn the snakes. To know which
were easy to catch and which were the ones that needed to be avoided.
Minute puncture wounds scar and pepper her lithe frame now. But, she
began to learn.
The Serpent milked some of the poisonous snakes and sold the venom to
hospitals and clinics which then created precious anti-venom. The milking
containers were kept on a shelf.
A few went missing.
There was a single crevice in the pit that the light could not touch. A few
small snakes liked to hide in that crevice, but he never used the small ones
anymore. Into the crevice was where the milking containers went.
During one session, she grabbed the head of a particularly nasty cobra
and kept her back to the Serpent who began cursing because he did not
wish the snake to die. It had been mighty expensive to ship in a cobra of
that size and in such good health. So, as he raced around the pit cursing
and threatening punishments for that evening that made her shiver despite herself, Catalina milked the snake, broke its neck, and quickly cast it
aside.
While she had tossed the snake, her hand darted back to the container
where it ripped the latex lid and she sent the precious drops of venom in
the direction of the Serpent’s eyes.
All she needed was one drop. One precious drop to land in his eyes or
his mouth.
She got his left eye.
It was difficult to get out of the pit when she had help. Now that the man
62
was blundering about the barn with blinded eyes, she was almost totally
screwed. She was older, about nineteen, and stood about five feet and a
couple inches, which made the pit only a foot or two taller.
She stifled a cry as she was bitten. She knew the bite though… not
poisonous. Small sharp teeth of a constrictor. It didn’t want to let go; her
calf began to throb, the snake was quite large. Reticulated python, a nasty
beast to begin with… now that she was scented like a rat… it made it all
the worse.
Biting back her pain, she struggled to jump but couldn’t… the snake
weighed her down. She tried to kick at it, but it only coiled about her calf
and began to squeeze. Blood dripped from between the creature’s lips as
the pressure made her leg bleed more. Her chance for escape looked quite
bleak as the thirteen foot serpent adjusted its hold.
The howling and cursing of the Serpent himself didn’t help her either.
He would lose the vision in his eye but he had managed to call the hospital
and an ambulance was on the way. The nearby hospital had a generous
stock of anti-venom due to their greatest benefactor.
Catalina was left in the pit.
He was back in three days… by this time, the reticulated python was
dead as were the rest of the snakes. The girl was in bad shape. Cut and
bleeding from almost every visible part of flesh, which now consisted of
everything above the waist and below her hips. During the three days,
she’d eaten chunks of meat from the large retic, and a meager trickle of
water seeped from the barn floor into the pit.
The Serpent hauled her from the pit and knocked her back into unconsciousness…
She awoke to the worst pain of her life. Rape, beating, bites, and a tattoo upon her face. “A warning,” said the Serpent, “…to whomever comes
close to you… to know what a deadly little bitch you are.”
He used an IV to feed her and give her liquids. His eye was bandaged
and he was furious.
63
His anger lasted a full seven days… she came close to dying. Blood matted her long hair, sweat, and more of the crimson liquid was caked all over
her entire body. The bite from the retic was infected. Her whole being was
bruised and no doubt there were multiple fractures.
In the end, she sagged against her bonds and let her mind go… The
Serpent unbound her and allowed her limp form to slump against the cold
floor of his bedroom. She awoke after more than a day of total unconsciousness. Forcing black eyes open, she assessed the situation while taking slow breaths and wincing under the pain of cracked ribs.
He slept. On his side, calm and peaceful. Uncaring of the damage he’d
done to this girl for over seven years…
It took her more than half an hour to crawl to his bedside from around
ten feet away. Many of the items and tools he’d used on her during the
passed week were still out and visible. Still encrusted with her blood and
pain. The doctors later claim it was shock that gave her strength. Shock
and rage. Drawing herself to her knees, she plunged a particularly nasty
knife that he had used only slightly upon her broken body twice into his
throat.
The coroner claimed the marks resembled puncture wounds from a set of
massive fangs. And had he not seen the murder weapon, it would not have
been hard for him to imagine a gigantic snake plunging its teeth straight
through the sleeping man’s neck and exiting the other side.
After his death, she passed out. Clutching the knife, she lay broken and
bleeding anew on the floor.
When the Serpent did not answer a knock at his door, the delivery man
opened it and went inside. It appeared that the Serpent was not a tidy
house keeper at all, it also appeared that he had walked in Catalina’s blood
and went to the kitchen for a snack before returning and thus left bloody
footprints that led to his room.
The delivery boy discovered the body of the Serpent and a nigh on
dead young girl. He nudged the girl with the toe of his boot and nearly
gave himself a heart attack when she groaned softly. Scrambling back, he
whipped out his cell phone and called an ambulance.
64
It took Catalina three months to recover to where she could function
with a semi-form of normality. In that time, the delivery boy came and
taught her a bit of Greek and of the mythology because he was studying in
college and felt a kind of debt to the woman that he’d ultimately saved.
She never spoke. Never made a noise. He had been relating the story of
Narcissus and complaining about how the vain man’s name was a Latinized form of the Greek word meaning, ‘sleep or numbness’. She began to
think… to think about poison… to think about sleep… to think about the
Serpent… to think about how the wound looked. She could almost imagine the feeling he felt… awaking from his slumber only to sink back down
into numbness… like the times when the snakes had bit her.
“Narcissa.”
The delivery boy nearly fainted. He snapped his attention to the woman
and asked if that was her name. She gave a small nod. It was now.
Narcissa is twenty now, having left the hospital in the middle of the
night and between the switching of guards… healed upon the outside,
still raw and bleeding upon the inside. No one knows. No one will ever
know. All they see is the mind numbing beauty and lethal toxicity emanating from the woman. All the world sees is the lustrous serpentine female.
Cool, calculating, cunning, and oh, so very toxic.
65
Kelly Medkeff-Rose
66
Devin O’ Leary
67
Hannah Farwell
The Morgue
And then I see that this is what it is
A swirling plume of ash of remnants lost
A smell of putrid jaws that long to kiss
A moment whose thought hangs in this is cost
Your crystal balls are broken off their hinge
Sfumato tendrils curl and kiss your cheeks
They gawk at rosy dimples—my hands cringe
In me you shall not find just what you seek
For he was plumes of ash before the sand
That ran through broken glass ‘till kidneys failed
Our putrid jaws- they strained for truth in hands
No mention of my name shows love curtailed
These roads to rivers turn and then congeal
My blood still flows but just don’t break the seal.
68
Emily Stewart
Hospice
Room 217 has taken them,
the splintered souls, queasy and pale,
harbored in and sinking underneath the quiet light
in which doubt dwells.
Bleached as bone, as teeth,
as the white-winter sheets and the trays
and the pain of fending for life, or
against the temptation to submit.
Surrender would be effortless
for lack of pride, what little pride they
swallow and smother and choke within
malignant marrow and atrophied limb.
Commence the procedure and
nurse the notion that these hard-hearted walls,
sterile and antiseptic, ensure redemption
for anyone broken.
Smell the heavy air, stale with the scent,
the musk of life eluding all remedy.
Left behind are the syringes, still dripping with soul
and dead promises of years left to live.
69
Amanda Thomas
A Personal Vicissitude
He sat alone.
I was surprised to find
Sanity in my attraction
No compulsions, no complexities
Just laughter
Until I discovered
the most powerful feeling
is to make a man shake
and feel his bones quiver
beneath my hands
70
Gerad Cervanak
Ode to an Elder
The bread which gave you life is gone
moldy beneath your bed.
Now, only a picture lies beside your head,
two of Us—in a broken frame.
Your halo, incandescently tight,
shadows a noose beneath your neck.
Love—it’s a gambler’s bet,
Flip a coin with a two-sided head.
I hold your bed with my hands
as a bearer holds to the bourden.
Those yeast of words, fermented wine
intoxicating, alluring like the fear of death…
Sleepless tonight, under a concrete of memories
like a wave of steel crashed against the heat of time.
Like a puppet, unhallowed strings pull at me
shuffling my feet up the stairs.
The wooden door—worn and old,
Opened—As if your memory had just left.
Your visage, like a welcome home
between the old worn door-frame.
Inside, your Halo still rings around the post
as a knot holding a rope.
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Sleepless tonight with hand-worn prayers,
Love—intoxicating like the fear of death.
A swaying sweet sound,
a calming voice—
A final word to an Elder…Rejoice.
72
Kimberly Foflygen
73
Stephanie Laine
Horse Play
Muscles ripple under taut skin
As they trot toward the other
An initial circling, nostrils flaring
Testing to be sure
And inching closer
In a downward spiral
Like south-ended magnets
Pushed together
Eye to eye
Arched necks
Tails like a flag
Bristling
Time
Holds
A squeal and a stomp
Like a gunshot
Shooting them backwards
They come back again
74
Devin O’ Leary
75
The Harbinger
The Student Literary Magazine of Bethany College
Literary and visual art submissions are accepted as attachments
in MS Word or JPG format at [email protected].
Submissions must be received by May 1st to be considered for
that year’s publication.
All submissions are anonymous until publication.
Contributors
Jeff Seglin
Kelsey Kirschmann
Ben Cope
Devin O’Leary
Jenny Preston
Stephanie Laine
Justin Elkins
Kelly Medkeff-Rose
Jade Bragg
Brian DiCola
Kevin Clancy
Amanda Reeder
Haley Fedor
Pasha Utt
Jennifer Fleahman
Anastasia Kydonieus
Elizabeth Foy
Amanda Thomas
Marcie Zampini
Hannah Farwell
Emily Stewart
Gerad Cervanak
Kimberly Foflygen