jongleur - LSU Alexandria

JONGLEUR
Spring 2014
RUELGNOJ
Jongleur is Louisiana State University at Alexandria’s undergraduate, interdisciplinary journal.
The journal is staffed entirely by LSUA students.
Jongleur accepts submissions in poetry, short stories, essays, photography, drawing, and painting
from students at LSUA. A special section is reserved for individuals presenting in the LSUA
Annual Conference in the Humanities and for individuals who were invited to attend the
National Undergraduate Literature Conference in Ogden, Utah, if they were not selected for
publication.
Almost all submissions to the Jongleur are accepted. However, it is advised that the content
should abstain from an extreme derogatory nature. We also accept only files that are sent in a
Word document. Therefore, anything sent in other formats will be rejected. Entries are limited to
five per category, unless there are only a few submissions to a particular category. In that case,
we will accept more papers, poetry, etc. The Jongleur staff reviews all entries and selects the top
five (if a person sent more than five) per category. In addition, please keep in mind that this is a
college publication, and it may contain adult themes.
Individual authors and visual artists retain copyright. © Spring 2014.
Jongleur
Louisiana State University at Alexandria
c/o Bernard Gallagher
P.O. Box 33
8100 Highway 71 South
Alexandria, La 71302
Send submissions to [email protected]
Editor: Brandy R. Williams
Co-editor: Dustin “Max” Bagley
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EDITOR’S NOTES
First, I would like to apologize for the lateness of the Jongleur’s publication. We had to
extend the deadline several times because we were not receiving enough submissions. Since
students staff the Jongleur, sometimes schoolwork takes precedence over timely publication. I
am excited that we were able to add a new category this year: drawing. It is my hope that each
category will continue to expand and that painting will be added next year.
Although editing and designing the Jongleur is very time consuming, it is also very
rewarding. It has been an honor and a privilege to be the editor for the last two years, and I’ve
read many stories and poems that have tugged at my heart. Writing is a source of therapy for me.
I find that my writing increases when I am troubled, and I tend to vent my frustrations on the
page. Writing gives me an outlet to express my emotions in a constructive way so that I can
remain a peaceful person. In effect, writing provides balance to my life. At times, I find myself
getting lost in the ink on the page, not really knowing where to start or how I found an ending.
However, one thing remains true: the ending is always healing and allows me to provide some
closure to whatever struggle I am dealing with at that moment. As I read the words of individuals
who submitted their work, I realized that I am not alone in my passion for writing.
As my final duty as editor, I wanted to pass on some writing advice that I learned earlier
in the year. I was fortunate enough to present a paper at the NULC conference earlier this year in
Ogden, UT. During a session with Bret Johnston (author and professor), he gave us several
writing tips. He said, “The most important aspect of writing is ass-in-chair time. It doesn’t matter
how talented you are. If you don’t put in the time, you’ll never accomplish anything.” He
suggested writing for an hour a day for twenty-one days. On day twenty-two, if you skip writing,
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you will realize that something is missing in your life. It only takes twenty-one days to create a
habit. So, on day twenty-two, the habit has already formed.
Oftentimes, life gets in the way—school gets in the way—of trying to write. But I
challenge each one of you who hunger to be a lifelong writer to take this summer and use it as an
opportunity to establish your habit. Go ahead and create the pattern now so that when you return
to school in the fall you will be prepared to continue with your personal writing. Now is the time
to decide how badly you really want to be a writer. And, for those who really want to be a writer,
you will carve out time in your day to make your dreams come true.
And it is with that piece of advice that I bid you adieu, as this is my last year as the
editor. However, the co-editor, Dustin “Max” Bagley, will be taking over the editor position. It is
my hope that he continues to breathe life into this publication by putting the hearts of those who
submit entries onto its pages. I know he will make an excellent editor, and I’m extremely grateful
for his assistance this year. I’m not sure I could have accomplished it again without him. Thank
you for the privilege of being the editor, and I encourage all of you to submit again next year. If
you stay diligent in your writing, I’m sure you will find positive results in your future. Thank
you and God Bless.
Brandy R. Williams
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JONGLEUR
Only one thing makes a dream impossible: the fear of failure.
The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER
Angela Walker
HEADNOTE
Paulo Coelho
Sunset 17
Kristin Lea Curtis
POETRY 8
Love Letter to a Novel
Cristina Prejean
8
White Clouds in the Sky 18
Taurean Johnson
Like Watching the Sun Rise 8
Kathryn Ellis
Night Light 18
Taurean Johnson
Excuse Me 9
Ashley Aucoin
Platonic Consumption 19
Kaitlin Hodnett
Destruction 10
Ashley Aucoin
Apollo Would be Appalled 20
Kaitlin Hodnett
Toss and Turn 10
Ashley Aucoin
I’m Only Just Beginning to Understand 21
Kaitlin Hodnett
On His Edge I Teeter 11
Ashley Aucoin
What I Learned in College 22
Kaitlin Hodnett
Drive through Self-Pityville 12
Kristin Lea Curtis
Ruthless Invasion of Doubt 24
Kaitlin Hodnett
The Age Old Fight 13
Kristin Lea Curtis
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Rusty Tin Can 25
Brandy R. Williams
The Always on Connectivity of Our Lives
and Ecommerce 134
Taurean Johnson
FICTION 26
What Makes Me a Successful Student? 136
Brandy R. Williams
Just Another Manic Monday 26
Brandy R. Williams
Three Resources to Become a Successful
Student
139
Brandy R. Williams
Never the Same 42
Taylor Devillier
A Message of Hope: One Veterans Journey
Brandy R. Williams 142
Intersection 44
Kaitlin Hodnett
LSUA CONFERENCE 149
Wasted 52
Kaitlin Hodnett
The New African American Bondage:
The Dick and Jane Narrative in Toni
Morrison’s The Bluest Eye 149
Brandy R. Williams
Expedition 57
Brandon Pitchford
Once Upon a Time 70
Shelby Fogleman
The Quest Romance Versus Horror:
The Hero’s Journey 158
Taurean Johnson
The Final Son 74
Taurean Johnson
Naturalism and the (De)Evolution of Man
Dustin “Max” Bagley 168
The World You Seek 81
Nicholas Richardson
NULC CONFERENCE 174
Joshua 84
Dustin “Max” Bagley
Laughter in the Midst of Flames:
Reconstructing Sixo in Toni Morrison’s
Beloved 174
Dustin “Max” Bagley
NON-FICTION 102
As I Lay Dying: Stasis and Decay of the
Southern Lower Class 102
Randall Johnston
Into the Light:
Naomi Shihab Nye’s Use of Concrete and
Abstract Imagery in “Making a Fist” 186
Brandy R. Williams
Grand Finale’ 112
Angela Walker
PHOTOGRAPHY 192
My Guardian Angel 119
Nicholas Richardson
Reflections of a Small Town 192
Angela Walker
Ghost in the Cinema 123
Taurean Johnson
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Disturbia 193
Angela Walker
Andrea Guillory
Flower in Bath 202
Andrea Guillory
Taking Flight 194
Angela Walker
Duck Down 202
Andrea Guillory
Streetcar in New Orleans 194
Angela Walker
DRAWING 203
Signs of Poverty 195
Angela Walker
Street Called Straight 203
Bobby Wadzeck
Houmas House 196
Brandy R. Williams
Angel Sword 204
Bobby Wadzeck
A Moment of Silence 196
Brandy R. Williams
Marine Sword 205
Bobby Wadzeck
Campus with a View 197
Brandy R. Williams
Rose Sword 206
Bobby Wadzeck
Dark Skies Ahead 197
Brandy R. Williams
Horse Sword 207
Bobby Wadzeck
Force of Nature 198
Brandy R. Williams
Luck Sword 208
Bobby Wadzeck
Shotgun House at Bayouside 198
Brandy R. Williams
Dragoneye 209
Bobby Wadzeck
Jug-Color Splash 199
Andrea Guillory
Dragon Head 210
Bobby Wadzeck
High Key 200
Andrea Guillory
A Little Peace in the Country 211
Brandy R. Williams
Glow in the Dark 201
Andrea Guillory
Oak Grove 212
Brandy R. Williams
Antique Shop 201
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POETRY
Love Letter to a Novel
Christina Prejean
I take in the smell of your pages,
the texture of your cover against my skin.
I'm consumed by your beauty,
your ability to take me to another universe.
I become someone I've always dreamed of,
Like Watching the Sun Rise
Kathryn Ellis
enchanted by this mythical narrative.
Your words combine to make magic,
Like watching the sun rise,
the poetic perfection is irresistibly divine.
Its seems slow at first,
But all too soon, the story ends,
The light cannot be seen,
and I am brought back to reality.
But the sky changes color,
Then the calm before the storm,—
The sun breaks across the horizon
My eyes see nothing but light
It consumes my mind completely
My entire world is this light
The warmth washes over me
(Like a young girl’s timid blush)
My body welcomes the warm light
It consumes me—
Then my eyes begin to see again
The world is real once more
The light recedes, the warmth remains—
This is true, this is real
This is unconditional…
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Excuse Me
Ashley N. Aucoin
Excuse me. Hugh? I’m sorry, did you hear that shrill? That scream was blood curling. It was a
desperate cry for help. A plea. It echoed, so loud that it blocked out all other audible sounds.
What? You couldn’t hear it? No. no. Something is definitely wrong here! How could you not
have heard it? Why is everyone laughing? Smiling? Carrying on in conversation? Going about
their ways? Did no one hear it? Does no one want to help me find the source? Help the victim.
Someone needs us. Listen to me! Look at me! I am talking to you! Help me!
Why does no one want to help? Why am I the only one pushing through crowds to go help?
Running, breathless, sweating, running through everyone, searching left, right, we must find and
help! The scream was chilling like it was mustered up from all the deep insides and protruded
through as a last resort, a last cry for help. I can’t find her yet the screams are getting louder and
louder. Echoing, so loud like it’s almost inside my head. Inside my chest. No, coming up from
behind me maybe. I turn around, no one there. All cheery people enjoying life and doing well.
Where is she? I hear her screaming again. I’m searching. Sounds like she is in unbearable pain.
We must find her. Come on people. Help me! No human should endure whatever is causing that
awful scream. That painful moan, that blood curling almost chilling scream.
Where is it? It’s not over there, what about here? Is it behind me? Seems so close. Oh wait, it
couldn’t possibly be me. Could it? Coming from my own chest? Exiting my own throat? But
everything is fine. I am smiling, laughing, surrounding by friends, rubbing shoulders with hot
shots enjoying this great happy life. Or am I? I’m sure I could think better if only it wasn’t for
this awful screaming, where is it coming from?! This awful cry for help, this prisoner – no slave
of pain in my head. Scream, clawing, scratching to be released from the cage of torture. DJ? DJ!
Can I please put in a request? Can you play a song for me? Hugh? No, I don’t have something in
mind. Just play something loud, something to drown out this voice. I can’t find the source and no
one wants to seem to help me find her. It’s slightly annoying. Oh hey girl. How are you? No, no,
I’m great. Life is great. Yeah sure, hey – did you hear anything? Did you hear anyone scream?
Oh, you didn’t. what? No, no I was just joking. I don’t hear anything. Yeah, the music? It’s nice.
But who is that screaming?
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Destruction?
Ashley N. Aucoin
Here next to me is where my sin lies, I feel your presence, I smell your poison lurking upon my
skin… I taste your destruction strongly, your spirit overwhelms me with every intake of breath I feel the burden of this choice - I imagine the karma that will come back around and the time I
will have to pay for these actions… you were sent to destroy and I left the tower unattended too
long… you were sent to cut away every fruitful limb and have succeed…. Well succeeded to the
best of your knowledge…. You return to your master in victory… I return to mine for strength…
is forgiveness in my path? Is love anywhere to be found? Is there an up from this down? Is there
an out for this in? pray and pray…. For in the morning comes my joy… from the hills cometh
my help….he shall never leave nor forsaken me…. So alone and waiting I pray… Every intake
of your breath I pray harder, every outlet of your breath i almost plead... Where is my
strength??... Where is my salvation from this hell?... Alone and waiting I pray...
Illusions
Ashley N. Aucoin
Toss and turn, Still I can't sleep. Alone in this house, not a sound, not a peep. I close my eyes but
Memories of you make me want to weep. I toss again to reposition myself. Trying to get
comfortable. Trying to find that bit of peace. I open my eyes searching for some relief. Room is
dark, shadows of lights on the wall, southern heat making my skin hot And restless. The fan
blows across me and sends chills up my skin reminding me of the sensation of your touch, your
kiss, your lips lingering above my skin. Body arching, aching for yours to draw near. Slowly
your hand slides up my thigh... Every pore, every nerve opens up trying to soak in your touch.
Feeling you so strongly you say my name and it resounds in my core.. Echoing in my thoughts,
my dreams, calling up my very spirit from a hidden place, activating a blossom of life within me.
Desires of you. Of wanting to worship you with physical sync of bodies in unison.. Eyes closed,
Body twisting now yearning for more. More of you. More of life. More of ecstasy. deep inhale
trying to inhale those moments and release this reality... Then the alarm screams startling me...
Night is through, dreams have faded. I look around... Nothing... You were never here with me...
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On His Edge I Teeter
Ashley N. Aucoin
U take my heart, u string me up & teeter me on the edge. I grasp for your hand, my connection to
life, but always I look onward towards freedom...
Could the fall be better than always skimming your hand, your hand that provides no security, no
safety for my soul?
Always just outside your grasp is where I reside. I always reach for you. This body yearns for
your warmth but teetering on the edge is where u you leave me.
Will u ever just grab me, hold me so tight & affectionately? Hold me in your arms this hour
forward & none shall harm me..
U lightly hang promises of love on my most delicate parts while strangling my breath with words
of missing me & loving me.. Then i am shunned, always so easily are you gone..
I'm still teetering. I stretch for a better footing & u watch me intently as you move a rock closer
to me. As I stretch to gain footing, you push it past me. Down the mountain the rock falls.
Leaves seem relieved & free as they float suspended in air, chasing the down casted rock. Not
necessarily moving but floating every few feet.
Can I be a leaf? What If I stop reaching & close my eyes, let myself fall? Backwards I can fall,
stretch my arms and give a final sigh. Fall and be relieved. Be free as a leaf. Float with a purpose
and passion of not falling directly to the ground. A long sigh of relief exits my body. Freedom
overcomes me. Wind blows my hair & wraps its arms around me. The leaves and I are one.
Suspended in bliss as we float. No longer being stuck and wedged between rock & gravel, no
longer left to teeter on the edge from you. Free to float, twist, suspend, & change with seasons...
Free to be, to become... I jerk forward... My arms fling to you. You reach for me but I'm just
outside your grasp... Only finger tips touch & only touch enough to stop me from the fall, not
enough to gain secure footing, Once again.. I'm teetering... Weary and teetering.. I want to teeter
no more, I want to be free..
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Drive through Self-Pityville
Kristin Lea Curtis
I should have abs of steelI should be scarred head to toeMy skin should be rainbow-coloredA dark cloud follow me wherever I go.
My perfume should be lemon-scented,
Lemons should dangle from my ears.
Yet my cup should be bone dryRivers should spring from my tears
My thumb should be frozen in hitchhiker pose,
My arms should assume a defensive stance.
I should wallow around in a big puddle of mud,
While everyone around me joins the dance.
My umbrella should be turned inside out,
A hole punched through my top hat,
My beautiful name should be changed to “John”,
Derisive laughter find me wherever I’m at.
I should be a leper, for my friends have all gone!
I should be an orphan, for my family knows me not!
I should be a ghost, for to others I’m cellophane!
If it wasn’t for God, I’d be utterly lost.
Yes…
Well…
I do have the most important thing
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I will ever need in my life:
The hope of a beautiful eternity
With my precious savior Jesus Christ.
Shame on me for despairingShame on me for my violent spielGod please forgive me
For this drive through Self-Pityville
The Age-Old Fight
Kristin Lea Curtis
Sun and MoonDay and Night,
Ivory and EbonyDark and Light,
Wrong or RightI know about the Age-Old Fight,
The constant back and forth,
Of the hopeless plight.
One foot firmly rooted,
One foot dancing about,
At times they switch places,
In life’s turnabouts.
I have known the dark so well,
I have taken comfort insideBecame intimate friends,
And thanked it for a place to hide.
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I have been a still, breathing statue,
Frozen in babe form,
While happy people passed by,
Sunshine adorned.
I have forgotten the beauty of the day…
A soft breeze playing with my hair,
The smell of coming rain…
That lingers heavily on the air
The gentle sway of the grass…
As it dances with the wind,
The sun warming me…
Like a hug from a friend.
All this and more have I forgotten
In my dances into the dark;
Dalliances became true affection,
The dark suitor quickly claimed my heart.
The suitor is good at what he doesA true master at his job
Slow and deliberate he creeps
Luring the light into his void.
That moment between sunset and starsThat gloaming seductive mist,
Lulls you into believing there is more
Light left than there really is.
Like a spider plucking
One of her strings here and there,
She slowly draws her prey up
To her waiting pincers with care.
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How jarring!to wake out of that sleepy trance
And find the world looking so strange
Flowers with monstrous faces
Grotesque shadows,
glimmers of grey.
I’ve been startled awake!as if from a dream
When I realized the light was gone
And in vain have I stumbled aboutand let loose a scream!
Hoping to be heard,
feeling for a switch to flip on.
Oh yes the dark suitor is good at what he does
He begins to make drowsy your vigilant mind
Nibbles at your epiphanous momentAlert eyes become sleepy…and then…blind.
How did I get here?
What wrong turn did I take?
When did I stop being aware?
How did I make this mistake?
Once the darkness has you
In his clutches it’s too late
Only the divine power of God
Can snap you stark awake.
Never let your light go out!
Because the dark suitor will be watchingHe is cunning….patient….
He will set his traps, eagerly awaiting.
Never let your light go out!
Stoke the embers in your heart
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Drive the darkness back again
Let your fire blaze high and hard!
Filling every corner, crook and crevice
Eliminating every shadow, every void
Let your light burn the dark suitor!
Ere he attempts to destroy!
Sunset
Kristin Lea Curtis
Stay, light, stay
Do not turn around
Do not ebb, but linger
Do not sink into the ground
Rest on my forehead
Tease my lids with flickering rays
Kiss my lips with sunshine
Stay with me always
Here in this quiet moment
Submerged in your heat
Mesmerized by your beauty
I am whole, I am complete
My world is at peace
Everything is still
With blissful emptiness
My entire being is filled
But lost I am without you
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Brave, I’m afraid I am not
When you are swallowed up by darkness
The quiet is all but forgot
Then things…things…fall into the emptiness
Of my cleared and peaceful mind
And like a stormy maelstrom
They begin circling and churning inside
So linger on light
Do not vanish behind the mountain
Continue- fill the sky with fiery colors
Spilling out like a fountain
But alas you will not keep
You must follow the path you’re on
Slumber you must before you rise
Darkness must come before the dawn
All things in this world have their place
Their time, purpose, and season
So too has the darkness
Nothing can grow and change without reason
So go ahead and sleep dear light
I will be patient and await your return
Next your rays find my face I’ll be new
Stronger…braver…reborn.
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Platonic Consummation
Kaitlin Hodnett
We are only as brave as the courage we feignOnly as stagnant as the ever-present fear of change.
We are only as untainted as the desires we suppressOnly longing for sleep after a night which denied us restIn daylight,
Better to be blind and rely on touch, than to
Forfeit feeling altogether when blinded by sight.
The sculptor scrubs the clay off of his hands,
Frustrated by the residue left underneath the fingernailsIf the price of creating something beautiful meant
Getting down and dirty, would you wear the filth well?
I’ll plead the fifth on Judgment Day- not afraid to failWe are only as confident as the arrogance we feignOnly writing in hopes that words will give
Meaning to this otherwise worthless name.
Am I seriously serious or do I just jest?
Am I always this coy or do I merely digress?
I’m afraid we are only as painted as the Mona Lisa at bestFaking a half-hearted smile for all the world to see
Bound to the throne of all things
Misinterpreted and misconstruedPoets tripping on principlesVigilantes masking scruplesWe are only as restless
As the bodies we’re trapped inside
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Raw flesh and bone
And misplaced pride.
Miscalculated rhymesRhythm that holds no reasonOther than insanity is in seasonWe are
Only as cunning as the games we play
Only as strategic as the moves we make
Only stunning in the strategies we win
Only defined by the depth of our sin
We are only as naïve as the world allows
As easily forgotten as the words
We never wrote down,
or worse,
As regrettably forgotten as the lines
We died laying down,
Yet all the same
failed to make a sound.
Apollo Would Be Appalled
Kaitlin Hodnett
It is a tragedy of the utmost shame
to be a man who’s all brawn but no brain.
Tell me again how you can wage war yet
Remain defenseless against the advances
of whores?
You’re neither a fighter nor a lover
If you refuse to fight for love-
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So spend your life by the bone if you must,
But your bones shall lie alone- ashes to ashes, dust to dustAmidst the remnants of your long-since rusted lust.
Your flings, your flirts, your quick-fix f&%ks,
All those nameless skirts who come. And go,
Won’t bring you luck nor love nor peace
You know.
Be careful, sweetheart, whom you trustBe wary, darlin, where you wander in your
Wonderlust, Be cautious, my Love, of your belief
That just one is never enough, because
All it takes is one ounce of insanity to do you inIn the end, the sweetest sin is revengeWe all hate you for what you lackAnd your allegiances are spread so thineven your allies would stab you in the back.
I’m Only Just Beginning to Understand
Kaitlin Hodnett
The weight of the debt
That comes with the
Cost of adulthood.
The playground void of all joyI no longer swing with sweet abandon
And release but rather uneaseI’m up too high. Going too fast.
All I worry about is the impending crash
Clinging on tight, feet frantic, face panicked,
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Where’s the fun in that?
When did a mere see-saw make me nauseous?
When did a simple slide become so
Ominous? When did I fear losing control
So much… That I lost a piece of myself?
I swore I would never grow old.
Yet here I am. Only just beginning
To understand..
What I Learned in College
Kaitlin Hodnett
HISTORY:
Hercules has commitment issues.
Achilles has weak ankles and a whiskey addiction.
Prince Charming’s sex change was pretty pricey.
But the Trojans burst------ forth to win the war.
It’s a shame Zeus is unreliable when it comes to child support.
And how do I know Michelangelo’s David
Wasn’t a complete and total manwhore??
THEATRE & THE ARTS:
Dip a brush into the fine well of possibilitiespaint until a masterpiece formsor something that you can at least pass off
as “abstract” –or passable on account of personalityor simply label it unfinishedwork in progress.
Enter stage right
(naïve, foolish, selfish, narrow-minded, always right even when wrong)
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Exit stage left
(mature, wise, self-assured, broadened, what’s left before too long)
PSYCHOLOGY:
Needs I need to fulfill? Hell if I know, let me check.
People from my past I can’t quite remember to forget? You bet.
Isolation versus intimacy?- hmm, let’s see, haven’t mastered the latter yet.
The greatest regret you ever met? Not doing anything I regret.
ENGLISH:
14 lines
Scratch that
Sonnets are a son-of-a-bitch
I’ll just stick to free verse bull-shit
Apparently it’s what I’m most comfortable with.
POLITICAL SCIENCE:
The world is counting calories
while I’m making peace
with the fact we’re always at war.
ANATOMY & PHYSIOLOGY:
The human heart is composed of restlessness, rebelliousness, and ravenousness- all
pumping miscellaneous cravings across our chest and through our veins a mile a minute before
we even have time to think time to breathe time to focus the flesh of our sin-ridden guilt-free
lives sinewed into the muscles we either take the time to sculpt or neglect bound by the ecstasy
of youth’s vigorous rendezvous until at last… years down the line…. in our final raspy breath…
we look back at all the wasted time… and realize how fragile our own humanly body is…. how
precious the memories made while living in this vessel of tendons really become… and how the
things that resonate deep within our bones….. are the convictions we will be buried with… and
the legacy we will leave behind…
*Nothing’s changed except my perspective on everything.
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The Ruthless Invasion of Doubt and Regret
Kaitlin Hodnett
Releasing a poem out into the world
Is like being bound by your feet,
Legs spread, while the rest of society
Invades your most private partsCritics pounding relentlessly line after line
Leaving you sorry and sore for being
At the wrong place at the wrong timeFor the torture of being forced to conform and consentI’m not worthy, not worthy I repeat! I repent!
The filth, the neglect, the unwanted focus, the aftermath of regret,
Smothered with their poisonous stench and filthy hands- foul play
Mishandled, misinterpreted, ripped from the comfort of innocence,
will my seed find fruition at all amidst all this
Madness?
Releasing a poem out into the world
Is like being bound by feetLines spread, I mean legs,
The very essence of me lies exposedwhile doctors with cold scalpels and
Shaky hands and sealed lips start an emergency
C-section, blood on the table, body gone cold
Broken in a nervous sweat, exhausted, but it’s not over yetNot until you lose feeling, become numb, the child
Is a stillborn. What’s done is done.
Upon leaving the womb, tiny eyes never
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Open to the world, tiny hands never grasping,
tiny mouth making no sound, tiny body cradledTiny feet buried. Six feet under. Forgotten. In the ground.
Unworthy, unfit for life, beaten,
Before it’s ever even begun.
To write for the world
is to wage an internal war
that simply can’t be won.
Rusty Tin Can
Brandy R. Williams
We carried our hearts in rusty tin cans—
Tucked them away, hidden deep within;
They grew silent, still, and shriveled away;
Iciness seeped in—no warmth left at bay.
The paper breathed life—and oh how it bleeds;
Entry is small but the exit exceeds.
It flitters, flutters, and falls to the floor—
the last breath escapes forevermore.
The rusty tin can—it churns and it aches—
But it can’t seem to find another escape.
The drum beats louder, the pace increases;
The rusty tin can never ceases.
The hinges of December frozen within—
The bounty of Spring swells again.
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FICTION
Just Another Manic Monday
By Brandy R. Williams
On Monday morning, Detective Raina Fox pulled into the parking lot in her Camaro and
slammed the gear into park. She glanced in the mirror, her face pale from another sleepless night,
bunched her shoulder length, dark brown hair into a ball, and secured it with a ponytail holder.
Flickers of pain washed through her blue-gray eyes, seeing her parent’s reflections in her own;
she had her mother’s shiny, thick mane and her father’s dimples and soulful eyes. It was all she
had left of them. The fire engulfed the house, destroying everything and killing her parents: a gas
leak the inspector said. She blotted chapstick on her full lips. Although she was in her early
thirties, the lines of time had been good to her.
Raina started her career as a beat cop and quickly climbed the ladder and became a
detective assigned to one of Atlanta PD’s elite squads—homicide. Being a cop was Raina’s life,
and that left little room for anything else, least of all relationships. She immersed herself in work,
and, although the destructive nature of society sickened her, she enjoyed giving comfort to
26
families by bringing murderers to justice, but, after a shootout that left one dead and Raina
injured, she began to question her priorities in life.
After she healed from her injury and Internal Affairs had stated the shooting was a clean
shooting, she returned to work. Soon thereafter, she found herself plagued with nightmares. She
felt she was constantly on alert as she investigated Atlanta’s underbelly. After some time she
found herself going through the motions of everyday life rather than living. A change of pace
was needed, but she did not know what to do. The decision became clear when a friend from her
past contacted her.
Detective Alex McKenzie was an old high school friend, and he was just the change
Raina was looking for. He was a southern boy from her hometown of Trinity, Louisiana, and he
had heard about the shooting. Worried about how she was doing, he contacted her to make sure
she was okay and to inform her of an opening in Trinity, if she needed a change of scenery. One
month later, she took McKenzie up on his offer and applied for the job. Her experience in
homicide made her a catch for Trinity, and, two weeks later, she slept on McKenzie’s couch,
while she waited to sell her house.
She finished off her coffee, slid on her sunglasses, and grabbed her water bottle. She
stepped out of the car and into the cool, moist air. A chill ran through her body, and she briskly
rubbed her arms. It was just after seven and the sun’s rays hadn’t quite warmed up the day. She
looked up, and faint hints of sunlight flickered through the trees. She did her usual morning
routine: warmed up, stretched her muscles, and ensured her gun was properly holstered and
concealed.
27
Lakeview Park was 200 acres of natural running trails and multiple lakes. Raina loved it
here because it reminded her of a happier time in life, a time when her father was still alive.
Today’s trail was five miles long, and it was quietly nestled within its own patch of forest, with
natural winding trails that slanted and sloped and opened into the mouth of Dreamscape Lake,
where a wooden bridge spanned the breadth of a quarter mile. Legend had it that the lake had the
ability to make one’s dreams come true if a person asked; but, after all that Raina had been
through, she didn’t believe in fairytales.
Raina started jogging down the gravel-laden path. George was at his usual bench reading
the morning paper, his red 12-speed propped on the kickstand next to him. A seasoned reporter,
his piercing, blue eyes bore holes into Raina every time she saw him. His thick, bushy brows and
small, narrow mouth made him seem unapproachable, but, underneath, he was a man with a
troubled past. He was a stout fellow in his late 40’s, with salt and pepper hair. He moved to
Trinity several years ago after his son was murdered. His wife, a rich socialite, divorced him and
left him penniless after he had spent a substantial amount of their fortune on drugs and booze. He
was close to his son, and his murder devastated George. He had been clean and sober for four
years and looked healthier every day—but, still, the pain was there, hidden within his eyes.
Raina recognized it, even saw a bit of herself in him. His natural proclivity to watch people made
him good at his job.
“What up, George?” Raina asked, waving as she approached.
“Morning, Raina. I was hoping you were going to grace me with your presence today. It
seems you are running a little later than usual,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“Yeah—been a helluva morning! Rough night. Took a bit to collect myself. I almost
threw in the towel, but a run always clears the cobwebs, ya know?”
28
“Is everything okay?” He waited for a response, but Raina turned away and wiped the
tears from her eyes. George put down his paper and said, “You know, I’m here if you need to
talk, right?”
Raina took a deep breath, forced a smile on her face, and turned back towards George. He
looks so concerned. “I know, but you know me. Not much of a talker. It’ll work itself out, I
spose.”
“Okay, but I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks,” she said, turning away from him. She stopped momentarily and pivoted on her
toes, a tear streaking down her face. “It ever get better?”
“Does what ever get better?”
“The images. They bombard me, ya know? Can’t get rid of ‘em. Sometimes they hurt so
bad I can’t sleep.”
“Are you talking about something specific?”
“No. Yeah—well, today’s the anniversary, ya know, of the shootin’,” she said, reaching
up to her left shoulder. “Still bugs me.”
She had investigated him for six months, seeing a pattern to the murders. Three months
into the investigation, she had isolated a commonality between Paul Sanders and the two victims
that had been murdered: their abdomens had been eviscerated, and their throats had been slit. She
later connected him to the third victim, as well. She had never dealt with this type of evil before,
but she had sworn to the public that she would do everything to apprehend the suspect. They
received an anonymous tip that he was holed up in a local motel room. SWAT was involved on a
hostage situation downtown, and they were unable to spare members. The goal: rid the streets of
29
a murderer by any means possible. Raina was the first through the door, and she hoped he would
surrender. Enough people were already dead, and she didn’t want any more to die. Besides, death
was the easy way out. He was ready, waiting with a gun in his hand, when she bolted through the
door.
“Police! Drop the gun, down on your knees, and hands behind your head!” Raina yelled,
scanning the room for other perpetrators. Raina saw blood splatter on the far wall near the bed,
and a pair of red high-heels jutted out from the edge of the bed.
“You don’t understand; she made me do it!” he shouted, pacing the floor.
“Gun down, Paul!”
“Evil little bitch tried to trick me. Pregnant with my child, she said. I knew it was a lie.
All of it, a lie. She was a slut, wanted my money like all the rest. They tried to trick me, too, but I
showed them,” he said, waving the gun in the air. Sweat dripped down his face, and he pulled at
his hair in a violent manner.
Raina was out of her league. She was used to dealing with dead bodies and apprehending
suspects, but talking down a crazed lunatic moments after killing someone was a first. Maybe I
can keep him talking and gain his trust. “How many tricked you?” she asked, already knowing
the answer.
“I showed ‘em all—all four of ‘em. Mother, she’s the only one who really loves me. She
told me to watch out for those gold diggers, but noooo, I-I didn’t listen. They didn’t listen, but
they hear me now, don’t they?!” he shouted, pacing back and forth, brushing his wrist across his
brow.
This man’s crazy. He’s not gonna give it up. “Paul, come on man. No need for anyone
else to get hurt. Put the gun down. Give it up man. It’s ov—”
30
“I know what you’re doing! Do you think I was born yesterday you stupid bitch? Rot in
hell,” he said, turning towards her. He sighted his gun, lunged forward, and pulled the trigger.
Raina dropped down on one knee, pain slicing through her left shoulder, and she fired off
three shots; he fell to the ground.
Raina reached up and applied pressure to her shoulder. Lifting up, she glanced around.
“Anybody hurt?” she asked. She slowly rose to her feet and surveyed the scene. She walked over
and kicked the gun out of his reach. She quickly checked his pulse and ensured he was dead. She
turned towards the bed and reached down to check the young girls pulse. She was dead; her
abdomen was eviscerated, with remnants of a fetus lying next to her, just like all the others. She
walked over to Paul, staring down at his motionless body. He had been so young, with a full life
ahead of him. A tear had streamed down her face, and she had felt as if she was five years old
again, her father consoling her after her dog had died. Raina had never wanted to shoot him; she
had just wanted justice.
“Oh, I see. Why do you think that is? Do you question whether you did the right thing by
shooting him?” George asked.
“No, not really. I did the right thing. He shot first, so I had to return fire,” she said, sitting
down on the bench. “That doesn’t make it easier though, ya know, having to take a life.”
“Seems our Raina has a bit of a conscience.”
“You bet your ass I got a conscience! Geez George. You know me better than that. Just
because I don’t show it doesn’t mean I don’t have a heart! That man was evil with a capital E!
Society’s better off! Those girls he killed—well, it was horr—" Raina broke off, realizing that
she was getting upset. “Look. I didn’t want to kill him, but it was him or me.”
31
“Yes, you’ve said as much before. I wonder, did you ever think to reach out to the family
and apologize for killing their only son? Maybe it would ease your guilt over the whole ordeal.”
“Apologize?!” she exclaimed, bolting to an upright position. “For what? They raised him
to be the monster he was, and they should thank me—!” she shouted, her face turning red.
“Really? They should thank you,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
Woo-sah. Raina walked away, took a deep breath, and then turned back to George:
“Sorry. Man, I’m too touchy today. Told ya, rough night. Always brings out the worst in me.
Let’s drop it.”
“It’s okay,” he said, with a quick, taut smile.
“You’re good to me George,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “I gotta get. I’m on a
tight sched.” Raina dodged relationships the same way she dodged bullets. Anytime she felt a
revelation about to occur, she removed herself from the equation. She turned in the direction of
the gravel path, and then she spun back around on her toes. “By the way, I didn’t get my morning
traffic report. How’s it looking?” she asked. “Not in the mood to blow up on someone else. I
need some quiet time this morning.”
In his best reporter voice George said, “Not too bad. I saw a young woman head that
direction about ten minutes before your arrival but no one else, so there shouldn’t be any
challengers on your route. The weather calls for blue skies today, so you should have an
uneventful journey.”
Raina laughed. “Thanks. Laters. Enjoy the funny papers,” she said, pivoting on her toes
and darting down the path.
She continued down the winding trail, which narrowed as it wound deeper into the forest.
She liked to listen to the sounds of the forest: the occasional woodpecker pecking, the wind
32
rustling through the leaves, the birds chirping, the snapping of twigs, and popping acorns
underfoot. The dew glistened off the shards of grass, and the sweet aroma of flowers and the
smell of fresh dirt reminded her of starting anew. The breeze rippled through her hair and pulled
a few strands loose, and they swirled across her face in a playful pattern. Stopping, she reached
up and tucked them behind her ear. A chill crept up her spine, and her hair danced across her
arms. Raina shook her head, rubbed her arms, took a few deep breaths, and continued her run.
She rounded the corner and heard muffled voices ahead. She slowed down and piercing screams
jolted her senses. She crouched in a defensive position, scanning the area.
She reached into her pocket—empty. Idiot! No time to go back. She grabbed her Beretta
9 mm semi-automatic handgun, tossed her water bottle, and sprinted ahead. Banking left, she
rounded the curve and spotted a young woman, lying on the ground. Her honey-wheat hair
disheveled, with remnants of leaves in it. Raina cautiously approached; blood dripped down the
woman’s face, and scratches marred her hands. Raina quickly scanned the scene and spotted two
broken fingernail tips intertwined with pine straw next to the woman. Good. Maybe we can get
DNA results. Her shirt was torn and her pants rested at her thighs. The woman reached up to her
wounded face, and then looked at her bloody hand.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, you okay?” Raina asked, snapping her fingers in the woman’s face.
“Ma’am, you hear me?” She peered at Raina with a glassy stare, looking confused by her
presence. “You with me? I’m Raina, a cop. What’s your name?”
“R-rachel. Rachel Salinger,” she finally said, tears streaming down her face.
“Rachel, what happened?”
33
“He came out of nowhere. Threw me to the ground. His hands—they were all over me,”
she said, looking down at the pants on her thighs. She clutched her waistband, squirmed, and
yanked up her pants.
“Who did? Who attacked you?”
“S-some man. I don’t know where he—” she said, her voice trailing off. “W-where did he
come from?” she asked, with a slight hitch in her voice.
“What direction?”
Rachel hooked her thumb towards the lake: “He didn’t do anything, y-you know, d-down
there,” she said, staring down at her pants. “He tried to—. He heard you com—. Thank God you
came!” she said, clutching Raina’s arms.
“Did you see what he looked like? What he was wearin’?”
“White, late twenties, maybe early thirties, I think. Oh,…it happened so fast. I was
running and he was there, his scarred face so close. And those eyes. They were monstrous.” She
turned away and stared off momentarily. Her hands began shaking uncontrollably.
Raina grabbed her hands and tried to calm her nerves. “Clothes? What kinda clothes?”
“D-dark.”
“Okay—go back to the entrance. There’s a gray-headed fella. Name’s George. He’s a
friend. You can trust him. He’ll wait with ya. Call 9-1-1, report it, and tell ‘em Detective Fox is
in foot pursuit.” Raina glanced around; tiny hairs danced on her neck.
Raina bolted down the winding path, anger fueling her body. Normally a foot pursuit was
right up her alley but not after the night she had. She kicked it up a notch, rounding the last bend
before the lake. He was halfway across the wooden planked bridge when she saw him look back.
34
“Stop!” Raina shouted, waving her gun in the air. “Police!” He kept running. Geez! Just
once, I’d like it to be easy.
She raced across the bridge, narrowing the gap as he hit the gravel path. Her left shoulder
ached the faster she ran. Raina rubbed her forearm across her brow, wiping the sweat from her
face, and increased her pace. Her foot slid out from underneath her, and she skidded across the
gravel. Explosions went off in her head. Up ahead, the trail forked—one uphill and to the left,
the other level and to the right. She saw him bank to the right, so she banked to the left, going
high. She dug in, her legs churned, and she raced up the hill; stray briars sliced her arms, but she
pushed through the pain.
She saw him down below. He slowed down, his movements sluggish. Either he’s getting
tired or he thinks he’s lost me. As quickly as he slowed, he sped back up. Great, he must have
heard me. Raina ran faster, her arms, legs, and heart pumping as fast as they could. She gained
traction and got out in front of him. As he rounded the bend, Raina leapt from the upper level
and careened through the air, landing on him; her fist slammed into the small of his back, jarring
her wrist. The jolt to his spine incapacitated him, and they both hit the ground, rolling in opposite
directions. Raina spun around and frantically searched for her gun. She glanced over at him, and
he was still motionless on the ground, a few feet away. She searched through the leaves, looking
for the gun. A gleam of light reflected the silver barrel, and, as she reached down to pick it up, a
blow to her back slammed her head first into a tree. She staggered and fell to the ground, a rock
slicing the flesh on her leg, exposing bone and fatty tissue.
“Raina, you got moves girl! Shoulda made sure ya put me down before ya done turned
yer back.”
35
Raina’s head pounded and blood dripped into her eyes. What? How does he know my
name? She heard leaves rustle as he moved closer. The stench of salty liquor filled her nostrils.
She spotted a branch and crawled towards it.
“Where ya going baby girl?” he asked, yanking her legs. Raina clutched the branch in her
hand, shoved up off her elbows, twisted her body, and slung the branch at his head. He fell
backwards, and blood poured from the gash on his face. “You little b—!” he sneered, staggering
to his feet. “Easy as pie, he said, just lure ya out; that’s all I had to do. He’s gotta pay me more
for this crap,” he said, wiping the blood from his face.
What’s he talking ‘bout? He’s crazy. I don’t underst—wait, what? It’s a setup? The
whole thing, a setup. He staged the attack to get me alone, but why? Who would go to such
lengths?
“This is gonna be fun. Come on baby girl. Daddy’s gonna rock yer world!” he said,
unzipping his pants. Raina tried to crawl away, but he yanked her legs and flipped her over.
“Always wanted to do a cop,” he said, ripping her shirt. His hands were all over her. Raina
struggled to get free, but her head split wide inside. He grabbed her chin and wrenched it towards
him. “Let daddy see those pretty eyes. Hmm…oh yeah. A man could get lost in those eyes, girl.”
Flashes of light blinded her, and then she saw him, Alex, standing over them. She tried to
blink the blood from her eyes, but no one was there except for Scarface. He was on top of her,
smothering her. She felt the heat of his breath on her neck, as he licked the salt away. Raina
groaned beneath her breath, her stomach in knots. “Don’t play coy, baby girl. You know you
want it,” he whispered, yanking on her waistband. With all the strength she had, she bit his ear
and clawed his face. He jerked up, grabbing his ear. She spit a small chunk of gristle out of her
mouth. “You stupid bi—ohhhh, yer gonna pay,” he said, punching her in the face, over and over.
36
Darkness closed in; drumbeats sounded in the distance. She heard a faint swoosh, and he
slumped on top of her. Raina woke up. His heavy body rested on her chest. Wall closed in and
her breathing increased. She clawed at his body, shoving, yanking. But nothing. His body did not
budge. Raina started kicking, screaming, crying. Her foot kicked a large rock a little to her right.
She turned slightly, braced her feet on the rock, pushed off, bucked, and rolled his body off.
Raina stared at the dead man’s face. She did not recognize him. Did I arrest him before? How’s
he know my name? Who sent him?
“I told him not to hurt you. That wasn’t part of the deal. He should have listened. No,
your pain and suffering is reserved for me.”
“George?” Rachel asked, spinning her body around. “What—?” What the hell is going
on? Oh shit, I sent Rachel to George for help. No one’s coming. Was she in on it too, the setup?
“Raina, Raina, Raina. You cocky little bitch, strutting around as if you’re God’s gift to
the world. I should thank you, should I? That’s what you said, right? I should thank you for
murdering my son.”
“Your son? I didn’t kill your son. What ‘re you talkin’ ‘bout? I didn’t even know—”
Raina sat there, trying to understand what he was saying. Wait. George moved here four years
ago after his son was murdered. “Paul? Paul was your son?” Raina asked, stunned she had never
made the connection. It all makes sense now, how he befriended me so quickly.
“Yes, Paul was my son. He was a good boy. Yes, he had his problems with drugs but
nothing that warranted you killing him in cold blood.”
“I didn’t! It was self-defense! What about those girls he killed? Didn’t they deserve to
live? Weren’t they good?” Raina asked, her eyes scanning the scene for signs of a weapon.
37
“Fabrications, all of it. My boy never hurt anyone. You needed someone to pin those
murders on, so why not the rich kid? It makes for a good story. I should know. It’s my job to
know these sorts of things. I’m already writing the story of your murder while apprehending a
suspect. Your obituary has a nice ring to it, as well.”
Blush crept up Raina’s cheeks. “You know what he did? The way he butchered those
girls, eviscerated their abdomens to kill the babies before he slit their throats?”
“Lies, lies, all lies. I’ve been planning this for years, watching and waiting. You lead a
rather boring life, I must say. And relationships, the closest one you’ve had in years is with me.
You’re pathetic Raina, just another speed bump on the road of life. No, no one will miss you
when you’re gone—well, no one except McKenzie.”
“McKenzie?”
“Your partner, the one who pines after you but you continually shun.”
Calm down. Raina dropped an octave and said, “I didn’t want him dead. He gave me no
choice. Can’t you understand that I tried bringing him in?” Raina was stalling, trying anything to
figure out an alternative. He walked closer and hovered over her. The metallic tasting blood
seeped into her mouth. She turned her head to spit and spotted a rock nearby.
“Knowing that you are about to die, you still can’t admit how wrong you are. That’s fine.
It doesn’t change the outcome. You’ve given me no choice. Surely you can understand that,
Raina my dear? An eye for an eye, nothing more.” He appeared calm and rational, no wavering
in his voice or body. Raina was more scared of this type of perpetrator, his moves methodic and
calculated. “Look at me! I want to see your eyes as the light goes out,” he exclaimed.
38
He leveled the gun at her head. Raina felt a jolt of energy and slammed her foot into his
shin, rolled over, and reached for the rock. The gun went off as he stumbled back. She heard
leaves rustle in the background but couldn’t tell from where.
“It doesn’t matter. Dead is dead,” he said, cocking the hammer again. Raina pushed off
the ground and spun around, throwing the rock at his head.
The loud blare of the gun echoed through the woods. George fell to his knees; frothy
blood bubbled from his mouth. He raised the gun at her again, and another shot echoed. George
collapsed to the ground, and arterial spray spurted from his neck. Raina looked over and sighed
when she saw Detective Alex McKenzie standing nearby, gun drawn. He ran to George, kicked
the Beretta 9 mm, and turned towards Raina. She sat motionless with a laceration on her head.
Her skin was pale, cool, and clammy. He squatted down, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket,
and tied it around her head.
“What’d ya get yerself into this time, Raina?” McKenzie asked, trying to sound
unaffected.
“Oh, ya know. I-It’s just another manic Monday. Welcome to my life,” she said.
“You okay?” he asked, running his hands over her body, checking for injuries. Blood
oozed from her lower leg. A flap of skin curled back, exposing her tibia. He folded the skin back
in place, pulled out his knife, and cut the bottom of her pants, making a bandage for her leg. She
looked at him pensively. Who is this confident yet panicked man, so gentle and compassionate?
His hands trembled as he bandaged her up.
“Yeah,” she said, her hands trembling. “Thanks,” she said, wiping the tears from her face.
He stared at her intently, his brow raised. “I’m okay, really,” she said, resting her hand on his
cheek, more for her own reassurance than his. How’d I miss this? All these years and I didn’t
39
even see it. Raina looked over his shoulder; two dead bodies laid on the ground. “How’d I miss
it? He’s my frie—.”
“You were vulnerable, Raina. He played on that.”
“But I shoulda known. I’m a cop for Christ’s sake! I shoulda known!” she said, a slight
hitch in her voice.
“It’s okay,” he said, pulling her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her. His damp
shirt smelled of salty cologne. She rested her head on his chest and let him hold her. He pulled
back and fingered a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You s-scared me. I almost lost ya,
almost lost ya before—” he said.
“Before what?”
“Before—,” he trailed off. He took a deep breath, bent down, and softly brushed his lips
against hers. He pulled back and searched her eyes; she looked at him and smiled. “Can you
walk?” he asked.
“Yeah. Might need help, but I can manage.”
He lifted her to her feet and waited for her to regain her balance.
“Whoa,” she said, falling into his chest.
“Let me help,” he said, reaching up to steady her.
“No, I’m good,” she said, pushing his hand away. She stepped once, and pain jolted up
her leg.
“Same old Raina. Can barely walk and still insist on being superwoman.” He grabbed her
arm and spun her into his arms. “How bout’ you lean on someone for a change, lean on me for a
change. Tear down the wall, Raina.” She felt a quick hitch in her breath, and he bent down and
scooped her off her feet.
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“Geez! Put me down! What are ya doing, ‘sides acting crazy?” she asked, slapping his
shoulder.
“I’m a gentleman. Ain’t you met one before?”
“Not sure I have. So, wait. Let me get this straight. You plan on carrying me to the park
entrance?”
“Yep.”
“Yer crazy. That’s like a mile or so.”
“Yep—well, just call it your adjustment period.”
“Adjustment period?”
“Yeah, because it’ll take ya some time ta get used ta this,” he said, with a cocky grin.
Yep, he loves me. Things are about to get complicated. “Fine,” she said, “you win.”
“What? Wow! You musta taken a good hit to the head. You sure you’re alright? I mean
really, I win? That’s a first. Can you say that again, like on a recorder?” he asked, cocking his
head back, laughing loudly, “‘cause I’ll never hear those words again.”
“Shh,” she said, smiling and putting her finger to his lips. “I’m tryin’. Don’t ruin it.” She
nestled her head in the crook of his neck and quietly exhaled.
41
Never the Same
Taylor Devillier
“Hello?...Yes, this is the Wilson residence…This is she…What?” She falls heavily into
the kitchen chair next to her, strangling it so hard her knuckles turn snow white. She listens as
half her heart slowly stops beating. The better half of her heart is gone.
“Thank you so much for the call…Yes…Thank you. Bye-bye.” She drops the phone
without hanging up. She pulls her knees to her chest, crumpling her body like a paper wad. Her
body begins to shake violently with the sobs that come flooding out.
“He’s gone, he’s gone,” she thinks continually. She needs him there. She needs him. He
was supposed to be on leave in one week. Only one more week. She wasn’t even able to tell him.
She couldn’t anymore. He would never know the secret she had kept from him for two months.
He wouldn’t hear her say it.
The sound of soft footsteps brings her back. She wipes the tears away quickly. She must
be strong.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! I climbed to the top, I climbed to the top!”
“To the top of what, sweetie?”
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“The jungle gym! I did it! Now I’m super-strong just like Daddy!”
She holds back the tears craving to burst out at what the little girl just said. “Yeah,
sweetie. Now you are super-strong, just like Daddy.”
“I can’t tell her he’s gone yet,” she thought. “I can’t bring myself to do it. Not now.”
“Bye, Mommy! I’m going to climb it again.”
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
“Okay Mommy!”
She watches as her little girl skips back outside without a care in the world, not knowing
how different her world has just become.
“I’ll be back in two months. For good this time, baby, I promise.”
She clutches the necklace around her neck, the tangible promise he gave her before he
left. “Forever. I promise.” That’s what the ring says. Promises aren’t worth anything anymore.
The one she leaned on the most just broke under her feet, causing a freefall. She can’t stop. She’s
going down hard and fast. She’s lost the one person she trusted and loved the most. Her secret
resurfaced. The one she will never be able to tell him and see his reaction.
She walks outside. She feels the cool breeze dancing around her legs, the sun warming
her cold skin. She looks up at the clear blue sky, and rests her hands on her stomach.
43
Intersection
Kaitlin Hodnett
Hopelessness has the right of way
And will not yield to hopefulness
Nor will anger give way to ego
It’s consistent- More or less
Every day they meet, they come and go,
Travel to and travel fro nonetheless
Yet which is the most lethalIs anybody’s guessWhether it be
selfishness, selflessness,
obliterativeness, or obliviousness?
But alas, I digress.
I stare at the bright yellow lines on the highway as they zip past my weathered Dodge one
by one. I can’t help but become mesmerized by the sheer speed with which they disappear
behind the power of my four-wheel drive. If only my problems could fade from my life that
44
quickly behind the power of my own self-consciousness. If only I could outrun them. If only I
had a way out. As a young boy, they teach you to be strong--- but they equate strength with not
having emotions. Never show emotion. Never cry. Never be weak. I have a history of being
strong. I know this. I accept this. But can I live with this?
I didn’t cry when Cheryl miscarried our son. I didn’t cry for the unborn baby. She cried
enough for both of us, but not me. I didn’t cry at all. I just drank away my sorrows. I didn’t cry
when Cheryl left me. I knew it was coming. I held the bottle closer than I ever held her, and the
whiskey touched my lips more often than she did. I didn’t cry when she took the house. I just
moved into my own empty “bachelor pad.” I didn’t cry four months ago when my boss informed
me that after twenty-five years of my undivided loyalty, I was being replaced with someone
younger. Someone smarter. Someone stronger. When a man loses his strength, what does he
have left? Why go home? What is there to go home to? There is no hope. There are only the
yellow lines on the road appearing then disappearing in such a predictable pattern. It’s only
human nature. We are born. We fly through life. Then we die. Repeat. Except my son was dead
before he was even born. Where’s the logic in that? And I being born, at the ripe old age of fortyseven have done what with my life exactly? Other than lose everything. Isn’t that what losers do?
What is there left to lose? Nothing. I want to fade into the nothingness. I want it to swallow me
whole. I want to push this pedal down as far as it will go.
I see the closest exit clearly now. And I take it.
****************************************************************************
45
Caddie’s got soccer practice in twelve minutes. We’re going to make it in time, or I’ll be
damned. “And Mom of the Year Award goes to ME” I think as I glance in my rearview and see
Stella watching the newest episode of Sophia the First, while wearing her own tiara, that I
managed to find at Target for cheap, cheap cheap, and I’m so relieved children have yet to figure
out the value of a dollar. They never ask me “how much did this cost” before they accept the
gifts of my affections or the labors of my love- no- they simply squeal with pure delight, and
that, is priceless. This ole minivan has gone many miles with the fruits of my labors- from zoos
to aquariums, from piano practice to T-ball tournaments, from PTA meetings to cross country
vacations. Reliable. That’s what this vehicle is. I hate being late for things because I feel as if it
makes me appear to be unreliable, like I don’t have my shit together, but I do, and I’ve never
been late while driving this Subaru, she never lets me down.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! A shrill piercing scream suddenly interrupts my train
of thought. Apparently, Caddie’s finished his Dorito’s and is pinching his sister.
“CADISON DENVER DANIEL, KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF OR I WILL
TURN THIS CAR AROUND RIGHT NOW! Stella baby, are you alright, come here let mama
see, I will kiss it make it better.” I manage to say in the same breath, as Stella leans in and
stretches her arm up to the front seat so my magic smooches can mend her woes.
BUUUHHHZZZZ BUHHHHZZZZ BUHHHZZZZZ suddenly my purse starts vibrating out of
control. Frantically I start searching through it to locate my phone- FOUND IT! And it’s
Jared….
“Yes dear, I did pick up pork loins at the grocery store…. Did the deal close today? ….
Oh, that’s wonderful! Congratulations!... no, no I definitely wanna know the details I’m just busy
right now. Caddie’s blowing up the empty Dorito bag just so he can pop it and it’s making this
46
obnoxious sound. I can’t really hear much over it. Mkay, talk to you when I get home. Love you
too.”
The silver cross necklace hanging from my rearview mirror sways sharply to the left as I
turn a sharp and unforgiving curve. Stella spills her juice all over the backseat and starts crying. I
reach back to help clean her up, giving her my full undivided attention, after all, my Subaru has
never steered me wrong before….
******************************************************************************
I hear my engine roar as I furiously pull my car over into the other lane; there’s a car
coming head-on but it’s so far in the distance it’s a risk I’m willing to take. I put the pedal to the
medal and flip-off the stupid old bitch who’s going forty miles an hour when the speed limit is
clearly forty-five. She’s probably too old to even read the damn speed limit signs. What the hell
is she even doing out on the road?? You don’t even need to go anywhere you stupid old hagyour life is over- just stay home and die.
Everyone’s pissing me off today as I sail through these back-roads. I wish they’d all go
to hell. I wish I could just get to the interstate already and get the hell out of this stupid hellhole.
Great, now there’s a stupid sports car in my way, one with a bumper sticker that says “YOLO.”
Must be some godd*mn teenage girl who’s been spoiled rotten by her daddy- who’s gotten
everything in her perfect little life handed to her. Hell, it might be some stupid slut like Samantha
who is never satisfied with anything she’s got. I practically punch my steering wheel. Slam my
palm onto the horn until it’s blaring. I pull my jacked-up Ford close up to her obnoxious
“YOLO” bumper- her tiny car pales in comparison to mine. When she doesn’t get out of my
47
way, I pull over to the other lane (we’re about to be headed around a curve, there could be a car
coming in the distance but it’s a risk I’m willing to take).
Everyone on the road is pissing me off today. I blame Samantha. If she wasn’t such a
whore, I wouldn’t be such a horrible person right now. Maybe if my ex-girlfriend HADN’T been
f&%king my ex-best friend behind my back every week while I was at football practice, then
maybe, just maybe I wouldn’t f%$king hate everyone on the entire planet right now. I punched
the shit out of Derek when I found out. And I’ll be damned, but I wish I could have punched the
shit out of Samantha too. I know I’m not supposed to hit ladies, but that bitch is NOT a lady by
any means. I think my heart has fallen through my floorboard. I turn the radio up louder.
KillswitchEngage.
I’m coming up close behind a sandy-colored truck with a California license plate.
They’re a long way from home. I spit out the window and light one up. Pull into the other lane to
pass this wayward sonofabitch up, BUT THE DAMNED THING PICKS UP HIS SPEED TOO
SO I CAN’T GET BACK OVER! OH, WELL I’VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU, YOU DUMB
BASTARD, IF IT’S A RACE YOU WANT, IT’S A RACE TO THE FINISH YOU’LL GET!
With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I watch the needle climb from 75 miles per hour…
to 85 miles per hour… I may have lost my high-school sweetheart to another man because she
apparently turned into a slut once we hit college… I may have lost my faith in humanity… I may
have lost all ability to trust anyone ever again, but I will not lose my pride- I will not lose my
dignity…. I will not lose this race to another man… from 85 miles per hour to 95 miles per
hour…. I clutch the steering wheel and grit my teeth. I’ve never felt so alive. There’s an
intersection up ahead, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take…. From 95 miles per hour to…..
48
************************************************************************
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” I yawn. Reapply my lip-gloss. Glance at
my phone. It’s nerve-wracking. Waiting. Not knowing. My entire body feels jittery with
anticipation. Audrey had said that Claire had said that Danny had said that Nathan had asked for
my number. And Audrey had supposedly given Claire permission to give it to Danny to give it to
Nathan. I readjust the bobby pins in my hair. What if he doesn’t like me after all? My phone
lights up. So do I. “One New Message from Audrey-bear” uh. Not who I wanted to hear from
right now. But I open it anyway.
“Herd frm Nate??”
I type “Not yet” press send. Keep waiting. There’s nothing but love songs on the radio.
Could it be a sign?
My phone lights up. So do I.
“One New Message from 1-228-730-8624” I DON’T KNOW THIS NUMBER! THIS!
THIS COULD BE IT! I open the message frantically.
“Hey! It’s Danny!” Danny? Why Danny? Oh! Does he bring news from Nathan? Is it
good news or bad news??
“Wutz up??” I reply. Keep waiting. Some joggers on the road wave as I pass by.
“Nm. U?”
“Just drivin home”
“Yeah me 2”
“So?”
“So.. what?”
49
“So any news from Nathan??”
“Oh…. No.”
“NO??”
“No.”
I don’t respond to that. How do I? He’s made his answer loud and clear. Nathan isn’t
interested in me. My phone goes off again. But it’s still Danny“Rachel…. I was the one who wanted ur #”
“K.”
“That it? Just K?”
“Yeah”
Sent 2:45pm: “Y?”
Sent 2:46pm: “Cuz I only like u as a friend Danny”
Sent 2:47pm: “figured”
Sent 2:48pm: “ur makin things awkward”
Sent 2:49pm: “sry not sry”
Sent 2:50pm: “u don’t have 2b so mean”
Sent 2:51pm: “u didn’t have 2 use Nathan as a means to get to me”
Sent 2:52pm: “I know but I really like u just let me talk to u”
Sent 2:53pm: “whatev. Do wut u want. Idc”
Sent 2:54pm: “lets play 20 ????”
Sent 2:55pm: “K”
Sent 2:56pm: “Wutz ur fav color?”
Sent 2:57pm: “purple”
50
Sent 2:58pm: “Cool. Now ur turn”
Sent 2:59pm: “When will u ever take a hint & leave?”
Sent 3:00pm: “Not no time soon. What u listenin 2 on the radio right now?”
Sent 3:01pm: “MileyCyrus. If I wanted a pair of J’s would u buy me sum?”
Sent 3:02pm: “well duh. What size shoe u where?”
Sent 3:30pm: “Rachel, u there?”
Sent 4:30pm: “HELLOOOOO???”
1 NEW MESSAGE FROM AUDREY-BEAR Sent 4:47pm: “Hey chicka! Wutz up??”
Sent 4:57pm: “girl, u there??”
Sent 5:18pm: “U finished Mr. Trubert’s homework??”
Sent 5:27pm: “Rach. I’m gettin worried. Were r u???”
8 MISSED CALLS FROM CLAIRE. 3 NEW VOICEMAILS.
51
Wasted
Kaitlin Hodnett
“Has the family been contacted yet, Detective Strider?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. We’re trying to find people he had any contact with at all, honestly.
John Doe here appears to have been a bit of a loner.”
Indeed, the severity of his isolation was overwhelmingly apparent. My eyes took a quick
sweep of the crime scene- a dingy hotel room. The dresser chest, which had been pushed in front
of the door as a makeshift barricade, now lay in pieces, as my men had frantically, forcefully
broke through to reach the occupant, who lay lost inside his own personal prison. Other than the
four-post bed with tacky green sheets, and the curtains on the window that were the same putrid
shade, the room was colorless. Lifeless. The body grown cold and still, still lying on the floor
facedown. The bottle of Vodka on the desk stood- unopened- illuminated by the dull glow of a
weak bulb and a cheap lamp.
“The forensics have declared the cause of death already I assume?”
“Dehydration. Apparently the man had locked himself in here for six days with no food
or water.”
“Peculiar way to commit suicide, don’t you think? A bullet would have been much faster
and just as effective.”
“Trying to investigate the motives behind the entire human race’s psyche is a peculiar
affair in itself though, do you not agree?”
52
“Depends on the case. Have the contents of his pockets been thoroughly investigated?”
“Yes. But they were empty. Entirely. Nothing other than a little lint.”
******************************************************************************
After the man had been identified as Ernest Jones, I earnestly realized that this was the
least favorite part of my job- tracking down the living relatives and being the bearer of
unfathomable news. How do you tell families that their loved ones are deceased? Was Ernest
loved by many or by few? Not that it matters- it only takes one grieving woman, one distraught
widow, to break down in a show of waterworks that will forever haunt my dreams. On the job, I
am to remain as resolute as stone, to be the shoulder for the grieving souls to lean on. But when
I’m alone, I can’t get the images of their desolation from the forefront of my mind, nor can I
forget the scenes of the human bodies that are sometimes mangled, sometimes unrecognizable,
sometimes in one piece, sometimes in twenty, but always they are no more. I stop at the
threshold, take a deep breath, and raise my fist to knock upon Mrs. Christine’s door.
The woman’s door and jaw opened in slight surprise at the presence of her unexpected
guests, as my partner stammered “Evenin’ Mrs. Deluth… I’m afraid…. We have some… rather
difficult news… to impart upon you”
Her air shifted from shocked to that of a hospitable housewife, as the tea kettle screamed
in the background and she replied“Please, come in Officers. Make yourselves comfortable and I will go fetch us all some
refreshments.”
In her absence, we were ambushed and bombarded by three children- “Hey can I see your
badge??” “Do you have a GUN?” “Will you taze me?” “What’s your name??” “Can we ride in
your car?”- in that moment, I knew I was going to hell. For invading this family man’s lively
home and dropping in their laps, death. For tainting this picturesque scene with a shroud of death
and decay.
“Do you like it sweet?” Mrs. Deluth said in a chipper manner holding out a tray of tea
cups and sugar cubes, “Kids, go play outside for a moment alright, Loves?” and with that the last
bit of innocence abandoned the room. The quiet that ensued was painstaking. Mrs. Deluth’s
53
porcelain spoon clanked against the porcelain cup as it was set steaming on the cold mahogany
coffee table.
“So what brings you into my humble abode today, boys?” she implores lightheartedly.
“Ernest Jones” I begin- before she interrupts with a scoff of disgust“My EX husband?? But we filed the divorce papers almost a decade ago, surely no legal
matters are still lingering???”
“No m’am. Not exactly” I continued, “Ernest Jones was found dead.”
“It was only a matter of time” she replied, no trace of sadness in her voice, the dry
woman kept talking “he was dead to me years ago. Dead to the kids, even. He never even
bothered to write them. As far as they know, Richard Deluth is their father. He’s my new
husband and NOTHING like Ernest, THANK GOD,” at this point I began to tune her out…. “I’ll
tell you one thing, the only thing worse than BEING an alcoholic is falling in love with one. I
knew it was only a matter of time before he went and got himself killed by the bottle...” at this
point I couldn’t help but wonder if Ernest never wrote to his children because Mrs. Prim and
Proper Deluth never even gave him the address of her new residence- she continued to drone on
with words that could draw blood- “People never change, I’ve been preaching that since day
one… if he even had a will and bothered to include me in it just give the shit away…”
I was prepared to handle overwhelming suffering; but never had I been confronted with
such skin-crawling indifference…..
******************************************************************************
Sometimes you never really know a man until he’s dead. Gathering perspectives,
gathering data- is exhausting really. Sometimes I would kill to be able to gather all the answers
straight from the source itself.
After leaving the abode of the arid-faced Mrs. Deluth, I’ll admit it feels even more
peculiar to be sitting in the circle of an AA group. The entire congregation is in tears. Apparently
Ernest Jones had been five years sober and was an inspiration to those lost souls here now, who
meet up weekly to find comfort and support in each other. A murmur of respectful sayings were
jumbled amongst all the sobs- “I was here the first day, Ernest came in six years ago. And he
never wavered from his conviction to get clean. I. I keep relapsing. But he. He was a real man”
54
“I can’t believe I won’t get to see that smile again” “What I wouldn’t give to hear his laughter
one more time” “only the good die young” “I don’t understand how… if he had already defeated
his demons… how something so tragic could have occurred.. right under our noses” “could we
have saved him? Why did no one see the signs?” “he always seemed so happy” “happy is just a
mask that the tortured wear to save face” “now Bruce, don’t you dare turn a sensitive moment
into something cynical…..”
As I stood, a stillness fell over the reverent room. I was here to read the last Will &
Testament of Ernest Jones. Written and signed just six months before his death:
“To Chad Gunther- I leave my apartment and all of its miscellaneous possessions- just
because your wife kicked you out, doesn’t mean you CAN’T have a home of your own. Consider
this a fresh start, and the only thing I expect in return, is for you to get back on your feet and stay
standing tall.
To Tyronne Johnson- I leave my vehicle, get out of town, and see the rest of the country,
there is so much more out there than this city, which drains the life from you. You are too
talented to remain stagnant. Leave the past behind you, and never look back.
To Laikyn Pontelle- I leave a portion of the contents of my savings account, $10,000; it is
not to late too go back to undergrad and get your degree. Expand your future. Or waste your
opportunities. The choice is yours.
To Mollie Sampson- I leave my rent house and all of its contents. Leave Mark, take your
children and give them the haven they deserve and don’t you dare let one drop of your addiction
find its way into that home.
To my beloved kids- Jessie, Abigail, and Thomas- I leave my apologies. If I knew where
you were, I would’ve come for you long ago. I leave the rest of my monetary and financial
success- 30,000$ in your name, to split equally among each of you. Invest wisely. Work hard all
your life. And never let your addictions define you.
To my ex-wife Christina- I leave the five-year-old unopened bottle of Vodka as proof that
people are capable of change. Consider it a prized trophy, a tangible piece of evidence, a
reminder that at least ONE of us was capable of actually resisting temptations. Such a shame you
never learned the same though, dear. But don’t worry sweetheart, I don’t blame you for anything
nor do I hold any resentment for your human fallacies, so rest assured that I look forward to
seeing you again in hell.”
55
******************************************************************************
What demons haunted this man to the point of such lethal desperation? Was overcoming
his addictions simply the success that led to his failure? If we all gave up our addictions-, would
we too die of dehydration? With nothing to hydrate us, sustain us, would life then lose all
meaning? If we said “no” to every craving, every temptation, every opportunity, would the well
within our souls run dry as well? If I followed the straight and narrow road of righteousness and
caution, would I too end up behind the caution-lines, in some dingy hotel room, with an
untouched bed and an unopened bottle of Vodka?
This case haunts me more than usual. At first glance, it’s black and white. Suicide. Not a
homicide. White male, age 43, 5’8”, 187lbs. Greying-brown hair. Blue eyes that see no more.
The same scene I keep seeing every night in my mind… me…. Walking up to the then nameless
corpse whose pockets were empty…. Me…. Kneeling down beside the stranger who I never
knew now never will….. Me…. Noticing his hands were balled in fists--- wondering at his final
moments of frustration… me…. Prying his fingers open from their unclenched position… me….
Extracting the piece of paper, which lie, crumpled up in his palm…. Me…. Unfolding it…..
me…. Bracing myself for another suicide note of “I hate the world, this is my resignation. Screw
the universe” me…… looking at the words written there… in disbelief… reading them again and
again and again… trying to make sense of all things insensible… of the words that echo like a
prayer in my mind- the words this man held on to so tightly during his final breaths- the last
words of Ernest Jones“I will right my wrongs even if it kills me”
56
Expedition
Brandon Pitchford
“Why must we be down here?” I groaned. My hand rubbed across rough,
disproportionate bricks that somehow stacked on top of each other to form a perfectly even wall
to the ceiling. The archaic brick layout was packed with mortar that occasionally jutted out in
certain sections, likely to some deterioration near stone bricks that were sliding out. Dust was
whisked into the air with my swipe, and I sneezed a cloud away from my face.
“Jyra bless you,” my colleague called to me. He wiggled his pink, wet nose and licked his
jutting rodent-like teeth. He was a Mirlin, a type of being that humans often describe as Gerbillike. His fur was a dark beige, and he clothed himself in gear suited for great expeditions. He
removed a light orb from his belt that surrounded his spherical body. He turned to look at me, his
eyes were behind rounded, thick-rimmed spectacles that magnified his actually beady eyes. “You
know why you’re here, and why I’m here.” He waved his finger at me. “Can’t change your mind
now.” His furry cheeks were pushed by his grin as he giggled and squeaked.
57
He stepped a few paces forward, stopping at the corner of a hallway intersection that had
a small column decorated in runes. He shone his light on it, and pointed at it. “Read this for me,
if you will Joshlin.”
I sighed as I strapped my crossbow onto my back. “Jarvis, I don’t think we should go any
further than where the city and university has permitted.”
“Read.” Jarvis persisted. His nose wiggled as his brow hung low above his eyes.
I rolled my green eyes. I wish he could see my hesitation and doubt rather than his
reflection in my eyes. I squatted down to the column, which was a sign pointing down this hall. I
read the inscribed language in my head, while reflecting on how my ancient linguistic skills seem
to finally have had more use. “Gardum Hall, Center Tower: Fifth Floor,” I said aloud, my finger
striding below each line on the column post.
“Splendid!” Jarvis hopped up and down. “We are getting closer!”
“Closer to the Nalthri,” I muttered.
“Now, now,” he waved that finger at me again. “No need for pessimism. I know those
demons are dangerous, but come on.” He tilted his head at me, with some type of peculiar,
sympathetic face. “We’ve only seen a few of those rodent Nalthri and we’ve made short work of
them, eh?” He removed his energy pistol from his side, and held it out before his face, barrel
pointing upwards. The lights emanating from the clear pieces were a sign it was still fully
charged and loaded. He attempted to twirl it with a chuckle, but fumbled and dropped it upon the
floor. I was surprised it did not fire. He hunched over to pick it up, and giggled with
embarrassment. He slid it back into its holster. “I guarantee you we will be safe and could handle
anything thrown at us. The Dragonfly Armada took care of the worse of those, foul beasties.” He
trembled and shook his head, squinting his eyes. “The thought of them…”
58
“But what if we do encounter some of the worst?” I insisted. “Like the ones that are
resistant to magic attacks, which magic attacks unfortunately constitute to the energy in our
pistols.”
“That’s why you have your crossbow.” He smiled, holding his hand out towards it. I
tilted my head slightly, eyeing the handle of the crossbow peeking from behind my shoulder. “A
primitive weapon modified with the brilliance of modernization for advanced purposes such as
this!”
“Yes…” I grumbled quietly to myself under my breath. There was no reasoning with
him. Jarvis always had something to refute my logic, even if my logic was on par with reasons of
security. Jarvis is a brilliant scholar, but his callous disregard for not only his own safety, but for
those around him as well set his standards low. And he is clearly not weapon wise. He could
barely hold a damn pistol correctly.
“Why couldn’t we have waited for the request for a Dragonfly Armada escort to
process?” I asked him as he began venturing down the hall. Its corners were sharp, but its ceiling
arched with gradual curving. “And there is a reason why they stopped at the Center Tower, and
raised the draw bridge.”
“They would have never given us the escort for where we’re going,” Jarvis said. I felt he
had a sly grin on his face as he pressed on. “Besides, they were taking FOREVER with that
request. Ugh.” He groaned, rubbing his face with his hand and then swung his hand down. “Such
disregard for the advancement of scholar research.”
I allowed Jarvis to keep on ranting, but I paid no attention to his trivial gripes. My eyes
were set on the eeriness of these extensive ruins. “The Lost City,” as historians and scholars alike
have been calling it, is an ancient city underground certain areas within and outside the famed
59
capital of Mourning-Star. We’re unsure of how far the ruins predate the Empire, but the sheer
signs of age were enough to make me tremble at how old this elaborate maze of a city was. I
quivered more to the thought of what brought an end to what appeared to be a marvelous
landmark of engineering and craftsmanship. We still do not know what this cavernous metropolis
was called.
Blocky columns were embedded in the walls of this expansive hallway. All of the
ceilings in what appeared to be underground roads were set high. The stone bricks were a dark
grey color. They had this rough appearance, but were actually smooth to the touch save for the
occasionally jutting mortar. Some walls between columns had carved designs. The designs were
usually the same for each wall, a peculiar blend of diamonds, stars, and circles arranged like the
symbol of Infinity. However, a pike-shaped carving struck down the center of the symbol, with
curving strands emitting from the center of the strike. What this means, I could not say. But I
kept staring at each design, with some odd shrivel of hope that there would be something
different with each one I saw. Perhaps something pointing to what this city was about, why it
was here, or what its denizens were like.
My body shivered, even with the amount of armor and gear didn’t warm me from this
cold air that hit me like a brick wall. The deeper the ruins go, the colder the air gets mixed with a
moisture that accumulates on the walls. I believe this is what prevents and extreme buildup of
dust. The end of the hall was in sight, a wide aperture of a doorway that opened to an enormous
area we call the Center Tower. Darkness shrouded the distant vision, but the darkness was fought
by fire light from large braziers . The Center Tower was essentially a large, hollow, and
octagonal column. A bands of protruding stone blocks went up and down the tower’s surface.
The surrounding area was also octagonal, with bridges that connected from more hallways to the
60
Center Tower. The stone bridges appeared to float as there were no supporting columns below
them. The only support came from what held the bridges across from each other, and the
connection each bridge half had against each other. The bridges were flat, and were made of a
collection of smaller bricks that looked like stripes from a distance. The bridge directly in front
of us was up. They were drawbridges, and from our position, looking up or down, I could see the
other bridges either down, retracted, or even completely fallen. There were stone catwalks along
the walls across from the tower, some fallen, damaged, or intact. These little side paths never
connected to the center tower, but occasionally would shift into higher or lower levels. They
were shoulder paths to separate rooms or even whole new areas in the walls. When Jarvis and I
looked up, we couldn’t even see the ceiling. The tower faded into the void. When we looked
down, it was the same sight of fading into darkness. It was almost as if we wouldn’t tell if we
were upside down or not, or if there was any real vertical direction here. It was unnerving. These
ruins were gargantuan. There’s no way two scholars could venture in this place alone. I know we
would get lost. I feel these ruins have claimed more lives of intrepid researchers that thought this
place was safe simply because it lie beneath one of the most populous cities in the known
universe, and the most secure capital city in the known universe as well. But I know that is a
wrong assumption. I looked at Jarvis, that wide grin with his protruding front teeth was cracking
across his furry face. He rubbed one of his plump cheeks. I sense he was making that
assumption.
“And here we are: Where the Armada left off.” He approached the drawbridge. It stood
up like a wall, acting as a guard for one to not fall over the edge. Had I mentioned earlier this
place has hardly any railing in the Center Tower? Most of it is damaged from deterioration or
even looters. It’s very easy to fall over. “We’re only five levels deep, Joshlin. Dr. Eltenaire has
61
hypothesized that there may well be over a twenty levels to this city.” He twirled around in a
dancing manner, basking in the closed air and embrace of the Center Tower. “And now to only
get across…”
“You didn’t think they’d leave the draw bridge down, did you?” I chided him. My hand
was out at the bridge, and then it dropped to my side. “See? This was for nothing. We aren’t
meant to go down this far, Jarvis. Let us continue exploring the higher levels. There’s still much
to be done—”
He pulled out a star-shaped stone piece that had a thick trim that lined it. The stone trim
was blue, and the main part of it was made of shimmering jade. I noticed that a lot of the
columns match it, as they are made of jade, contrasting with the dark grey walls. The star really
looked like two stars, one overlapping the other. He retrieved another from his back. His furry
brow arched and moved up and down at me.
“Jarvis, you stole…”
“I’m sure what we will find down here will expiate any…borrowing I’ve done from the
university.” He began sliding one of the Drawbridge Icons—that’s what they were called—into
its slot. There was a loud click, and he stepped back from it. He tilted his head at the drawbridge,
pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. The he took the last Icon to the other slot.
“Jarvis, I don’t believe any of this is worth—”
He pushed the icon into the slot with his furry palm. His hand covered the whole icon and
slot, and he held it there like he feared it would slip out. This click once the icon was inside
reverberated even louder than the other. I heard the turning of stone, sliding against more stone,
as the drawbridge went down. It crept to meet the opposite bridge, which was already down. It
tilted downward inch by inch. The suspense of this was agonizing. The loud stone on stone
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sound would, could alert an entire army of Nalthri if they were nesting nearby. The stone
screeched as the bridges made contact. I winced at the sound, closing my eyes and plugging my
ears with my hands. And then it abruptly halted. The chilling silence swooped back into the area
after an echo when the drawbridge finally clicked into place. My hands hovered from my long,
pointed ears. My eyes creaked open. Jarvis held his arms out wide before the drawbridge as if he
had parted a sea. A clear path to the Center Tower was before us. The catwalk that surrounded
the tower at this level had completely collapsed on this side. The only way we could go was
straight through the double doors in the tower’s wall. The doors were rectangular, with a halfcircle top. The face of the doors appeared like embedded columns that lay side by side, forming a
wall.
Jarvis chuckled. His chortling was all too familiar to me, but this time there was an air of
maniacal intent in his laugh. So peculiar, the same laugh I’ve always have heard from him,
sounding so different in my head on account of our location and what he has done, and what he’s
about to get us into.
He cocked his head towards me. “Shall we?” He tilted his head and held his light out
towards the bridge. His nose wiggled again and his teeth chattered.
I licked my lips. I was panting as I stared at the large double doors across the bridge.
Then I nodded my head. “Yeah.” I whispered more quietly after a heavy gulp. “Yeah…”
Hesitantly, I took a few heavy steps forward. My boots were trudging across the stone floor.
Jarvis was now at my side. He kept his other hand close to his face, covering his mouth with a
fist. I looked away from him and listened to only the patter of our feet across the rough bridge.
He wouldn’t speak aloud, but I could hear his excitement as he mumbled short, incomplete
phrases to himself. This wasn’t unusual to me, but I was still unsettled by his excitement.
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The hallway behind us was now hazy with darkness. As the back hallway was further
and further behind us, I looked ahead to see the towering double doors were close and closer to
us with each cautious step. My gaze went down, over the edge of the bridge, and I saw again the
chasm below. The bottom was still a haze of darkness. Around fifteen levels of the city were
down there, and I could only see two more below. And ultimately, as our last step echoed, we
were before the double doors. Jarvis sniffed, his nose wiggled and his lips and fur around them
wrinkled with each sniff. His hand glided across the door, feeling its rough surface. The grooves
in the doors made them feel rough. Jarvis leaned against the door with the side of his head. His
puffy cheek smashed into the door, with the fat spreading to other parts of his face. His ear was
pressed into the door, sliding back and forth across the door like a pendulum. The edges of his
lips stretched into his cheeks.
“Help me get this opened,” he asked of me.
My hesitation was again palpable. He didn’t seem to mind. Together, we planted our
hands into the door and began pushing in. The grooves in the door were scratching my gloves.
We pushed and pushed but the doors were so heavy. It felt like there was actually something
behind them, blocking it.
“My door is pushing more than yours,” Jarvis sputtered. He struggled with the door, but
he was right. The door I pushed wouldn’t budge. “Come over here; we’ll just open this one.” He
groaned as all of his strength was being exerted onto this door. I relaxed and took a few short
breaths while Jarvis kept pushing. He grew impatient, hollering my name, so I ran into the door
and began pushing with the side of my right shoulder. Sure enough, this door was pushing open
even faster when I came to his aid. Jarvis looks plump enough to push his weight around, but he
was still very weak. The door slid over the stone floor, smoothly without any screeching. Dust
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was pushed and the foot of the door. I heard something sliding behind the door, as it felt we were
actually pushing more than a stone door. When the braziers’ light and Jarvis’ light shone into the
room beyond the door, I noticed some debris on the floor. Piles of powered mortar mixed with
little and large pieces of stone bricks were pushed aside with our door. The other door was
blocked entirely by a large chunk of stone bricks. I stepped over the debris cautiously, step by
step to avoid tripping and making noise. My feet bent as my toes were the first to touch the floor,
with my heel being the last to grace the surface. Jarvis, on the other hand, trotted through the
debris, pounding his feet through them and on the floor as loudly as he possibly could. He shone
his light around; all over the floor, along the walls, and up to the ceiling, which was lower than
the hallway. A square column with a wide base was a head of us, with a staircase surrounding it
going up and down.
“Strange,” Jarvis said while placing his hand on his fuzzy chin. He nibbled the ends of his
fingers. “This debris is here blocking the doors, but their source seem to be from over there.” He
shone his light along the left wall and pointed. Pieces of the wall were battered out; perhaps with
a pickax of some kind. “Someone has been here.”
“Please don’t frighten me more than I already am.” I said, holding my hand up towards
him. I hoped the gesture would tone down his terror musings. “It was probably just the Armada.
Maybe. They could have went this far, deemed it unsafe, and attempted to barricade the door.”
“But how would they get around it to exit?” Jarvis turned to me with an arched brow. His
light went into my eyes, blinding me.
“There’s stairs to all levels in the Center Tower, isn’t there?”
“Yes and no.” Jarvis said. “In certain areas of the Center Tower, yes. However…” He
shone his light to the staircase. “This might actually go up to level six, more up to the surface but
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I don’t think the staircase goes all the way up. It’s kind of an interval thing. This floor will have
passage to the next floor, but the next floor may not have passage to the floor above it. Likewise
for floors downward.” He shone the light from the opening where the stairs went down, and then
to where the opening where the stairs went up. “I do think this floor has access to level six, so
you may be right.” He rubbed his eyes, pushing his spectacles up with his hand. “Not all rooms
in the Center Tower actually have passage to the upper or lower levels, though. Passage to the
other levels is mostly through the hallways within the rest of the Lost City. The Center Tower
area seemed more of a plaza area, or a place where traffic of people or whatever were directed.” I
saw how small his eyes were for a moment, nearly black little dots on his face. When his glasses
dropped in front of them, his eyes were magnified once more, appearing so large. He blinked
several times as his eyes adjusted to his prescription lenses. “My, my,” he said with a gleeful
tone. “Would you look at this fine craftsmanship. Joshlin, take a look.” He shone his light onto
the wall, and the pattern on the hallway walls was altered in here, as well. “The same infinitylike symbol we saw much earlier, but this one has something different striking through the
center. See, it looks like two upside down question marks interlocking. Astonishing! Perhaps the
infinity symbol is an icon, a representation of the city itself; and that what strikes though the
center is a symbol of the city’s current district a person would be in? Or perhaps a symbol of
power? Who controlled this area? If you will wait a moment, I’d like to draw this symbol and
write down this hypothesis.”
“I don’t mind at all, Jarvis.” I said with a smile. I could feel my grin pushing towards my
dimples. “Please, take all the time you need. No rush.” He just smiled back and bobbled his head
with his enthusiastic nod. I can’t tell if he avoided acknowledging how hesitant I am to be down
this deep in these ruins, if he’s that oblivious, or if he just that full of himself. Don’t get me
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wrong, I am down this career path as an anthropologist for a reason. However, I’d prefer if the
areas I study were actually safe. Nalthri are vicious beings that I have never encountered
personally before, save for these little rodent creatures that turned out to be a very weak Nalthri
variety. I don’t know why these creatures are down here. Part of me wants to know, but part of
me wants me to stay as far away from their territory as possible. These ruins were once more
open to exploration, but, when it was discovered that Nalthri inhabited the lower levels, that
openness idea shifted dramatically. It takes a lot of bureaucratic procedure and government
approval to even venture one level down here. Jarvis and I have obviously broken the law, and
avoided this entirely. No one knows we’re down here, save for a few close friends. It’s a loselose situation if something were to happen to us. We can either be killed, or we get into some
danger where we have to communicate to our friends through our comm.-links to get someone to
rescue us only to be promptly arrested and sent to prison afterwards. I think I’m more aware of
these risks.
I tried to think more positively. “Perhaps we will actually find something big,” I called
over to Jarvis. I rubbed my knees as I sat on the chunk of bricks that blocked the door.
“Something to be recorded in history. We could even discover who the people were that resided
here.”
“Brilliant!” Jarvis chuckled with excitement resonating from his voice. He kept scribbling
in his composition book. “Beyond brilliant. The possibilities are endless. We could even unveil
the truth as to what happened to this civilization, and what kept this city so remarkably,” he set
his pen down where the pages of his composition book met; and with a sensual scholar touch, he
rubbed the wall’s elaborate pattern design, “preserved.”
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“Speaking of preserved,” I added, “Surely looters have hardly touched this area or let
alone got this far. Think of the treasures we can find and donate to the museums or the
university.”
“That too.” Jarvis said curtly. He never looked back at me. He just kept staring from the
wall to the pages and crease in this composition notebook. I heard him mumble a bit, as he
slowed his scribbling down nearly to a halt. He clicked his pen several times and then dropped it
into the crease of his notebook. He cleared his throat, and chattered his teeth. “You know, many
intrepid scholars and sleazy looters come here, both seeking different things. Lore, history, for
the researchers. Treasures, wealth, for the adventurers.” He closed his notebook, the pen marking
his place. He twisted on his feet to face me. “But they all have one thing in common, Joshlin. Do
you know what that is?”
“They all take risks of being in places they don’t belong,” I said to him. I rolled my eyes.
“I’m sure that’s not the answer you’re looking for.” I shook my head and spat upon the floor.
“Lust.” Jarvis answered, waving his finger. His grin cracked across his face and he licked
his buckteeth. “They lust for these concepts, Joshlin; as do we.” He shone his light down to the
central column of this room where the stairs went down. “We all lust for the treasures, both of
monetary value and of lore and study. And uncovering these secrets of the Lost City are my
riches.”
“Or siren that calls you to your death,” I rebutted.
He shook his head with a grin, chuckling and wiggling his nose. “Don’t act like you don’t
share the same desire, Joshlin. Otherwise, you would not be here with me.” He waved that
mocking finger from his furry paw again.
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I hate it when he’s right. I’m reluctant, yes, but he’s right. My blood is curdling in this
place, and boiling with the fire of desire. What I long for is a vague image in a misty haze within
my mind, but I will unveil it in reality. I churned my hesitation and desire in my mind. My lips
were being pulled side to side by my facial muscles as I wished for a balance of reluctance and
ambition. I slapped both of my knees with both of my hands, and stood from my fabricated seat
from rubble.
But before I could utter a word, a breeze blew through this chamber, pushed, and tugged
Jarvis’ fur. He shuddered as his light flickered. He clenched his body with his arms. The wind
flowed against me. My body shook and my armor could not warm me. The light hairs on the
back of my neck rose and stiffened. Jarvis’ fur looked frizzy. And then, the bloodcurdling, faint
moan. Something of an echo from a low tone choir in a mausoleum weeping for the dead. It
followed the wind. My body suffered a spasm from the chilling wind and the tone of the voice
that was singing within.
Jarvis’ magnified eyes had widened to the point where his spectacles were completely
black. His light ceased its flickering as the moan and wind escaped this chamber out from which
we came. He gasped for air when the breeze was gone. I’m sure his heart was palpitating as
much as mine was, where it was demanding escape from my chest.
Jarvis stuttered and sputtered. “We—we should…should proceed with caution.” He
trembled as he turned to the stairs. “Please, have your pistol or crossbow ready…”
I nodded. “Slow and steady.”
“The city was waiting for us,” Jarvis said. “It must be impatient at this point.”
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Once Upon a Time…
Shelby Fogleman
In a kingdom by the Sea lived a maiden with long auburn locks of hair and eyes the
bluest of blues. Everyone loved this maiden as she was the kindest maiden around and she was
also the princess! Her name was Annabel Lee.
Now, the story of Annabel Lee isn’t any ole’ fairytale story, with which she must find
true love, Annabel Lee already has her prince and they are now the King and Queen of the
kingdom far away.
Annabel Lee’s thoughts never strayed far from thoughts of her beloved John Michael,
who was once nothing more than a lowly peasant. They had met when John Michael had saved
her from the fiery doom of hell. Lucifer had kidnapped Annabel Lee from her bedroom and kept
her hostage deep beneath the sea, where none of her kinsman could get to her. John Michael had
saved up his breath and with a deep gulp plunged into the deep and rescued her from her cell,
leaving Lucifer burning with his vengeance. Annabel Lee couldn’t help but love John Michael
after he risked his life for her.
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Their love was as innocent as the children’s laughter bouncing off the walls in the street,
but it was as strong as ten bull elephants. John Michael and Annabel Lee lived in their kingdom
by the sea and their love blossomed more and more every day.
But far beneath the blue, beautiful water—deep beneath its colorful reefs lived Lucifer in
his boiling red hell. Lucifer had not forgotten his lost battle with John Michael and longed for
Annabel Lee once more. He wanted her to look upon him with eyes full of love, just as she
looked upon John Michael and so he hatched a plan.
He would gather his demon forces to attack the kingdom by the sea, but he would not
stop there. Oh no! He knew his forces were not enough against the strong John Michael and so
he sent his demon messenger out of his hellish fiery pit, up into the sky, past the moon and stars,
straight to the gates of heaven.
The demon messenger told the Arch Angel Gabriel at Heaven’s door of John Michael and
Annabel Lee’s love to which the angel replied, “Fantastic! What wondrous news!”
The demon scowled and hissed, “No! Tiss not wondrouss! For John Michael mussst sssurely
have sstolen sssome of the heavenly Lordsss magic to have sssuch a love given him from sssuch
a lady!”
The Arch Angel thought that through, pondered the idea and eventually agreed with the
demon, “Yes demon messenger. You must be right. Never does a lowly peasant rise so to own
the heart and hand of such a noble maiden without force!! We must take her away! Save her
from such a doom! Surely, eternal solitude is better than forced matrimony! We must save her
from her fate!”
This was the reason that long ago, in the Kingdom by the sea that the day grew dark and
the waves began crashing and the clouds began to rain down. Annabel Lee walked to the window
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in her chamber to look out at the chaos and when she did, a strong wind from both the clouds and
the sea rose up and spun around her body—freezing her inside and out. She was not dead, no,
only a frozen, death-like, deep sleep from which she could not awaken.
Annabel Lee’s kinsman came and took her away for the Kingdom by the sea so that she
could come to no further harm. The rain and water churned so for seven days, on the morning on
the seventh day the clouds split and angels began to rain down on the castle and the water was
spilling out demons that slithered across the pavements and licked at the heels of John Michael’s
people.
But John Michael’s love for Annabel Lee was stronger than jealousy of the demons and
the doubt of the Angels, so he too opened the doors of his castle and descended leaving the
protection of their closed doors behind him to face an army of immortals alone.
John Michael stood before them, holding but one sword and yelled for all to hear, “No
Angel from heaven could be half as happy as me when I hold my beautiful Annabel Lee. No
Demon from hell could ever be more furious than I when I discovered you came for my wife!
And I must tell you, as you are all my foe, I will not let her go! So if you are bent on taking her
away, hear what I say! Neither the angels from heaven, nor the demons from down under the sea
could ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee!!”
With John Michael’s words, the angels faltered in their attack. The demons, much too
afraid to attack without the aid of the angel fleet roared their frustrations and the demon
messenger shouted, “What are you doing angelsss?! He liesss!”
Gabriel approached John Michael and laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke, “True love
shines through not only your words but your actions. Only true love could have strengthened
your legs to stand here and your heart to be so brave. You have come to meet your death in a
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battle for your beloved, but relax John Michael there will be no battle today. This is over. On the
All Mighty’s command Annabel Lee has been revived and she waits for you in her chamber.”
With his words, the clouds brightened and the rained stopped and the angel fleet flew back to the
heaven. The sea’s waters calmed and the demons slithered back to their pit beneath its surface.
“Lucifer will hear of thisss Gabriel!” the demon messenger roared. Gabriel turned and spoke to
the messenger, “Tell Lucifer, messenger, that this battle is over. Tell him, that if even the thought
of attacking this kingdom enters his thoughts again the entire fleet of God Almighty will reign
down on his hellish world and he won’t be able to have another thought again!!” Gabriel then
smacked the demon with the blunt of his sword sending it back into the sea, to sink down and
relay Gabriel’s message to Lucifer.
Gabriel turned to tell John Michael goodbye but John Michael was already gone, racing
back to his kingdom by sea, back to his castle, his chambers, back to his love…Annabel Lee.
And They Lived Happily Ever After
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The Final Son
Taurean Johnson
Order is born from chaos in this example chaos is a war that has been going on since the
dawn of time yet no one is even aware that this war is even taking place.
How did it start? In the beginning, there was God then his angel’s one of whom was
Lucifer who believed he could defeat God and take over then he and his followers attacked
attempting to overthrow God but failed and they were banished from heaven and sent to hell.
Was this the end? No, it was but the beginning. Lucifer found that from hell he and his followers
could go to earth and influence humans for they were easily manipulated and could be made to
do his bidding.
Several millennia later in an attempt to destroy all evil on earth it was flooded but
somehow the evil seed planted in the humans survived. Several centuries later God sent his son
Jesus to earth to die so that man could be free of sin. My God is a caring and loving God but he
is also a vengeful God. It is said that Jesus sits at the right hand of his father but who sits the left.
Is there another son? What if he is not immune from sin like Jesus? If Jesus represents the loving
side of God then the final son embodies the vengeance of God.
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This brings us to the present day, a day and age where one would not expect to see
demons but that’s all about to change. Samael was a normal 19 year old and he didn’t feel
special in any way but that was all about to change. As with many Sunday mornings Samael is
getting dropped off at Sunday services by his girlfriend Lilith he always wonders why she never
joins him but never presses the issue being almost as if she is afraid of f he building. Just like
every week, I go in and take a seat and the service starts until the ground shakes lights fall the
building cracks and up from the floor rises pillars of flame and brimstone and an angelic figure
with black wings. It was chaos, everyone running, screaming some passing out maybe even
dying, then it stopped, looked at me, and spoke with a voice that seemed to tear at my very soul
with every word saying, “Despair not as I care not for these beings I mean you no harm for while
I may be a denizen of the infernal realm I was once of the heavenly host cast down for siding
with Lucifer.” I replied, “What does that have to do with me?” Before I could get a reply there
was an enormous thunderclap then the statue of Jesus climbed down from the crucifix and stone
became flesh. Jesus looked at me and said “ I guess the cats out of the bag you have been found
you are the angel of death Samael and hell wants you no more hiding on earth for you living as a
human now you must remember what and who you are and fulfill your destiny.” It was as if his
words released a long forgotten lock and memories started coming back to him of multiple lives
and the excruciating pain of reincarnation. The human bodies he inhabited were mortal even
though he was not and at the moment of his death, his soul would be shredded to fit into a new
body; it was a pain he wished he did not know, but, at that instant, he felt it for every time he had
died and been reborn. Then Samael looked upon them both and said, “I work not for heaven or
hell what I do I do for my own reasons.” The demon replied, “If you are not with me you are
against me and therefore must die for my master accepts no substitute to complete loyalty but
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know what I do I do not do out of malice but out of duty say to the cold embrace of oblivion.” As
he rushed me, it felt as if time had slowed to a crawl, and I could feel a blade forming in my hand
out of the aether, and, with one swing, off went his head; it was as if he did not want to kill me
but, instead, embraced death as an alternative to serving in hell any moment longer. And then in
a blinding white light they were gone.
They were now at the gates of heaven staring at each other Jesus with a look of
complacency on his face while Samael had a look of resentment. He looked at Jesus and said,
“What do you want and you know better than to bring me here?”
To which Jesus replied, “First I did not bring you here and second you know you always
a home here.” He further stated “You chose to live with the humans but you know you are not
human this is your home this is where you belong.”
To which Samael replied, “This may be your home but not mine, I have too much blood
on my hands to deserve serenity for me I must suffer and atone for my sins.” He moved closer to
Jesus and whispered in his ear, “You may live in the light, but I live in the darkness my only
friend is my misery.”
Then a booming voice which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same
time echoed around them and through them and suddenly they were in the throne room said,
“enough out of you two you are brothers you need to get along” , and they were before God. God
spoke “The time has come Samael it is time for you to do what you were created to do.”
“And what is that?” Questioned Samael
God looked as telling his something he already knew, “Destroy the world of course, now
I am not in the habit of explaining myself but for you I will. I once destroyed the Earth and made
a promise not to do it again so the time has come for you to do it you shall raze the Earth and
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leave nothing behind all will fall in your wake no man, woman , child , animal , vegetable or
mineral will be left when you are done understood.”
To which Samael replied, “No, I am not your puppet if I do something it will be of my
choosing not yours, you may be able to will Jesus around like that but not me I have free will and
make my own decisions if you want me to save humanity fine I’ll do it, but my way and
definitely not by destroying them. If that’s all then I’ll be going then.” And then Samaes was
gone and all that was left in the insubstantial throne room that seemed to be built out of light was
Jesus and God.
Jesus looked at God and said, “Father why rile him up and have him thinking he is doing
what he wants when he is really doing your will?”
To which God replied, “The true hand of God is when it seems that he is not involved yet all
goes according to his wishes.”
Now back on Earth Samael sat thinking. How can I save them? If evil is the cause of their
pain then the only reasonable solution is to destroy evil but to destroy Lucifer first I need to get
to him in Hell and to do that I’ll need to kill the 7 deadly sins to gain entry. Well I guess that
means my path is set out in front of me. Now where do I start? Let’s see, where are they? That’s
odd they are all situated in the same town and I should have guessed it Las Vegas.
As Samael walked up to the biggest bank in Vegas, he could feel that inside lurked
Greed. He kicked the doors open and saw a heist in progress there were 20 hostages and 5
gunmen running around with one in the center of the room enjoying the moment. That one in the
center was greed and the other five were marked by him Samael could see it like greed was
branded on their faces. Then Greed saw him and knew who he was and why he was here and
took on his true form he became a bulging grotesque creature a gelatinous blob like thing with 4
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arms and 3 tentacles. The hostages upon seeing this 10 passed out: 5 had heart attacks and would
die, and the other 5 died out of fright. His minions seemed proud to see this as if it was no
surprise to them. Samael drew his otherworldly sword at which point it became two swords one
in each hand and with one swing all 5 minions were ripped to shreds in an instant the men were
dissected with ribbons of blood flowing in the air and they splattered on the walls and ceiling
creating some type of art. Then on to the creature his gaze drew he dashed but the creature was
deceptively fast and countered him next the beast released some sort of fluid to which Samael
dodged and saw it made the building wither and crumble. As the battle raged on, the building
crumbled in their wake; then, as quickly as it had begun, Samael’s sword turned to a bow, and he
shot an arrow through Greed’s head, causing it to explode, and it was over. As Samael walked
out of the ruble, where once laid a bank, knowing that all the hostages had died in the chaos, he
saw a white Ford Mustang with Jesus behind the wheel and motioning for him to come.
“What are you doing here?” asked Samael.
“You know not what you are doing, in destroying the sins you are breaking seals that will
open the gates of hell and bring about the end of all things on this plane of existence. You
believe you do things on your own terms buy you are still doing fathers bidding and I am the first
of the horsemen conquest,” replied Jesus.
“What’s with the car?” questioned Samael.
“I am the rider of the white horse and I classed it up for current times and after all a
Mustang is a horse,” replied Jesus.
“Fair enough, but at this point I don’t really care if this is by design what I am doing or
what the consequences are for my actions this is the path that I have set myself on and I will
finish it and I won’t kill humanity but rather once the gates of hell are open I will go in and
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destroy Lucifer and all who stand between me and him,” stated Samael and he set on his path on
to the next on his list.
Next on my list is Wrath. Where can I find him? Underground fighting ring is a perfect
place for him to revel in his namesake. This time I decided to use a little discretion there was one
fighter who fought all oncomers and beat all of them. I waited until all left and it was just him in
the ring. He looked at me and said, “What took you so long to address me?”
I replied, “I wanted you all alone.”
To which he stated, “Here I am do your worst but I will not be easy to kill.”
In a surprise to me, the chiseled warrior was his true form as he attacked me knocking me
through a stone pillar like it was tissue. He smiled saying “If this is all you have Death you are in
for a rude awakening.” He then produced a large sword to which I also produced a great sword to
continue the battle properly armed. The battle rang with an intensity the likes of which never
before witnessed. The combatants charged each other with blinding speeds and then off went
Wrath’s head. Two down five to go. As he left the arena, he saw a beautiful woman with long
flowing blood red hair sitting on a blood red Dodge Charger that matched her hair staring at him
like he had something of hers.
Samiel said, “Who are you supposed to be/”
She replied, “You know who I am, the rider of the red horse, and I heed the call for blood
to spill.”
Samael replied, “I care not for the apocalypse I ride for my own reasons but nonetheless I
do ride.”
Off to number three: Gluttony. The biggest buffet in town, all you could eat, the perfect
place for Gluttony. As Samael walked into the buffet there was a giant mass of a man sitting at
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the center with all running to bring him food yet he never felt full. Gluttony was an easy kill he
was too big to even fight back almost smothering under his own weight his arms were like those
of an infant with a body ten times larger than the arms would suggest he was more mouth and
stomach than man. As he left the buffet ,he knew he would see a hoseman, and he was not left
wanting for; before him was a black Mercedes CL65 with a sickly emaciated man inside with
long black hair looking like he would keel over at any moment from some terrible infectious
disease.
He spoke, “I am Famine and all will wither and die for I heed the call and follow Death,”
and with that he drove away leaving more questions than answers in his wake.
The fourth sin is Envy. This town only had one plastic surgeon and a place where anyone
could be changed to have anything that had to be the place to find Envy. The lab under the office
was like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’ lab. There were bodies and parts being grown in
vats and containers. Paying no attention to anything but her creations was Envy.
Bronco mustang charger Mercedes colt pinto ranger.
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The World You Seek
Nicholas Richardson
Lying in bed on a cold winter night, five minutes past midnight, little Emily wondered
what it would be like to see to a brand new world. She imagined a world filled with amazement
and wonder, beauty for all the eye could see. A world filled with magical creatures, ice cream
covered mountains, roads sprinkled with diamonds, and so much more. Suddenly, she heard a
loud knock coming from inside of her closet. Shocked, she quickly sat up and began clinching
her covers tightly while staring in fear at her closet door. The knocks grew louder until the door
flew open. Shaking, Emily continued staring into the dark closet. A faint voice began coming
from inside the closet. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. I’m here to show you what you seek,” said the
voice. Slowly, a figure stumbled out into the light. The mysterious figure appeared to be that of
an elderly man. His face filled with deep wrinkles and his eyes gentle and blue. “Come with me,
my dear, and I’ll make your dreams come true,” said the elderly man, smiling. Emily stared into
his eyes and slowly clutched his hand. They then walked toward the closet, shut the door behind
them, and instantly vanished.
Falling from the sky in another world, the both of them landed on a gigantic springloaded cushion, which shot out confetti as they landed, and tossed them into a pond made of
gelatin. Struggling to get out, Emily reached for the elderly man, and grasped onto him as he
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made his way out. Once out, Emily was in awe of all the beauty that surrounded her, and began
asking questions. “Mr. what is this place called, and who are you?”
Smiling, the old man said, “My name is Vincent, and you have created this magical
world, my dear.” Confused, Emily then asked how she could have created such a beautiful
world. Vincent tells her by the power of her imagination. “By the power of my imagination?”
asked Emily.
Nodding, Vincent then says, “anything is possible, my dear. You only have to believe.”
Amazed, yet still puzzled, Emily began whispering the word, believe, to herself. Quickly,
the ground shifted beneath them, and out came roses, dandelions, tulips, along with other
beautiful flowers.
“You only have to believe, my dear,” said Vincent once again to Emily.
Smiling from ear to ear, Emily began putting her powers to the test. She transformed the
plain gravel road into diamonds, created mountains of ice cream, and thought up the most
fascinating creatures her mind could conjure up. These creatures were short in stature and
appeared as different colors of the rainbow. The creatures were complimented with very shiny
teeth, along with thick fur, and long narrow noses. Emily watched the creatures move about as
they sniffed the variety of flowers across the mysterious land with their long noses.
Amused, Vincent also watched the creatures, and said to Emily, “Would you like to take
a walk with me, my dear?” Emily turned to Vincent and smiled, taking his hand as they began to
walk. While on their walk, they discovered a beautiful, but eerie gothic castle. In awe of its
beauty and size, Emily stood in front of it and marveled at it. Vincent then told Emily that this
castle is his home, and asked her if she would like to come inside. The both of them walked
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inside together, and as soon as they stepped in, the enormous door behind them shut close on its
own.
“Ahhhhhhhh!!!” shouted Emily in fear.
“Don’t be startled, my dear. This door was made to close on my command.
Confused and started, Emily asked Vincent, “Do you have powers too Mr.?”
Laughing, Vincent said, “Yes, I do, and you’ll be trapped in here forever. You see, inside
this castle, I’m more powerful than anything, even you, creator of this world.”
Trembling in fear, Emily ran as fast as she could up the stairs, to the highest floor of the
castle. Vincent chased her and corned her near an open window. He then transformed into the
most hideous and disturbing monster Emily could’ve ever imagined. Suddenly, Vincent lunged
at Emily and caused her to back up into the open window and fall…
“Wake up, my dear!” Slowly opening her eyes, Emily looked up and saw it was her
mother. “Were you having a really bad dream? I heard you screaming.” Emily then immediately
clutched onto her mother and began crying profusely. “It’s okay sweetie, you’re okay now, it
was only a dream.”
Wiping her eyes, Emily slowly let go of her mother. “Mommy, I’m scared of the closet.
There’s a man inside.”
Emily’s mom then kissed her on the forehead and said, “There’s nothing in your closet,
sweetie. It’s all in your imagination. Come on, let’s go eat breakfast. I made some amazing
pancakes with your favorite chocolate chips.”
They then got up from Emily’s bed and walked out of the room, proceeding to eat
breakfast. Back inside Emily’s room, a faint knock could be heard along with a faint voice. “You
only have to believe.”
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Joshua
Dustin Bagley
“I'm not sure we should even go.”
“Why wouldn't we? It'll be a nice way to spend a Friday night.”
Blake looked across the room at Dean, her boyfriend. “Fun?” she asked. “Do you think
we can afford 'fun' right now?”
“Babe...we aren't going to be spending a lot of money on this trip. Pitch in a little on gas,
maybe some beer, and snacks. Thirty bucks total.”
She made a face. “I don't know if we can waste thirty dollars.”
Dean looked up from his computer screen. He recognized the look on her face; hopping
up, he stepped over and wrapped his arms around her. “Listen, darlin', I know it's hard right now.
We're in a rough patch. We'll get out soon, though, don't worry.”
Blake felt comforted by his embrace, as always, and pulled in tight to his chest. She was
always impressed by Dean's sheer size when standing next to her—he stood over six feet tall,
with broad shoulders; corded muscle ran ropelike down his forearms. He had always been
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heavyset, but months in the desert had burnt him lean. Always the strong, optimistic type she
thought and smiled to herself.
Dean went on, “I just think we need to get away for the night. See friends, do something a
little crazy, a little stupid, just relax. We're getting boxed in with all this stress.”
She nodded. “I know, I know. We need to get away from all THIS for a while.” She
waved her arm, indicating their small rent house...their rent due...their bills...the job—or lack of
one. The thought rushed into her mind before she could stop it. She chided herself for being so
negative.
“So...we can go?” Dean asked, a grin starting to show itself at the corners of his lips.
“Yes, yes we can go.”
“Ha! Yes! I'm going to go call Matt.” Dean's grin broke into a full beaming smile.
“Yeah, yeah go set up your little playdate.” Blake smiled back, but she felt something
tickling at the back of her conscious, something that she felt had been building for weeks
now...something unsettling.
“So where in the hell are we, Matt? You just lost and running us through the backwoods
or what?” Blake sat in the backseat, impatient, and blew hair out of her eyes for what felt like the
umpteenth time.
Matt laughed and gave a quick glance back over his shoulder. “Hey, hey, hey don't worry.
I got this under control. I know exactly where we're headed.” He winked at Blake in the rearview
mirror; Dean slapped him across the back of the head, smirking.
“Can we please just turn the radio on something decent?” says Kat, who is sitting next to
Blake in the backseat of the truck.
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Kat was Matt's girlfriend. They had been together four years to Blake and Dean's eight.
She was the blonde and blue eyes to Blake's auburn and hazel. She was all light and summer
colors while Blake was always happiest when it rained. Matt and Dean were also similarly
dissimilar—Matt was short, skinny and white; he was loud and expressive where Dean was all
quiet intensity.
Matt had started playing a Pantera CD thirty miles ago, and the screeching guitars and
heavy bass were beginning to bother even Blake, who considered her tolerance for various kinds
of music as being fairly high.
Rolling his eyes, Matt asked, “What would you like to listen to dear? More Taylor
Swift?”
Kat's blue eyes widened in delight and she nodded vigorously. “That would be so much
better than THIS--”
“NEGATIVE honey,” Matt interrupted, “negative. Let me sum up every Taylor Swift
song ever: 'Oh I'm a teenage girl, oh I like this boy, oh no he broke my heart, oh well I'll write
another song.'” He and Dean broke out laughing, while Kat tried to argue her point.
“No, she's not like that AT ALL. Taylor's so much more...”
Blake leaned her head against the window and watched pine trees pass by, tuning out the
other couples' back-and-forth squabble. She knew from experience that they could go on for
hours like this without interruption. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift.
Dean had returned from his last deployment to Afghanistan just over eighteen months
ago. His enlistment in the Marine Corps--six years, two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, had
ended shortly afterward. He immediately got a job working at the lumber mill outside of their
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small hometown, the same mill his father had worked at for twenty-five years. Dean had worked
there until a month ago, when all the workers received notices that they were being laid off due
to “economic decline affecting the lumber industry.” They had begun to struggle almost
immediately, her own nursing job at the local clinic not nearly enough to support two people for
any amount of time. They were quickly chewing through the meager savings they had built up
and soon there would be nothing left. Dean, she noticed, had been waking up earlier and earlier,
going out for his morning runs and his “PT”...she would wake some mornings and hear him
grunting through a set of pull-ups or pushups and she would get this increasingly familiar
anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach.. And here we are, she thought, chasing another one of
Matt's goofy stories.
She opened her eyes just in time to hear Kat “...you think Blake?”
“Sorry, what?” she replied. “I was...kind of zoned out.” Dean looked back at her over his
shoulder, arching his eyebrow. She knew he would be wondering what she was rolling around in
her head.
“Just wondering what you thought of Taylor Swift's new song?” Kat asked expectantly.
“Oh, well, I hadn't really, uh, hadn't had a chance to listen to it.” Blake stated vaguely.
“Almost there, ladies and gents, shouldn't be much longer.” Matt, his left hand pointed
forward out the window.
“How do you know?” Dean asked, looking toward the direction Matt was pointing.
“That little general store, coming up on your left right...NOW.” Matt emphasized
dramatically with his index finger, pointing to a small building set off the road approximately
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fifty yards. Two gas pumps, a mailbox, and what looked to be a shabby trailer set directly behind
the station appeared to be the only remnants of civilization in the surrounding wilderness.
Dean shook his head and chuckled. “How do you find these places, man? I mean...how do
you even KNOW about these things?”
Matt grinned and tapped his temple. “All up here, brother, all up here. That right there is
the only gas station around for more than thirty, forty miles. Nearest town is El Dorado, back that
way thirty miles,” indicating the way they had just come with a jerk of his thumb, “or Crossett,
north of here about thirty-five miles.”
Blake shook her head listening to Matt. They had all been raised in a small town back
across the state line in Louisiana, so they all knew what “rural” was, but there had always been
Ruston or Monroe or Shreveport to drive to for entertainment and action; this was something else
entirely, hundreds of thousands of acres of pine forests and lakes and rivers spread between the
northern edge of Louisiana and southern Arkansas, with only the roughest dirt or gravel roads
crisscrossing the area, almost completely untamed by man.
“Buddy said that after we pass that station, it's only three miles up, then a dirt road to the
left. Follow that down a few miles and we'll know we're there. Said you can't miss it.” Matt,
again with the mischievous grin. Buddy was an old high school “friend,” an obese, greasy-haired
guy who, from what Blake remembered, considered himself more of an expert on the freaky than
even Matt would care to admit.
This is impressive when one considers the amount of useless junk that Matt knows. Blake
thought humorlessly to herself. Should've been the fifth Ghostbuster with all the supernatural
crap floating around in his head. Of course, Dean would've had to go along, since Matt couldn't
survive without him.
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“And here...we...go.” Matt said, flicking his blinker on for the turnoff to the dirt road,
though they hadn't seen a car in miles. He looked like he was about to vibrate out of his seat with
excitement.
It was 8:13 PM on Friday night, and the sun had just begun to set across the tree-lined hills.
The dirt road they were traveling down followed the contours of the south Arkansas
landscape—they would travel up and down numerous small hills and then hit a straightaway for
a few hundred yards and then go into a series of S-curves and then S-curves mixed with hills
before hitting more straightaways. All the while, the dense forest gathered in around them, pine
trees pushed tight against the sides of the road. Occasionally they would pass a small, open field
and Blake would feel some small loosening in her chest, as if she could breathe a little more
deeply, but the tree line was never far off.
Closed off like a tunnel, she thought, staring out her window. It seemed like as soon as
they had left “the main road” for this dirt road, little more than a logger's trail, the sun had set
almost immediately, and Matt had to switch his headlights on.
“Ok, so what we're looking for,” Matt spoke for the first time in minutes, “is an area
that'll be a little cleared off spot of land on the right side of the road. There should be what looks
like a shack in the center, really old and decrepit. We keep going about a quarter-mile, then turn
around and pull up a couple hundred feet and then park. We cut off the lights, the engine,
everything.”
“And then what?” Kat, looking away from the never-ending tree line to her boyfriend.
“And then...we wait.” Matt, glancing back and grinning again.
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“What an idiot. So we're just going to spend all night in the dark with the lights out
waiting for whatever pops up?” Kat arched her eyebrows, shooting a very annoyed look at Matt.
“Ha, something like that. Shouldn't be all night. The light is supposed to show up pretty
quick.”
Dean looked across at Matt. “That's all? A light?”
“Well...yeah...except it, y'know, flickers because it's s'posed to be a lantern and the longer
we wait for it, the closer it's s'posed to get to us.”
Blake felt the knot again in her stomach. She didn't feel scared. Not exactly. She and
Dean had been on trips like this with Matt and Kat. But for some reason, the idea of something
getting closer...something unknown closing in...unsettled her. “So what's the story?” she asked,
hoping to relieve the tension in her stomach.
“Aw...I can't tell you that, not just yet. Have to wait 'til we get parked and settled in. It'll
help set the right atmosphere.” Matt winked at her again, but Dean just shook his head and Kat
called him an ass.
“I just wish we could hurry up and get there. I really have to pee and we've been on this
damn road for hours, it seems like.” Kat squirmed in her seat.
“Yeah, yeah, it's been, like, thirty, thirty-five minutes AT MO...Hey, hey what do we
have here?” Matt started slowing down, turning to look out the passenger window. “I think we
got a winner.”
Blake noticed the tree line breaking, and watched as they started to come up alongside the
cleared-out area. Sure enough, there seemed to be a space, not a natural field, but maybe an acre
carved out by man. The trees had grown dense around and over the space, blocking out whatever
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little light remained and creating the illusion of impenetrable darkness. Blake shivered. She had
not even realized until then that the truck had come to a stop.
“You guys see a shack or anything?” Matt asked, still looking past Dean into the
darkness.
“Can't see anything in there. Too dark.” Dean, king of the understatement, Blake thought.
“Ok, well...I'm gonna pull in just a little and see if the headlights will help at all.” Matt
flicked the lights on bright. The truck eased forward, Matt gently rolling the wheel to the right.
Blake's shivering got worse the closer the truck rolled to the side of the road, until she couldn't
take it anymore.
“Ok, stop Matt. STOP!” she demanded. Matt immediately put on the brakes, both he and
Dean turning to look at her.
“I don't think we should go any further,” she muttered.
Dean and Matt, glancing at each other and then back to her, both went to say something
when Kat, in an unusually quiet voice, stated simply, “Is that it?”
Both men whipped back around and stared through the windshield. Kat and Blake leaned
forward to get a better view through the windshield.
“So, that's it, right guys? Guys?” Kat asked, her voice still quiet.
Blake's breath caught in her throat.
“Whoa.” Again from Dean, understated as usual. Matt could only mumble a few words
under his breath. The house, for it was not a mere shack, stood in the center of the lot. It was,
from what Blake could see, very old and very decrepit. It looked like there had been a second
floor but it had collapsed years ago. Windows had been busted out and vines had grown up along
the walls.
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Matt finally found his voice, “Uh, so yeah...Yeah that's it. Gotta be the place. Creepy as
hell, right?”
“Yeah. Creepy.” Dean stated, never taking his eyes off the house.
“Alright, Matt, so c'mon, what's next?” Kat, impatient again, “We pull on down the road,
turn around, and park, right?”
Matt nodded assent and put the truck in reverse, pulling back into the road. Blake's knot
seemed to untie itself once they started moving again, away from the house and down the road.
It was 8:55 PM on Friday night, and the night had settled into the hills around them.
“So here's the deal, ok?” Matt was twisted around sideways in his seat so he could face
the others. The truck was now sitting a quarter-mile down the dirt road, facing back towards the
house, with everything cut off. “Here's the story of the light. That spot we passed back there, the
house and everything, right? That property was bought and cleared off, like a hundred and
twenty years ago, by this big wealthy family from El Dorado. And this family, they wanted to get
into logging this area. And they thought this would be an excellent spot for a summer home or
something, right? But...it takes years and years for them to finish building the house because
people keep getting hurt and a couple of workers even die. So finally, the house is finished but
here's the kicker...the family's broke. Between putting all their money into this house and trying
to start up a logging company from scratch, with practically nonexistent roads and all that crap,
they have no-th-ing. So the father sells all their property back in El Dorado and spends his last
bit of money moving the family out here and setting them up. And then...when that first hard
winter hits and the family is scrounging for food...in one night, the father goes to each room and
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stabs each person to death as they sleep...three children, his wife, and a black housemaid. Then
he shoots himself in the family parlor.” Matt stopped and took a breath.
Blake couldn't move. Her mouth had gone dry at the mention of the murders. And then a
question struck her, but Dean asked before she could find her voice.
“Wait, so what does this have to do with a ghost lantern?” Dean arched his eyebrow
questioningly at Matt.
“Aha, I'm glad you asked.” Matt wagged his finger in the air. “The lantern is said to be
the ghost of the oldest boy, fourteen years old. The story goes that the boy did not die instantly
from his wounds, but managed to get up and attempt to go for help. He carried a lantern in the
pitch-black cold for a quarter mile, they say, and ended up...right...about...”
“Here,” Blake whispered, her stomach again tying itself into knots.
“Exactly,” Matt said, jabbing his finger down to indicate the spot they were sitting on,
“right...here!”
Blake saw Kat flinch and lean back. Dean, stoic, laid his head back on the headrest. His
mouth twitched. Blake's hands were shaking; when did that start? Moments went by in silence.
Matt turned back around and settled into his seat. Night swallowed everything around them.
“Well, THAT was twisted.” Dean said, glancing over with a grin at Matt.
“Told you it'd be a great story,” Matt replied, “and now we just wait for Little Boy Lost
to appear.”
Minutes passed. And then minutes rolled into an hour. Then two. Conversations would
start, build steam, and just stutter to a stop. Other conversations died on the tip of the tongue.
Blake glanced out the window at nothing. Dean and Matt discussed the Saints' chances this
season. After hearing the story, Kat lost the urge to pee, but by eleven thirty, the urge had
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returned. After a brief debate in which she vetoed Matt's idea of using an empty bottle, she
hopped out, ran to the back of the truck, finished her business, and hopped back in the truck as
quickly as possible. And suddenly—
“Look,” Dean spoke quietly, “you see?”
Matt asked “what?” and Dean nodded slightly, gesturing out past the windshield. Matt
squinted and leaned forward. The girls both craned their necks to see clearly out the windows.
Nobody moved for seconds. And then, Matt, in a loud whisper: “I see it, I really freakin' see it.”
Blake saw it too, the light, the lantern. It was a faint light, at the farthest possible edges of
her vision. She was scared to blink for fear of losing it. At first, all it seemed to be was a
glimmer. And for what seemed like forever, it stayed that way, not growing brighter but not
disappearing from sight completely. Finally, though, the light seemed to get stronger, more
powerful.
Kat gasped. “I see it, too! I see it, too!”
Matt made a “shhing” sound and held his finger in the air.
They all sat, locked into position, watching as the light continued to brighten. Not only
did the light begin to brighten, it began to take on a more solid shape.
“It's swaying.” Dean whispered, still not moving.
“Yeah, like someone carrying a lantern.” Matt, also not moving, except for a smile
beginning to break onto his face.
“Exactly. And side-to-side, like whoever it is keeps stumbling with it.” Dean sat forward.
“It's the boy, it's got to be the dead boy!” the excitement in Matt's voice all too noticeable
to Blake.
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The lantern swayed closer, the flame taking on a stronger outline. Blake could not tell
how close the light had gotten to them, but she felt with every passing moment the anxiety
building into something more, something she couldn't identify just yet.
After another minute of silence, the light began to illuminate a shape underneath. The
shape was ill formed, contorted by the mix of flame and shadows. There were no distinct features
for several seconds.
“It's a man.” Dean stated, slowly releasing a breath.
“What? No, no way, there's not any way pos...” Matt stopped in mid-sentence.
It IS a man...or a man's shape, anyways. Blake thought, grimacing at the idea of Dean
recognizing its uniqueness first. Dean, who had been in the same position before, identifying
targets at night in the Middle East. Dean, who still woke up sometimes screaming from his
nightmare-flashbacks.
“Is it...is it the boy? I mean...the ghost...really?” Kat sounded as nervous as Blake felt.
Nobody answered.
Another passage of time, maybe thirty seconds, maybe a minute, Blake wasn't sure,
passed as they all sat, staring at the increasingly bright flame and the shape that stayed hidden
behind the flame in the shadows. The lantern came within what had to be less than fifty yards.
The shadows seemed to move and flicker and swirl, intermingling with the flame, effectively
concealing the presence until finally—the shadows slid away—and a man stepped forward. A
man, not a fourteen-year old boy, and certainly not a ghost boy, stepped into their view. The four
let out a collective sigh. Of relief? Blake wondered. Or something else entirely? The knot in her
stomach had not gone away. If anything, the pain had only increased in the last few moments.
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The man's features became clearer. He was tall and lean, from what Blake could see. He
was wearing jeans and a sleeveless shirt. He had a goatee and hair slicked back away from his
forehead. He stopped short of the truck by a few feet and stood still, peering inside the truck. The
flames cast shadows across his face, making it appear slightly elongated.
Wolfen, Blake thought for no apparent reason, as if he has a snout and... The man
interrupted her thought when he raised his left hand, the one not holding the lantern, and gave a
wave.
“How do, folks.” the man spoke, his voice low and melodical. His Southern accent was
rich with country twang.
Nobody breathed. Dean and Matt turned their heads slightly, looking at each other. Then
Matt looked forward and held his hand up, giving a slight wave.
“Mind if I come up and we talk a bit? Don't worry, I ain't armed or nothin'.” The man
kept his hands up.
Matt glanced over at Dean. Dean looked back, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
Matt made a minute shrug and looked back at the man. He nodded and gestured the man
forward, rolling down his window. The man stepped up next to Matt's rolled-down window. His
eyes appeared sharp and golden in the firelight.
“Much obliged, sir, much obliged.” He set the lantern down on ground and then held his
hand up to the window for Matt to shake. “Name's Joshua.”
Matt extended his own hand, grasping Joshua's, and shook quickly. “Matt. And this is
Dean, Kat, and Blake.” Indicating each of the other three in turn. Blake watched Dean clench his
jaw.
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“Nice to meet each of you. Nothin' wrong with her, is there?” He nodded to the back,
behind Matt's seat. They turned to look back at Kat, who was sitting, visibly trembling, with her
eyes squeezed shut.
Blake reached over and put her hand on Kat's thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. Leaning in,
she asked, “Kat, honey, you okay?”
Kat did not move any muscle except her lips. “Please tell me there's not a ghost there.
Please, please, please...”
Joshua laughed. “Ghost? Honey, I ain't a ghost. Just a person is all.” After some gentle
coaxing, Kat finally opened her eyes. She glanced up at Joshua, who bowed his head slightly.
“Howdy do, ma'am.”
“Hi. I'm so sorry, I'm so embarrassed I acted like that. It's just, when I saw that light, I
would've sworn it was the dead boy from that house and...”
Blake saw that Kat's cheeks continued to get redder. “It's ok, Kat, it's ok. I'm sure Joshua
understands.” Blake rubbed Kat's knee.
“Oohhh a ghost boy, huh? From the house back up that-a-ways?” Joshua pointed his
thumb back over his shoulder. “Right up there?”
Matt said, “Yeah, the old creepy one.” Kat nodded vigorously.
Joshua nodded, looking slightly off-kilter. “Ah yeah, that house. I know that house.”
Matt asked, “How do you know it? Are you kin to people who own it or something?”
Joshua snorted. “Nah, not kin to anyone like that. Just spent some time there, is all.”
Matt made a face, as if he had bitten into something and he couldn't figure out the taste.
Blake glanced at Dean, who had moved slightly, it looked like, shifting his weight to his left
side. She heard him mutter under his breath to Matt, “Crank the truck, Matt. Let's go.”
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Matt ignored Dean, still with a puzzled look on his face. “What do you mean, spent time
there? Like, recently?”
Joshua grinned. “Yeah, I'd say pretty recently.”
Dean, louder this time, but still muttering. “Matt. Crank the truck. Go.”
Matt looked across at Dean, “Wha...why?” And he looked back at Joshua, who continued
to grin. “How recently were you there?”
Joshua answered, “Aw hell, actually, I jus' left there.”
Blake noticed that he was leaning forward, his head and shoulders practically inside
Matt's window now.
Dean stated calmly but forcefully, “Go, Matt. Drive.”
Joshua's gaze turned fierce as he directed it at Dean. He jabbed his finger at Dean. “Shut
up tough guy. Shut your damn mouth!” As soon as Joshua's attention shifted, Matt went to crank
the ignition. Joshua's hand shot out and gripped Matt by the throat. “Don't try it, pretty boy.”
Matt started choking and sputtering instantly. Kat let out a scream and attempted to jump
back in her seat. Blake gasped, not sure what to do. Suddenly she saw Dean lash out and Joshua
grunted, his head snapping back.
Matt continued to gasp for breath, Joshua's hand still clamped around his throat. Joshua
tried to stick his other arm through the window to grasp at Dean, but Dean deflected with one
hand, the other hand fumbling for something in his boot. Kat continued to scream. Matt flailed
against Joshua's grip.
Blake saw Dean sit up, a flash of metal in his hand. Knife, she thought, the knife his
father gave him. She watched Dean strike out in short, furious strokes with the blade, drawing
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blood against Joshua's out-reached arm; Joshua pulled his arm back and let loose a terrible
scream.
Blake then saw Joshua's face do something horrifying—it began to twist and elongate, his
jaw stretching, his mouth opening to reveal Teeth...OhmyGodtoomanyteeth, he's got too many…
She realized Dean was shouting at her while he slashed, “Blake! Keys! Grab the keys!”
She broke away from Joshua's horrifying change and lunged forward, attempting to stay
out of Dean's way. After searching for an eternity of seconds, she saw that Matt had already
jammed them halfway into the ignition and there they were, hanging. She grabbed for them,
fumbling, but then got hold and started the ignition. She grabbed for the gearshift but Matt's
flailing body kept knocking her away.
“Oh sh--” she heard Dean, and she looked up. Joshua, despite suffering numerous cuts on
both arms, had managed to pull himself in closer to Matt, his gaping mouth, those teeth, inches
from sinking into Matt's neck. Matt was purple, attempting to scream but only gurgling and
choking.
She saw Dean pause, and then he jumped across the seat. He stabbed the blade down into
Joshua's forearm and then he twisted, wrenching Joshua's grip away from Matt's neck. Joshua
howled in agony.
“Drive, Matt! GO, GO, GO!” Dean yelled, twisting the knife harder and pushing with all
his weight against Joshua. Blake saw Joshua begin to fall away from the window.
Matt took deep, gasping breaths, color returning to his face. He pushed on the gas,
revving the engine, but the truck was still in Park. He reached around Dean's body and managed
to slip the truck into Drive. He hit the gas pedal again and the truck lurches forward, and then
rolls to a stop. Dean continued to struggle against Joshua, who was slowly losing ground against
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Dean's strength and the blade sunk deep in his forearm. Blake realized that Kat had been
screaming through the entire struggle, while she felt frozen and immovable.
She heard Dean grunt one final time, a hard exhalation, while at the same time Matt
jerked open his door. Joshua screamed, a grating and inhuman sound, and was thrown from the
truck. Dean flopped back in his seat while Matt gunned the engine, taking off in a spray of dirt.
Kat stopped screaming. Blake took her first breath in what felt like forever.
Matt let out a “Whoop!” and punched the roof of his truck. The truck steadily picked up
speed down the narrow dirt road.
Dean looked back at Blake. “You ok?” he whispered, worry in his eyes.
She nodded. “I’m…I think I’m ok.”
“Ok, good.” He looked back over at Matt. “You straight?”
Matt was looking in the rearview mirror. “He’s still back there, I saw him stand up, the
sonofa…”
Dean looked forward and yelled. “MATT! Matt stop, watch…”
Blake’s eyes widened as she saw what Dean was yelling about. There was a massive pine
tree down in the center of the road. Joshua…Joshua must’ve cut it down to keep us from getting
out.
Matt turned around and slammed on the brakes, screaming. He did not stop in time. The
truck swerved on the gravel, the driver side headlight smashing into the side of the pine tree.
Blake closed her eyes on impact. She felt the truck leave the ground and her world went upside
down before everything went black.
Everything had a red tinge to it when Blake blinked her eyes open. She felt a sharp pain
in her forehead. Blake mentally checked her body to see if anything else hurt before slowly
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moving her neck back and forth. When her vision adjusted, she realized she was looking up at
her own empty seat. The truck had quit rolling and come to rest on its top. She looked over and
saw Kat hanging upside down, waking slowly, blood dripping from her head. It took a few tries
before Blake could get her mouth to work.
“De…Dean…Dean…”
She heard a grunt from Dean’s direction. She slowly rolled over, feeling spots along her
arms and chest that had been cut by glass shards. She crawled a few inches across the broken
glass and craned her head to look between the two front seats. Matt’s feet were barely visible in
the dark beyond the busted windshield. Dean appeared to have wrapped the seat belt across his
front just before the wreck. He was trying to untangle himself.
That is when Blake heard the crunch of boots on gravel. She heard a warbling whistle, too
low to determine the specific tune. Her veins ran cold with fear. Her heart began to beat faster.
The steps, his steps, were getting louder, closer. She chanced a look out the driver side window.
All she could see was the rise of the ditch that the truck had rolled down into. The whistling got
louder. His boot steps got louder. Blake’s mind froze on a single image, his teeth, those
teeth…that gaping, blood red mouth…
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NON-FICTION
As I Lay Dying: Stasis and Decay of the Southern Lower Class
Randall Johnston
William Faulkner’s novel As I Lay Dying tells the story of the Bundren family as they
embark on a quest to bury the family matriarch Addie Bundren. Critics and literary scholars
agree that it is difficult to present a single, universally accepted interpretation of the novel.
Scholars that study the novel often focus on Faulkner’s use of language, specifically the
viewpoint characters’ dialogues and monologues. The presence of symbolism within the words
and thoughts of the viewpoint characters is a recurring theme in many scholarly papers on the
novel. Much of this symbolism is reportedly tied to the viewpoint characters’ actions that
accompany their spoken words. Thorough research on articles related to symbolism within the
spoken word indicates that Faulkner employed a number of dissimilar elements—the
arbitrariness of language, the Dionysian fertility right, the archetypes of the fantasy quest,
geopolitics, and satire—in order to present As I Lay Dying as a polemic against strict adherence
to either modernization or agrarianism. Faulkner uses his novel to argue that the southern lower
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class has trapped itself in a state of stasis that will ultimately lead to its decay if it fails to develop
a sense of equilibrium between agrarianism and modernization.
The viewpoint characters’ spoken words in As I Lay Dying can only be interpreted within
the context of action. It is action that gives meaning and signification to the language used in
Faulkner’s novel. The connotative meaning of the dialogue is the crux for extrapolating meaning
from the myriad symbols present in the novel. The character of Addie Bundren provides
evidence for the claim that action imbues the spoken word with meaning and character
(Slaughter 20). There are two instances in Addie Bundren’s chapter where she implies that the
spoken word, alone, is hollow. The first example occurs when Addie considers Anse: “The shape
of my body where I used to be a virgin is in the shape of a
and I couldn’t think Anse,”
(Faulkner 173). The gap implies that Addie felt that a name or word would be insufficient to
characterize her relationship with Anse (Slaughter 21). Addie’s inability to describe Anse is due
to a lack of action on Anse’s part, which means that Anse is bereft of meaning (21). Addie’s
opinion on people’s use of “sin” in conversations provides further evidence that one must
consider the viewpoint characters’ actions in order to fully interpret their character. According to
Addie, “sin” is used by people who have never understood the actions underlying the word (23).
Faulkner infuses the viewpoint characters’ language and thoughts with symbolism that can be
interpreted through the connotative meaning of their words and thoughts.
The connotation of the viewpoint characters’ monologues and dialogues, taken together,
allow As I Lay Dying to be interpreted as an inversion of the Dionysian fertility rite. The
similarities between the novel and the Dionysian fertility rite highlight the tragedy of a lower
class family stuck in an unending cycle. In the fertility rite, Dionysus is killed twice, devoured
twice, and reborn twice (Hellwig 200). Within this cycle, the god Zeus is designated as
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“pharmakos,” which translates to “medicine” and “poison” (200). Zeus rips Dionysus from his
mother’s womb, which kills her, and uses his thigh to give birth to Dionysus; thus, Zeus is both
“poison” and “medicine” to Dionysus (200). Sympathetic magic is the driving force for
Dionysus’s rebirth; the second rebirth is followed with Zeus’s exile and a festival celebrating life
(200). In As I Lay Dying, this ritual is referenced when Anse tells Vardaman to prepare the fish
that he caught so that the Bundrens can eat it (200). The rebirthing elements of the rite are
present in the scenes where Cash is “reborn” from having broken his leg during the journey
across the river (200). Vardaman’s association between his fish and Addie Bundren references
the rite’s mortification step: Addie Bundren, as the fish, will be eaten and thus alive according to
the rite (201). Zeus’s role in the rite—of the “pharmakos” or scapegoat—is fulfilled by Darl
(201). Committing Darl to the asylum represents Zeus’s exile at the end of the rite (201). The
contrast between As I Lay Dying and the Dionysian fertility rite is apparent in the novel’s
conclusion. Rather than a happy ending, the novel ends with Anse inviting his children to greet
the next Mrs. Bundren (201). In addition, Dewey Dell’s rape by the pharmacist is a travesty of
the rite’s sensual aspects (201). Thus, by subverting a rite that ends in a celebration of life, As I
Lay Dying presents the reader with a lower class family stuck in a cycle that will end in tragedy.
The subversive nature of As I Lay Dying is not limited to Greek tragedy. A superficial
reading of As I Lay Dying presents the reader with a Romantic quest. However, the viewpoint
characters’ desires allow the reader to interpret As I Lay Dying as an inversion of the Romantic
quest. Tropes common to the Romantic quest—perils and difficulty—are present in As I Lay
Dying in the form of the flood, the barn fire, and the need to acquire supplies to bury Addie
Bundren (Kerr 6). Faulkner begins the quest by tricking the reader into believing that the journey
is undertaken to uphold the Bundren family’s promise to Addie Bundren (6). Elements of
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subversion become apparent when the reader learns that the Bundrens have underlying motives
for undertaking the journey to Jefferson. These motives serve to subvert the quest archetypes that
the Bundrens appear to represent.
Certain members of the Bundren family, superficially, resemble one of the character
archetypes associated with the heroic quest. Faulkner’s description of Anse leads the reader to
believe that he is the wise old man (Kerr 8). Cash’s love of carpentry allows the reader to view
him as the artificer, while Darl is the knight held in thrall by an evil enchantment (9). This evil
enchantment is represented by both the fact that he is Addie’s least loved son and his insanity
(9). Dewey Dell’s predicament—her unintended conception of Lathe’s child—allows the reader
to view her as the damsel in distress (8). Jewel fits the archetype of the traditional hero through
his concern for Addie before her death and throughout the quest (7). However, these
resemblances are purely derived from a superficial reading. A closer examination of each
character’s motives for partaking in the ritual of interment reveals that Faulkner uses inversion as
a means of highlighting the futility of certain rituals.
While each Bundren’s longing is rooted in the materialistic,—such as Vardaman’s desire
for a toy train—Elizabeth M. Kerr states they are simply a poor family that wants to experience
the city (6). The elements of inversion extend beyond the characters to encompass setting: the
flood and the miasma of Addie’s decaying corpse taint the picturesque countryside of the
Mississippi (7). Faulkner’s novel reaches its peak as an inversion of the quest fantasy in the
resolution of the characters’ goals: Jewel has lost his horse, Cash is left with an infected leg, Darl
succumbs to the “evil enchantment”—his insanity—while Anse uses Dewey Dell’s money—
intended for her abortion—to purchase a set of grotesque teeth (12). The questing “heroes” find
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tragedy and failure at the journey’s end, while the presence of a second “Mrs. Bundren” implies
that the heroes are doomed to repeat the quest (Hellwig 201).
Interpretations of As I Lay Dying as Greek tragedy and inversion of the Romantic quest
are united in that they both explore the theme of a ritualistic march into tragedy. A study of As I
Lay Dying, in the context of these two interpretations, which also considers the changing
geopolitical landscape of the south, reveals that Faulkner uses the novel to argue that the
southern lower class’s adherence to ritual has led it into a state of stasis. In accordance with the
interpretations of As I Lay Dying as Greek tragedy and inversion of the Romantic quest,
continued existence in this state of stasis will end in the decay of the southern lower class.
The forces that necessitate the southern lower class’s adherence to ritual are agrarianism
and modernization. The viewpoint characters within As I Lay Dying—Cash, Dewey Dell, and
Vardaman—each embody an aspect of either agrarianism or modernization and allow Faulkner
to show the reader what awaits the individual who adheres strictly to either school of
development. Cash’s decision to build Addie’s coffin by hand, rather than with machine-power,
provides an example of ritual associated with agrarianism (Matthews 75). Cash displays a
resistance to industrialization in his refusal to use a machine to expedite the coffin’s
construction. Cash’s refusal to conform to economization embodies one of the principles of
agrarianism, which celebrates the craftsman’s or farmer’s refusal to add extraneous value to his
or her products (75).
Vardaman exemplifies modernization in that he substitutes Addie’s corpse for bananas
and a toy train (Matthews 76). Vardaman’s substitution is an example of commodification—an
aspect of modernization—in which he exchanges his grief for material rewards (76). Dewey
Dell’s character represents the agrarian’s struggle against modernization (81). Her decision to
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resort to an unspecified means of pharmaceutical abortion—such as cotton-root—rather than a
safer medical procedure allows the reader to interpret Dewey Dell as an agrarian (80). Each
character—Cash, Vardaman, and Dewey Dell—can be classified as either a proponent of
agrarianism or modernization. Each character experiences a tragedy during the journey that
underscores the ominous ends awaiting the individual that adheres exclusively to either
agrarianism or modernization.
Explorations into agrarianism or modernization are bolstered with Faulkner’s use of
space and time in conjunction with the Bundren’s socioeconomic status to support his theme of
ritual-bound stasis. Faulkner places a number of obstacles before the Bundrens, including a
flood, fire, and lack of tools necessary to dig Addie’s grave (Hubbs 462). Faulkner uses the
presence of these obstacles to instill a sense of stasis in which there is no visible progression. The
sense of stasis is further developed through Faulkner’s use of multiple perspectives. Faulkner
portrays events in As I Lay Dying from several viewpoints—such as, in order to develop a sense
of lack of progression and thus continue to build a feeling of stasis (462). The sense of stasis that
Faulkner establishes is further developed into socioeconomic stasis when one considers the way
that the townsfolk of Jefferson and the reader perceive the Bundrens.
Faulkner’s use of space and time to emphasize the feeling of stasis that envelopes the
Bundrens is presented in the form of the characters’ perception of the Bundrens. There is a
distinction in how the rural characters and urban characters perceive the Bundrens; this
distinction is used to establish a geopolitical divide in As I Lay Dying. The rural characters, such
as Vernon Tull, see Cash’s handmade coffin as a solid, well-made craft (Faulkner 88). The urban
characters view the coffin as “that home-made box” (203) and compare the Bundren’s arrival to
“a piece of rotten cheese coming into an anthill” (203). The derogatory tone that is implicit in the
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townsfolk’s perception of the Bundren family provides a sharp contrast between the agrarian
values held by the Bundrens—who, based on the urban character’s perceptions, are portrayed as
poor white trash—and the modernization values held by the white urban characters (Hubbs 465).
Faulkner’s use of space and time—through the anachronism of the agrarian Bundrens entering
into the domain of the modernized white urban characters—thus establishes a sense of
timelessness and stasis around the Bundren family.
Faulkner uses the symbolic meaning of sweat in As I Lay Dying to extend the sense of
stasis surrounding the Bundren family to the African American citizens of the south. In As I Lay
Dying, Cash Bundren uses “sweat” as a condemnation against Darl: “there just ain’t nothing
justifies the deliberate destruction of what a man has built with his own sweat and stored the fruit
of his sweat into” (238). Cash is imbuing “sweat” with a symbolic quality; it is presented as a
means of measuring how much work has been devoted to a material good (Hubbs 472). A
common thread throughout Faulkner’s works is the concept that agriculture exploits multiple
individuals—the slave, farmhand, and sharecropper—for the benefit of a few individuals (472).
Faulkner employs “sweat” to gauge an object’s value—according to Cash’s condemnation of
Darl—, which thus unites the Bundrens, or the poor whites, with the slaves and sharecroppers of
the south. This bond is established by the fact that the Bundrens each placed tremendous value
on some object built through the “sweat” labor of others (472).
Faulkner thus establishes a sense of stasis in that the Bundrens, the poor whites of the
southern lower class, are benefitting off the “sweat” labor of other members of the southern
lower class (Hubbs 473). Evidence for “sweat” labor’s role in the southern lower class’s cycle of
stasis is present in Anse’s reflections on labor: “It’s a hard country on man; it’s hard. Eight miles
of the sweat of his body washed up outen the Lord’s earth…” (472). Faulkner’s decision to have
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Anse, a failed farmer, speak this line relates to his view on agriculture. Anse, a member of the
southern lower class, is supported by the sweat of his family due to his inability to partake in
physical labor (472). Thus Faulkner’s theme in As I Lay Dying—the dangers of becoming
trapped in a stasis of ritual based on adherence to either agrarianism or modernization—
encompasses the whole of the southern lower class.
Faulkner strengthens his warning against the southern lower class slipping into stasis by
imbuing As I Lay Dying with symbols of disintegration and decay that lead to ruin. While the
family is crossing the river, Cash sinks beneath the waters while grasping Addie’s coffin
(Faulkner 154). Cash, one of the novel’s proponents of agrarianism, has experienced
disintegration from the Bundren family unit (Matthews 84). Dewey Dell has a similar
experienced of disintegration when she is lured into the basement by MacGowan (84). Decay is
symbolized in the figure of Addie Bundren. The effects of Addie’s death, or decay, on Darl
Bundren are communicated through hollow words intended to rebuild his character and his
relationship to his surroundings (Delville 64). The emptiness of Darl’s words is evident through
a lack of action (64). Thus, disintegration and decay, symbolized through the effects of Addie’s
death on her children, are what await the southern lower class if they do not break free of static
entrapment by wholly devoting themselves to either agrarianism or modernization.
The viewpoint characters of As I Lay Dying are united in that each plays the role of the
quiet observer; this role serves as a means of emphasizing the tragedy awaiting the southern
lower class. The quiet observer is identified by his or her inner thoughts and outward actions,
rather than the spoken word: “…it is not possible to comprehend Faulkner’s point of view from
separate quotations but only from implications in his novels as wholes and from the positions of
his various characters in relation to these implied themes” (Beck 350). The quiet observer
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frequently tends toward aloofness (352) or self-destruction (353). In As I Lay Dying, each of the
Bundrens exhibited aloofness in their motives for the quest to Jefferson while Darl self-destructs
when he burns down Gillespie’s barn (Faulkner 237). The outcome of the Bundrens’ aloofness is
a new “Mrs. Bundren” (261); Darl is committed to an insane asylum (254). Thus, each of the
Bundrens’ actions as the quiet observer result in a resumption of the tragic cycle that began with
Addie’s death.
William Faulkner’s novel As I Lay Dying employs symbolism in an attempt to galvanize
the southern lower class—the poor white trash and the African Americans—into breaking free of
a static cycle that is fated to end in tragedy. Faulkner’s novel incorporates thematic archetypes
from satire, the Romantic quest, the Dionysian fertility rite to characterize the southern lower
class. The geopolitics of agrarianism and modernization, as well as Faulkner’s views on
agriculture and sweat labor, is used to illustrate the dangers of strict adherence to ritual. Faulkner
blends the static character of the southern lower class with the dangers of ritualistic adherence to
either agrarianism or modernization to present As I Lay Dying as an exhortation to the southern
lower class: find a sense of balance between agrarianism and modernization or continue the slow
journey into decay.
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Works Cited
Beck, Warren. “Faulkner’s Point of View.” The English Journal 30.5 (1941): 347-360. Web. 31
Oct. 2013.
Delville, Michel. “Alienating Language and Darl’s Narrative Consciousness in Faulkner’s As I
Lay Dying.” The Southern Literary Journal 27.1 (1994): 61-72. Web. 31 Oct. 2013.
Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying. New York: Vintage Books, 1990. Print.
Hellwig, Harold. “As I Lay Dying and Features of Greek Tragedy.” The Explicator 68.3
(2010): 199-202. Web. 31 Oct. 2013.
Hubbs, Jolene. “William Faulkner’s Rural Modernism.” Mississippi Quarterly 61.3 (2008): 461475. Web. 23 Oct. 2013.
Kerr, Elizabeth M. “As I Lay Dying As Ironic Quest.” Wisconsin Studies in
Contemporary Literature 3.1 (1962): 5-19. Web. 1 Nov. 2013.
Matthews, John T. “As I Lay Dying in the Machine Age.” Boundary 2 19.1 (1992): 69-94. Web.
Nov 2. 2013.
Slaughter, Carolyn Norman. “As I Lay Dying: Demise of Vision.” American Literature 61.1
(1989): 16-30. Web. 4 Nov. 2013.
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Grand Finale’
Angela Walker
At eighty-eight, those who meet her see a sweet, frail, petite, gray haired woman, with
crystal blue eyes, flawless skin, and hardly a wrinkle. Her mind is sharp even though she may
ask what day it is. Bed-ridden, she has to be cared for. She would have disabled herself earlier in
life had she thought of it, just so she could be waited on hand and foot. My brother calls her “the
Old Goat.” My mom calls her “the Queen.” On a good day, I call her “Grandma.”
Grandma’s hair was always perfectly coiffed. She wore expensive clothing with matching
shoes and purses. Even now, four-hundred dollars in Lancôme’s skincare are at her disposal.
Always the lady, she would sit on the edge of the couch with her legs crossed at the ankles.
Grandma could pass for the Queen-mum herself. The word pregnant never escaped her lips. She
would raise her hand to her lips and whisper “expecting.” One would think she was a role model
from the Donna Reed Show, based in the fifty’s. But lying underneath the polished surface was
and still is a Joan Crawford demeanor: a jealous, demeaning, manipulative woman with a flair
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for the dramatics. Words such as jealousy, demeaning, and manipulative may sound harsh, yet
Grandma’s actions truly tell her story.
Jealousy is the reason Grandma is bedridden today. It began when all the elderly
neighbors who lived by my grandparents decided to share an acre of land to garden. When the
weather would get too hot and unpleasant for the elders, a younger female college coach, who
lived in the neighborhood, would help in the garden. Imagine, when at the age of seventy-eight,
Grandma decided that Papa (my step grandpa of eighty) was having an affair with the younger
female coach. She called my mom to vent her suspicions. My mom assured her that was not the
situation. When my Grandma demanded to know why she was taking up for Papa, my mom’s
reply was, “Mother, she is a lesbian!” “WELL,” my grandma retorted, “She has never hit on
me!” After hanging up on my mom, my grandma proceeded to storm out the door and head to
the unsuspecting coach’s house. Before making it to the end of the driveway, she tripped, rolled
down the hill, and landed in the street, resulting in a fractured hip. The fall left her disabled and
in need of a walker. My brother, with his dry-witted humor, could not resist rubbing salt into the
wound. He asked grandma, “How are you going to chase Papa and the lesbian now with a
walker?”
Neither my brother’s remark nor the walker slowed Grandma down. Several years later,
Grandma decided again that Papa was on the prowl. Papa had gone to the grocery store to do
their weekly shopping. I can just see her waiting impatiently on the edge of the couch, tapping
her foot. After an hour, Grandma leapt off the couch, tangled herself in the walker, and hit the
coffee table. Landing on her right arm, she broke her humerus bone two inches below her
shoulder. Now, she is bed-ridden for life. Afterwards, I told her, she should not have wild parties
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and dance on the coffee table while Papa was gone. The truth of the matter is that her jealousy
stems from her own indiscretions.
One might ask how an eighty-eight year old woman is demeaning to anyone. The answer
is clear: years of practice. My Grandma now resides with my parents. Mom (her daughter) is her
full time caregiver, servant, and slave. Mom will text me, “The Queen has eaten. I want to die.
Please promise me when I get like THE QUEEN, one of you kids will snuff me out with a
pillow.” My immediate responses are always, “What did Grandma say now?”
Mom said she walked in Grandma’s room, opened the curtain, and said, “Mama, it’s
going to be a beautiful day!” Grandma informed her that she has been up for hours, but Mom
knew she had not been up that long because Mom had been checking on her since 7 a.m. My
Mom also told me that my grandmother said she had been calling her all morning. Mom
continues by telling me that Grandma told her, she looks tired, her hair looks like she hasn’t
brushed it, and it needs to be colored! Mom said, she just wanted to yell, “Mama, if I did not
have to wait on you hand and foot I would have time to do all that, but I can’t even take a bath
until your morning regiment is done.” Naturally, I tell Mom to tell Grandma just that, but she
won’t. My heart goes out to my Mom. I tell her she is a better person then I am. I also tell her
jokingly, she needs to be “really” nice to my brother and my cousin because I’m not taking care
of her when she gets old. My Mom sighs, “You will not have to; I won’t survive your
Grandmother. Angela, do you know how hard it is to take care of someone who lets you know
she has never loved you?” At that moment, I was speechless. Mom’s words gave me more
insight into how she was raised, who in turn raised me.
My Grandma’s theatrics go hand in hand with her manipulation. Last weekend she
decided she was going to die. This type of behavior generally happens from her when she is not
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getting the attention she demands. On the weekends, I give Mom a break from Grandma. On
Saturday, while I was grandma sitting, I said the wrong thing. Grandma had been complaining to
her nurses about hurting. When they asked her where, she said, “All over.” Not knowing
Grandma could win an Oscar at any given time for her drama roles, the nurses gave her a
morphine patch. During the day, Grandma was quiet, so I told her we would wash her hair the
next day since she seemed like she did not feel well. WRONG thing to do! I am not sure if it was
because her hair was not washed when she wanted or if I implied she did not feel well. But the
fact is that I gave her something to work with.
The next morning, Mom called early informing me that she thought Grandma was, in
fact, dying. Mom contacted the nurse on call and she came out (In the middle of a tropical storm
I might add. A movie director could not have planned a better backdrop for the day that lay
ahead.). Grandma’s vital signs were great, but she was struggling to breathe. The nurse wanted
Mom to contact the family, so she did. I watched my frail Grandma struggle to breathe; she was
doing the death gurgle from time to time. My Mom was in tears. She asked me what I thought, so
I sat back and observed. After a while, I told Mom the performance could be real.
Then my dad came in, sat down, and started speaking freely about whether we were
going to have a funeral or a cremation. Mom jumped up to stop my dad from saying anything in
the room with Grandma, but I stopped her. I motioned for my dad to continue talking, and I
smiled. We all looked at Grandma as he began the conversation. As she laid there gurgling and
struggling for her breath, she would raise an eyebrow and squint with one eye to peek at us. She
would huff when she did not like what she was hearing.
By that afternoon, most of the family was there and the rest were flying in. The Queen
was in her glory. Grandma woke, looked around the room, and asked, “Why did y’all let me
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sleep with all the company here to visit?” When my cousin, who broke speed limits, driving two
hours through the storm to say her good-bye’s to Grandma, found out Grandma was up and
talking, she asked if she could give Grandma extra morphine and help her on her way for pulling
such a stunt. She has been doing this for years.
Grandma had a good week after last weekend, and then another cousin and his son flew
in from Florida. The Queen was ready for her encore. Mom called me to come out to the house
again. Grandma, not gurgling but gasping, laid there for her moment. My cousin would shake his
head as we whispered about her performance. She would call my name and say, “I don’t want to
cuss no more.” I asked if she was trying to earn feathers for her wings. She smiled, and, in her
raspy voice whispered, “Yes!” I told her we both had better repent a lot, even about things she
and I did not remember; we had been bad a long time. Mom came up to the bed, and I said to
Grandma, “Mom needs to pray too.” In a loud voice Grandma said, “Yes, she does.” At this
remark, everyone in the room laughed.
There have been times, though, I have been so mad at what my Grandma would say I
would walk out. Other times, I put her in her place. One day while grandma-sitting, she looked at
me and said, “Your Aunt Mattie (Mom’s older sister) sure is pretty.” I said, “Yes she is.” A few
minutes later, she asked if Mom was feeling well because she looks old. I started gritting my
teeth and said, “Well, she has a lot to do.” Again, she waited a few minutes and asked, “How old
is Debbie?” (My cousin and Mattie’s daughter) I responded, “A year and a half older than me.”
Grandma yelled, “You are lying; she is young; you’re old!” I looked at her and she knew I was
pissed. “Why in the hell would I lie to you about that?” I asked. All I could think of was how my
mom slaves for her, how my Aunt Mattie could not stay in the room with her for a day without
having to go to the hospital with anxiety. I was fuming! At that point, I got a glimpse of my
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mom’s and my aunt’s childhood, what they may have had to endure. I got up to leave. Grandma
said, “I will behave.” I walked out.
I love my Grandma! She and I were bad together. We have a lot of fun cutting up. My
cousin Debbie married a man sixteen years her senior. My Grandma would look at me and say,
“Debbie married that old man. Why do you think she married that old man?” I would say, “I
don’t know, guess she likes old man balls’!” Grandma and I would be laughing madly. Mom
would be in the other room yelling, “Angela you’re bad!” We would just wink and laugh more.
I hated that she was bed-ridden. I know she got bored when I was not there. Mom placed
a birdfeeder outside her window. I told grandma to count the birds when she got bored. After
that, I got a weekly report on the birds. She could not wait to tell me every time the squirrel had
visited. I also got weekly weather reports.
Unfortunately, I will not get my reports anymore. When I left mom’s house Sunday, she
texted me again to ask what I thought of Grandma’s health? I replied, “I will go to Hell, but after
years of acting, I always have doubt.” Mom’s response was, “We’ll be holding hands.” On
Monday morning, my phone rang; it was Mom. I automatically said, “What?” Mom said, “You
know!” and I did.
The Queen had not given us an encore; it had been her Grand Finale’. My heart was not
plagued with guilt, thinking she was pretending. It was filled with sadness that this time, it was
real. My grandma was gone.
No one really knows what drives people to act the way they do. My grandma needed
attention and went to many extremes to get it. Her jealousy immobilized her, and Papa took care
of her as long as he could. She did many things to her daughters, yet they loved her. Mom and I
took care of her after papa passed. She never changed. Grandma would piss me off and bring my
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mom to tears. She was our Old Goat, our Queen, and my Grandma on a good day. We all cared
for her, some of us loved her, and some of us even forgave her. In truth, we will all miss her.
Bye Grandma, I Love You!
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My Guardian Angel
Nicholas Richardson
“Nick! Wake up! It is 6:45 already! You are going to be late for school! You better hurry
up and get dressed!” screams my grandmother. I then mumble something under my breath and
fall back asleep. She walks back in five minutes later screaming at me again, “I said for you to
get up, Nicholas Paul!” While rubbing my eyes, I finally get out of bed and go straight into the
bathroom to get dressed, slamming the door behind me. After getting dressed, I walk into the
kitchen and begin eating cereal. Being half-asleep still, I am barely eating. She notices, and once
again, she continues to rush me, “Hurry up and eat! You are going to be late for school! It is
nearly 7:30!” I lash back at her saying, “I will not be late! I still have plenty of time left!” I
quickly finish eating, and we rush out the front door and into her car, barely making it to school
by eight. Back then, I was beyond annoyed at how she used to rush me early in the morning for
school, but, without her pushing me, I would not be the person I am today.
My grandmother, Ura Mae Moses Richardson, was both a mother and grandmother to
me. Both she and my mother raised me together since I never had a father figure around. She was
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a tough and feisty woman who never backed down from anyone. Not even the devil himself
could make her flinch. I have witnessed her stand toe to toe with a man who was twice the size
of her and speak her mind to him. She stood barely over five feet tall and had the bluest eyes I
have ever seen. She loved wearing capris along with a button down shirt with pockets, which
was her signature look. Growing up in central Louisiana, she had a rough life. She was brought
up on a farm, and worked hard at a very young age. She was forced to quit school at the age of
sixteen, while attending the eleventh grade, in order to make ends meet. Since then, she has been
pushing me to succeed in life so that I never have to experience the life she once had.
“Come on Tiger! You can do it! Make the putt!” both my grandmother and I screamed.
“Yes! He did it! He actually made it!” we screamed again after Tiger made a clutch birdie putt to
stand his ground at the world’s most prestigious golf tournament, The Masters. My grandmother
and I always enjoyed watching Tiger Woods on television. We would be so caught up in the
moment, and, if someone had not known any better, he or she would believe we were watching
the Super Bowl instead of golf. We would watch Tiger every weekend he would play, and we
had a blast doing so. She was also supportive of how much I loved playing golf. Whenever I
needed her to bring me to golf tournaments, golf lessons, or to practice, she would not hesitate to
bring me. Golf was something special that always brought us together.
“Hey, how is it in Japan?” asked my cousin, Gregg. “We forgive y’all for bombing us.”
“Gregg! Shut up! You are embarrassing us!” my grandmother says angrily. “Have some respect.
We come here to eat all the time.” My grandmother’s favorite place to eat was Panda Buffet in
Alexandria, and we would try to go at least twice a month. My grandmother, my mom, my
cousin, and I all enjoyed eating there. My cousin Gregg relished in messing with the waiters and
he meant it all in harmless fun, but my grandmother did not see it that way. She would get so
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mad and embarrassed that she and my mom would get up and sit at another booth. I would
usually just shake my head at Gregg and laugh. Despite my cousin’s behavior, my grandmother
really enjoyed being there. She loved Chinese food, and there was no other restaurant she loved
more.
September 18th, 2008, was the day my life changed forever. My family and I were all
gathered around my grandmother’s bed. There she lay, weak and fragile, gasping for air, refusing
to give in without a fight. I knew she was holding on for me because I was her pride and joy. As
I looked at her knowing this, I felt my heart slowly begin to break piece by piece. I was watching
my grandmother die right in front of my eyes and there was nothing I could do to save her. I
could not believe what I witnessing. She could not leave me, not now or ever. I needed her here.
I needed her to protect me. I could not go on without her. A million thoughts were going through
my head as I continued to watch her slowly transcend to the other side, leaving us all behind on
this earth. I felt so cold and alone, as if I was stranded in a forest surrounded by hungry wolves,
ready to eat me whole. I grabbed my mom and began to lose control of myself. My uncle
grabbed me, held me tight, and I cried my eyes out. “Why?! Why is this happening?! Why?! I
don’t understand!” I screamed. Cancer had taken away my grandmother, and I was left trying to
put the pieces of my life back together. I had no idea how I was going to get through this. A few
moments later, the coroners arrived and picked up my grandmother. As they were putting her
into a white hearse, I buried my face into my aunt’s shoulder, not wanting to watch. After they
drove off, I noticed that there was a huge swarm of hummingbirds all around my grandmother’s
apartment. The site of these hummingbirds felt magical and surreal, as if it was my
grandmother’s doing. I believe it was her way of saying she was fine, but unfortunately, I was
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not. My life was completely turned upside down. Everything about my life had changed, and I
was scared.
Four years later, I am ready to take on the entire world and show everyone what I am
made of. I am a much stronger person than I ever was. It has been really tough to go through life
without my grandmother, but I will not let anything or anyone bring me down, or get in my way
of success. My grandmother raised me to be strong and determined. She always believed in me
and wanted the best for me. She pushed me until the very end, and I will continue to work hard
and make her proud. I know she is there watching over me and helping me get through each and
every day. Even though I am grown up and attending college, I can still hear her voice screaming
at me in the mornings, “Get up Nick! It’s time to go! You are going to be late!”
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Ghost in the Cinema
Taurean Johnson
Mamoru Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell (1995) is a crowning achievement in cinema. While it
is a not the best of adaptations, since it goes off in its own directions instead of strictly following
the source material, it does change the tone from happily anticipating technology of the future to
a foreboding cautionary tale of the dangers of technology. Mamoru Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell
(1995) is based on the manga Ghost in the Shell by Masamune Shirow. In the manga, the story is
set in the mid-21st century in the Japanese city of Niihama, Niihama Prefecture, which is referred
to as New Port City. It follows the exploits of Public Security Section 9, which is a specialoperations task force, primarily composed of former military officers and police detectives. The
story starts in the year 2029, and Section 9 is led by Chief Daisuke Aramaki and Major Motoko
Kusanagi, where they are in the process of investigating the Puppeteer, a cyber-criminal who is
wanted for committing a large number of crimes, all of which are committed by proxy. This is
through a process known as the ghost hacking of humans with cyber brains. While the
investigation carries on, Section 9 uncovers the fact that the Puppet Master is actually an
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advanced artificial intelligence, who was created by a department of the Japanese government,
who is currently taking up residence in a robot body. When they destroy the latest host of AI the
Puppeteer, Section 9 believes all is well, until the Major discovers that the Puppet Master has
taken up residence within her own mind. Once she learns the Puppeteer's wishes to reach its next
step in its personal evolution, Kusanagi allows it to become one with her own ghost. After this
conclusion, the Major leaves Section 9 to work as a private contractor, with the remaining
members of her unit Batou, Togusa, Ishikawa, Saito, Paz, Borma, and Azuma, continuing their
work as covert operatives, occasionally meeting up with the Major in her various disguises.
These stories were later collected under the name Ghost in the Shell 1.5: Human-Error
Processor. In 2035, the Major, who is now known as Motoko Aramaki, is working as a security
expert for Poseidon Industrial, which is a company entirely composed of multiple identities that
she controls via the network in her different prosthetic bodies that she uses to attack industrial
spies, assassins, and cyber-hackers, and solving various crimes, all while she is still at her day
job. However, at this point, a psychic investigator finds something dangerous emerging as the
teachings of a professor of artificial intelligence falls into the wrong hands and attempt to
intermingle with the Major's current evolving sense of self.
These stories are all currently collected under the title Ghost in the Shell 2: Man-Machine
Interface. In the first movie, the entire world has become interconnected by a vast electronic
network that permeates every aspect of life, where much of humanity, including the protagonists,
has direct access to this network through cybernetic bodies, or their “shells,” which possess their
consciousness or their “ghosts” within and can give them superhuman abilities. In the year of
2029, Major Motoko Kusanagi, a high-ranking officer for the Public Security Section 9, is
assigned to capture the elusive hacker known only as the Puppet Master. Her team members,
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Batou and Ishikawa, use a triangulation to seek out the Puppet Master and locate him. Their
suspect, who they believe is the Puppet Master, is a garbage man, who is under the assumption
that he is going through a difficult divorce and thinks that he is using a program which he
obtained from a sympathetic man to illegally “ghost-hack” his wife's mind to find the location of
his daughter. Kusanagi and her team apprehend both the garbage man and the sympathetic man
who gave him the program, but what they discover is that both men's memories were either
erased or implanted, which uncovers the truth that they themselves were both “ghost-hacked” by
the Puppet Master, who remains one step ahead of Section 9. Soon after this, a manufacturing
facility is hacked and then programmed to assemble a female cybernetic body. The body then
escapes, but it is hit by a truck, and Section 9 investigates and examines the body. This
completely robotic body is revealed to have a human “ghost” inside, which is possibly the
Puppet Master himself. Officials from the rival government agency Section 6 pay a visit to
Section 9 and explain that the body was made to lure the Puppet Master's “ghost” and trap it
inside. Kusanagi espies the conversation between agencies and decides to then “dive in” the
body and face the Puppet Master's “ghost.” Before she can succeed, the “ghost” then activates
the body. When this happens, Section 6 storms Section 9 and forcibly takes the body away with
them. The information that was gained from investigating the body leads Section 9 to uncover
the mysterious Project 2501. Section 6 claims that the project was created to catch the elusive
hacker The Puppet Master, even though the project was initiated before his first appearance.
Section 9 speculates that the project itself is what has created the Puppet Master, who then
escaped, and now Section 6 wants him back in their control. Daisuke Aramaki, the head of
Section 9, questions that the project and the Puppet Master were tools of the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs, but he does not know what for. The escape of the Puppet Master could lead to the
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revelation of secrets, which would then embarrass both Section 6 and the Ministry. The getaway
car, which is carrying the Puppet Master, meets up with another car, and they split off to avoid
detection. Batou stops the original car, but it turns that it is only a decoy meant to distract them
or make them split up their forces. Kusanagi follows the second car to a derelict building, where
she is ambushed by a large spider-shaped armored tank that was deployed to stop her. Batou
arrives on the scene just in time to save the badly injured Kusanagi. With Batou on guard duty,
Kusanagi is now free to face another cybernetic body. The Puppet Master then reveals the truth
about himself and says, in Project 2501, Section 6 created him with the purpose for him to hack
“ghosts” illegally for its own interests. The Puppet Master gained sentience but was then unable
to reproduce or die. He was looking for Kusanagi in order for him to merge with her and then to
create a new being. As a result, he would then be able to die, and Kusanagi would live on with
his “ghost.” As Batou tries to disconnect the drive, he is hacked and stopped by the Puppet
Master.
The helicopters from Section 6, which approach the building, now have orders to destroy
everyone inside to cover up Project 2501. The Puppet Master then interferes with their targeting
systems. Just as he starts his merging with Kusanagi, Section 6 snipers blow both their heads off,
along with Batou's arm. Kusanagi wakes up, now in a child-sized cyborg body, and is in Batou's
safe house. Batou says that her original body was destroyed in the fight, but he was able to
recover her head intact and then attach it to the new body for her. Nakamura is arrested for
questioning, and the Foreign Minister is forced to resign in the aftermath of the investigation. As
the Major is leaving, Kusanagi acknowledges that now she is neither herself nor the Puppet
Master but a new entity that is combination of both of them. Batou tells her that he will always
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be here for her. She leaves the house gazing out over the city, pondering the possibilities for the
future.
The second movie Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence adapts the story once again from the
original manga but this time from a latter chapter titled Robot Rondo. The story begins in the
year 2032, where cities are inhabited by the races of humans, completely mechanical androids,
and cyborgs like Batou who still have a ghost (the term for the human spirit or soul), who are
vulnerable to the same ghost hacking from the first movie. The movie features several returning
characters from the original movie, like Togusa, the most organic member of the team, only
having a cyber-brain while his entire body is organic, and the Chief Aramaki and Batou, as the
leads. Batou’s usual partner, Major Kusanagi, disappeared at the end of the first film. Now he
has teamed with the unenthusiastic Togusa, who never asked for this assignment and knows he
could never measure up to the Major. The officers of Public Security Section 9 are investigating
the cybernetic corporation called LOCUS SOLUS (from the novel of the same name by French
author Raymond Roussel) and its product gynoids (androids that are made in the form of young
women and are used as sex dolls) that have already killed eight people. These dolls have been
deliberately tampered with in order to trigger a police investigation upon the company. The dolls
possessed a “ghost” (which is what made them so incredibly desirable) that was created by using
what is called a “ghost-dubbing” machine, which is an illegal procedure that produces
“information-degraded, high-volume copies,” but this results in the death of the originals who
are copied. The young girls who were kidnapped by the Yakuza and then sold to LOCUS
SOLUS for this process are dying once copied. Two of the kidnapped girls’ scheme with a
LOCUS SOLUS shipping inspector named Volkerson to cause the malfunctions and,
consequently, attract official attention to their predicament. Batou's body, which is fully
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artificial, as the movie’s trailer dramatically posits, “The only remnants left of his humanity,
encased inside a titanium skull shell, are traces of his brain, and the memories of a woman called
Motoko Kusanagi.”
Major Motoko Kusanagi, the protagonist of Ghost in the Shell, is listed as missing, even
though agents are still looking for her since she has classified information on Project 2501. In the
film, Batou enlightens Togusa that he assisted in the Major’s escape because the government was
only interested in what she knew but not in her as a human being. In the culmination of the plot
of the film, where the Locus Solus guards are besieging Batou and gynoids who are killing each
other, Kusanagi and Batou are reunited in the middle of a shootout when she possessed an empty
gynoid shell. After Kusanagi has accomplished her task in stopping Locus Solus, she reassures
Batou that “she'll always be with him online”; then, the gynoid deactivates, and she is gone.
The tone is somewhat altered in the film adaptation of Ghost in the Shell. The themes
presented are in a more serious and slow paced manner than in the manga, while also condensing
the story and steering clear of any side stories. In the manga, the art style is somewhat stylized.
This style is changed in the anime to a more realistic style, which is done to help portray the
more serious tone of the movie. Also, in order to condense the first part of the manga into only
82 minutes of screen time, the movie eliminates the subplots in order to focus exclusively on the
major “Puppet Master” plot story arc. In the manga, the story is set in Japan, while in the movie,
it is set in Hong Kong, with writing depicted in Chinese Hanzi, instead of Japanese kana or kanji.
Although the manga has comedic elements, these elements are all gone from the film to make it a
more serious story without the moments of levity. The main character Major Motoko Kusanagi
in the manga is playful, and she will trade insults with fellow officers and taunt her superior
officer, Aramaki. In the movie, she is more serious and contemplative, questioning her very
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existence, while trying to figure out if she is whom she truly believes she is: is she a human in a
humanoid cybernetic body, or is she purely synthetic with programmed in memories installed in
her mind? Her sexuality is completely removed from the movie; in the manga, she has a very
sexual personality, has a boyfriend, and engages in lesbian cyber prostitution. In the manga, she
is a practitioner in cyber prostitution, in which the sensations from one person are transmitted to
another person. When asked about the lesbian orgy scene, the lesbianism, in general, and the lack
of heterosexual sex presented in the manga, the reason for its inclusion was given by Shirow as,
“I drew an all-girl orgy because I didn't want to draw some guy's butt.” By not delving into the
sexual actions of the character, all of this is avoided in the movie.
The films animation values have been highly praised from its initial release to today. It is
said that this film gave way to the term Japanimation, which is a term for Japanese animation
with quality that rivals that of live action Hollywood movies. The film uses digital generated
animation, which is a combination of cel animation, computer graphics (CG), and audio that are
all entered as digital data. Hiromasa Ogura, the art director, describes the movie as using “a very
unusual lighting technique,” where the dark areas stay dark, the light areas stay light, and the
light does not intermingle. They used digital cell artwork where the artwork is hand drawn on
cels then scanned into a computer so it can then be manipulated. They created visuals that would
be the way the brain would process information in order to display what would be internally
perceived differently by the individual. They utilized different software to create different effects
in the movie. One type of software used was TIMA, which was utilized to create the effect of the
Major’s thermal optical camouflage. What this did was take an image and distort it to create the
effect of something being there but unseen. The makers of the movie strove for realism from the
minutest of details, from the facial reactions of the characters to the impacts of the same caliber
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bullets and how they are different on stone and on metal. To measure the effects, the animation
team traveled to Guam to shoot different guns to know how they reacted to different materials
when shot. The animation layouts were increasingly detailed. To get this level of detail, it took 3
times what animation layouts normally took to create these. All assets that were utilized were
digitized and then edited on a system called the avid. This allowed them to digitally manipulate
all assets on a computer. Once everything was digitized, the editing could be done in a nonlinearly fashion. Before, editing had to be done from start of the film to end in a linearly fashion,
scene by scene, but, now that all assets were digitized, any scene could be edited in any order at
any time. In the manga, no specific setting is stated, but, in the movie, it is set in Hong Kong.
This choice was made in an attempt to visualize the information network by giving it a similar
layout to Hong Kong. In the film, the music is used as a way to convey the mood and emotion of
the characters.
While things from tone to setting are changed from the manga to the movie, it is a bad
adaptation since it does not strongly adhere to the original source work. This film has had a
lasting effect on films all over the world. One of the most iconic scenes from The Matrix films,
its digital rain, is a recreation of the opening scene from Ghost in the Shell. These films were so
influenced by Ghost in the Shell. When the Wachowskis, the creators of The Matrix and all of its
sequels, went into meetings to discuss making their movies, they showed Ghost in the Shell to
producers and studio execs stating, “We wanna do that for real” as their pitch for The Matrix,
stating that their movies would be live action versions of Ghost in the Shell. Other movies that
have also been influenced by Ghost in the Shell, some of which draw parallels from it, are James
Cameron's Avatar, Steven Spielberg's AI: Artificial Intelligence, and Jonathan
Mostow's Surrogates. To date, this manga has had multiple adaptions, including two animated
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movies, one in 1996 and one in 2004, with the first one being rereleased with enhanced features
in 2008, an anime series comprising of two seasons with a movie to end it, three video games,
and an ongoing OVA series, where the first two episodes were released in 2013. Since its
original release in 1991, it has had its fair share of adaptations.
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The Always on Connectivity of Our Lives and Ecommerce
Taurean Johnson
In this paper, I would like to look at where ecommerce is heading to and what it is.
Ecommerce or electronic commerce is defined as the buying and selling of products or services
over electronic systems, such as the Internet and other networks. Many of the things we do all
fall under the increasingly connected world we live in. Everything is now connected. Where
there was once the need for a computer in order to get to the internet, now we can do it from a
wide range of devices, from phones to tablets to game consoles to TV’s. Everything is connected
without always having broadband internet connections.
Who depends on ecommerce? The simple answer is that we all depend on ecommerce in
one form or another, from emailing an assignment to a teacher to sending a text message; it is all
ecommerce. Even our entertainment needs are satisfied through ecommerce, from streaming
movies to looking at pictures; it is all ecommerce. The more devices that are connected, then the
more needs are dependent on the internet; all of our needs are met through the ever-growing
interconnectivity. The more we come to use the technology at our disposal, the more we grow to
need it for more and more things.
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How does ecommerce advance? As technology advances, more people use ecommerce
and, ecommerce uses the emerging and increasing technology. At one point, a computer took up
an entire room, and the internet was restricted to a few people being able to connect to it, but
now a computer is in your pocket with your phone, and it can connect to the internet wherever
you are. The more the technology advances, the more it allows for more interconnectivity with
other devices. With our always-on broadband connections, more and more devices connect at the
same time, while more devices that connect allow more people to get internet access without the
need for a computer to gain access to the World Wide Web.
What is the principal use for ecommerce? It is used for a variety of things from,
purchasing books for a class to connecting with friends. The devices we use are not ecommerce;
they are merely a gateway to the internet. What we do on the internet is ecommerce; how we get
there is simply our choice in devices. All devices capable of internet allow us to participate in
ecommerce in one form or another.
Will ecommerce affect our behavior? It already has. We are living in an increasingly
connected world where everyone and everything is connected to the internet and each other. We
already look to the internet for the answers to all of our questions. For example, when we want to
know something the first thing we do is type it into google looking for the answer to our
questions.
With our world being more connected than ever, we always look to the internet for our
answers. The future of ecommerce can only lead to more connectivity, as we are always
connected in multiple ways. As I type this paper my computer, cell phone, and tablet are all
connected to the internet, even if I am not currently using them.
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What Makes Me a Successful Student?1
Brandy R. Williams
When I was posed the question as to what made me a successful student, it wasn’t
difficult to come up with an answer. During my second semester, I sat in an English class, and
my professor reviewed my draft. When she got to a particular section of the paper, she inquired
about an incident I had written about. I told her the story, and, after listening to all that I had to
say, she smiled and said that that would be a great start to a book. Two days later, I returned with
the story and asked if she would read it. The look of surprise and shock on her face was
priceless, but she agreed to read it.
Over the next few weeks and months, I continued to write with a fervor that I had never
experienced. It was as if she had unleashed a beast in me. The writing seemed to take on a life of
its own, and I couldn’t control it. I stayed up until all hours of the night, trying to get the
thoughts out of my head so that I could rest. Instead of just working on one book, I began
working on short stories, and I would bring them to her for her input. She would read them and
critique them. On strong sections, she would indicate that with smiley faces or strong comments,
1
This speech was given at the Celebrate Teaching Day 2013 luncheon.
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and, where I was weak, she would tell me why and how to make it stronger. I wrote so much that
semester that by the end of the semester I became an English major.
She constantly called me a writer, to which I told her I was not. In my mind, I was only a
student who could write. She praised me every chance she could, and she told her colleagues
about me. She inspired me. It was like she was the missing key that I had been looking for for so
many years that unlocked the chains that bound me. I didn’t believe her praise, but I wanted it to
be true. I wanted to prove to myself and her colleagues that she was right about me. So I took
what I learned in her office and applied my love and tenacity for writing to the classroom. And
the results paid off.
Last semester was my roughest, with my father passing away. I was all over the map,
never knowing from one day to the next if my spirits would be high or low. I was a mess. When
things became too difficult, I would think about a comment that a friend shared with me: When
God gives you too much to handle, ask God for a bigger knot to hold onto. For me, that professor
was my bigger knot. Every time I struggled, she was there to provide the guidance that I needed
to keep my head above water. She was there to guide me to the right people when life seemed
unbearable. She saved me that semester. And she saved the future that I was so desperate to ruin.
When I look back over my academic career and think about how my journey led me to
this moment, it is the times I sat in her office and she gave of her time freely to ensure that I
succeeded that are the most influential. She planted a seed in me that first day, and, over the
course of several semester’s, she watered that seed and allowed it to flourish. She never
restricted me in any way. She always made me believe that the sky is the limit, that anything is
possible. I needed that. She made me feel worthy where I did not feel that that was the case. I
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didn’t grow up that way, feeling as though my efforts were praise worthy. But she made sure to
tell me that they were.
It’s not important to anyone but she and I as to who she is. What is important is that every
professor has the potential to be the key that unbinds a student so that they can achieve greatness.
It took me some time, but my roots are firmly planted. After a year and a half, I now realize that
I’m worthy of the praise she bestows on me now and then. And all I can say is thank you because
I can never truly express how wonderful she is or the impact she has had on my life.
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Three Resources to Become a Successful Student2
Brandy R. Williams
We are living in uncertain times. The economy is a mess, our nation is morally bankrupt,
and our men and women are constantly shipped off to undisclosed locations to fight battles that
threaten our nation. The only thing that many find certain in this ever-changing world is God and
education. With the current state of affairs, there is no time like the present to earn a degree. In
my mind, the only two things that can never be stripped from you are God and your education.
Most of you are non-traditional students, students who are attending college quite a few
years after high school. The difference between you and recent high school graduates is that you
have traveled the world and acquired a vast amount of knowledge. You have a unique
perspective, and you are an asset to every classroom discussion. You have arrived at a
crossroads, one where your active duty career has ended, and your new life awaits. You have
decided that you want a prosperous future. And, now, here you are, attending college to secure
your future.
Every service has their own core values they subscribe to. Although they are different,
the core values are relatively similar. The Air Force core values are integrity first, service before
2
This speech was given at the LSUA Constitution Day Celebration 2013.
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self, and excellence in all we do. Although I no longer wear the uniform, I have applied these
same values to my education. It is important that you are the epitome of integrity. Your character
will help you in the end, especially if you are having difficulty completing assignments. If a
professor knows you are an honest individual that does not consistently make excuses, they are
more likely to be flexible when unforeseen circumstances arise. They are also more likely to
write character references for you, if need be. Service before self is also important. Even though
I may want to go out with friends or blow off studying for a night, I know that I must make
sacrifices for the time being because my efforts at this level affect my future chances of attending
graduate school. As military members, we have a foundation built on discipline. This attribute
makes us stronger students. The discipline we learned in basic training is a roadmap for our
college career. That discipline will carry over into your study habits, ensuring your success.
Based on our training, it is in our nature to excel in everything we do. Therefore, we place an
added stress on ourselves to be the very best that we can be. If you subscribe to these same
values in the context of your education, I have no doubt that you will succeed.
My advice to students, new and old, is to use these resources available on campus:
mentors, veterans, and counselors. To ensure a successful future, you should acquire a mentor,
someone who can guide you on your educational journey. Fortunately, many great professors are
great mentors. My mentor helped me believe that I was capable of more than a Bachelor’s
degree, and, now, my aspirations are to earn a Ph.D. The right mentor can help you expand your
horizons, as well. Interact with your professors outside of the classroom and learn from them
while you still have the ability to do so. Navigating the college system can also be a difficult task
for a veteran. We must accomplish extra steps due to G.I. Bill specifications. I advise you to
meet other veterans on campus and learn from them so that you can avoid common pitfalls. I also
understand that there are times when we will struggle with school, family, or work. It is the
nature of the beast that many of us struggle because of traumas that we have witnessed.
Understand that counseling is also an option. I lost my father last Fall, and, had it not been for
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my mentor and counselor, I would have dropped out of school. I struggled to keep my head
above water, dealing with grief, depression, and flashbacks; but my mentor and counselor were
my life jackets in the storm. The university has two free counselors on staff, and they are both
amazing. When you find yourself struggling to stay afloat, remember there is no shame in
needing someone, in needing help. Sometimes, counseling may mean the difference between a C
and an A or even staying in school at all.
In closing, people are under the impression that a veteran’s education is free. However,
your education is not free. It was paid for with your blood, sweat, and tears, as well as the many
years of sacrificing your relationships with family and friends in support of your nation. Instead
of sacrificing yourself for your nation, you’re now doing so for the betterment of your family and
future. Remember, you deserve to be here. You deserve every opportunity to better yourself.
Stay strong, stay healthy, and stay vigilant. Don’t let the sacrifices you have made be in vain.
Thank you and God bless!
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A Message of Hope: One Veterans Journey3
Brandy R. Williams
November 11th was initially known as Armistice Day to mark the day that hostilities
temporarily ceased during World War I. The truce occurred on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the
11th month, and, since then, November 11th was meant to honor and recognize the Veterans that
served during the war. After WWII, the name changed to Veterans Day in honor of all Veterans.
Veterans Day is a day of celebration to honor America's veterans for their patriotism, love of
country, and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good.
Although many recognize the bravery and sacrifices that men and women made while in
the service, they tend to forget about the sacrifices that veterans still make on a regular basis,
sacrifices that still haunt us due to the trauma we’ve witnessed while serving our nation. Some of
us have never been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), but the lack of
diagnosis does not negate our suffering.
PTSD carries a certain stigma. Active duty members fear getting help because they are
scared of how the diagnosis will affect their military career. Veterans fear the diagnosis because
3
This speech was the keynote address at the Veterans Day Celebration 2013.
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they are afraid that it will prevent them from getting certain jobs. The only time it’s really
mentioned in the news is when a person suffering from PTSD does something horrible that can
be blamed on the diagnosis. It’s difficult to talk about the trauma we’ve witnessed, even to those
who are close to us. I’ve suffered five traumatic events in my life: one at the age of 5, 6, 9, 11,
and 32. Most people don’t know what the traumas were; they just know that they affected my
life. Over time, I realized that there was only one constant in my life: functionality. It’s all I
know.
I believe that functional is something that we all learn how to become. We do what we
have to do to make it through the day, never really letting people know who we are. We may
share a detail or two, but we never let people in on the things we have witnessed because we
don’t want them to be tainted with the same visions that haunt us. We get used to hiding whom
we are in order to survive, and sometimes we are required to do that within our own families. I’d
like to share a poem that I believe conveys what I am trying to say: “We Wear the Mask” by Paul
Laurence Dunbar:
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
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To Thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh, the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask.
There comes a time in life when we have to drop the mask, quit hiding who we are, and open up
and allow people into our hearts and minds, a time when we must look past the pain of our own
experience and share with others the healing that has occurred. The only way that I know how to
do that is to share the experience itself. Outside of writing and counseling, this is the first time
that I have shared this info, so please bear with me.
July 30th, 2008: I stepped out of the weapons barn, assaulted by the blistering, desert heat.
I scanned the terrain, looking for remnants of the latest bombing. Mountains surrounded us; they
appeared barren from afar; however, they were densely populated with puny trees. Thick, black
smoke drifted into the air. It was outside the wire, roughly twenty-five minutes away. I pointed
out the smoke to my colleague, a search and rescue specialist, and he said, “It’s probably
someone burning tires. White smoke is natural; black is manmade.” We returned to our duties,
loading the day’s ammunition.
Moments later, tires screeched, voices shouted, and we ran out to see what the
commotion was about. We raced across the desert floor. There were no roads or at least none we
could find. Therefore, we followed the smoke. We plowed down anything in our way. We
launched over ravines, crushing the frame of our Humvees. I was the lone medic with three
search and rescue men as part of my crew. There was no immediate help. We were it, the only
ones available for another forty-five minutes. We followed the smoke, the thick, black smoke.
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The plane crashed into a gorge on the other side of the mountain ridge. We skidded to a
halt, teetering on the edge of the gorge. We grabbed our gear and rushed down to the crash site.
The air was thick with JP-8, hydrazine, and smoke. My lungs seized, and my vision blurred, but I
still searched for signs of life. We found the cockpit seats about twenty feet in front of the plane,
and the pilot was still strapped into the forward seat. Amidst the fuel vapors, smoke, and the
flames that ravaged his body, I saw his arms flail in the air; I heard him scream over and over.
We tried to find a way to get to him, but we were ordered to stand down. His arms continued to
flail about. His screams pierced my ears. And I did nothing, could do nothing. I fixated on that
scene and saw and heard the same thing night after night after night. I only knew of one way to
drown the noise, so I drank.
A month had passed before I heard the results of his autopsy: dead on impact. The twothousand foot drop crushed every bone in his body, and his lungs exhibited no signs of smoke
inhalation. There was no way that he could have screamed or flailed about. But knowing that
truth did not change what I saw and heard. I’ve carried the guilt of that day for five years, always
wondering if I had defied orders and gone in to save him, would he have survived.
The events of that day altered my life forever. I realized the other day that my focus has
always been on the one I couldn’t save and never on the one that I did. We found him walking
around aimlessly looking for his friend, the pilot. While attempting to triage him, he kept
insisting that he was fine and that I should be out looking for his friend: “Did y’all find him yet?”
he asked. I turned away, took a deep breath, and looked back at him: “No,” I said. “They’re still
looking for him.” I turned away, trying to keep my composure. “You alright, Sarge?” he asked.
“Yeah, just smoke and dust burning my eyes,” I said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his
friend was dead, that he was still strapped into the burning wreckage, and that I couldn’t save
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him. That was the second hardest thing I had to do that day, lying and pretending that I didn’t
just witness a man burn while he screamed and flailed about.
I’ve always taken great pride in the fact that I’m a survivor. I have been for five, ten,
twenty, thirty years now. The images that haunt me—well, I force them down, burying them
where I think they belong. Over time, the pain dulls. Functionality is all I know. I learned to
categorize my emotions, file the ones I didn’t need, and only use the ones that were a necessity. I
learned to laugh and smile at everything and nothing so no one would notice the emptiness
within. The drinks kept coming and the laughs kept rolling. It wasn’t as if I drank before work to
make it through the day—well, at least not all of the time, just on the really bad days. I've seen
too much trauma for such a short life. But I’m a fighter. I’m strong. I can push it down. After a
while, I pushed it down so far that I never felt the pain again.
It had been a year since last he screamed for me. It was the year before my father died. I
no longer had the urge to drink to block him out. I found a new avenue to deal with my pain. I
began to write. The more I wrote, the more I began to awaken to the emotion buried within me.
Under the guidance of my mentor, I wrote stories about the trauma that haunted me. Writing
helped me rationalize the events. I was finally able to understand that he was dead, and it
wouldn’t have mattered had I defied those orders. But still, I know what I saw. I know what I
heard. The guilt of his death weighed me down for years, weighed me down to the point where I
was as dead as he was.
It was not until the death of my father that I saw him again, that I heard the plane
overhead, and that I woke from a dead sleep to the strong smell of smoke. The death of my father
brought back the guilt and visions associated with the plane crash, as well as the flashbacks from
the trauma I had sustained earlier in life. Fragmented images bombarded my mind and
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everything began to blur together—thirty years of trauma all at once. It was too much to bear. I
contemplated dropping out of school and found myself sinking into a depression, a place I knew
well.
It was my mentor who first recognized my descent into hell. She finally convinced me to
seek counseling. Although I didn’t really want to go, I respected her enough to at least try. The
last year has been the most difficult and painful in my life. We lanced the psychological wounds,
and the pus began to drain. Over time, the infection slowly dissipated. We’ve peeled back the
layers of my memories one at a time and examined my thoughts and feelings. It didn’t matter
how much we examined though, the guilt was still there. It was not until recently that I finally
released myself from the guilt. After witnessing another veteran breakdown, my heart broke for
him because he blamed himself for things that were out of his control. Later that night, as I
drifted off to sleep, a revelation occurred. I realized that, just like him, I was not to blame either.
The guilt I carried like a badge of honor was not mine to own. I also realized that by assigning
guilt to myself, I have dishonored the memory of the dead pilot by negating his bravery and
sacrifice. I had to ask myself, is it more honorable to own the guilt or to celebrate the life he led?
I’ve learned a lot about myself the last year, one of those things being how strong I truly
am. I realize now that the strength I always claimed as my own is a fallacy. Forcing things down
in order to make it through the day is not strong. Numbing the pain until the point of death is not
strong. I called myself a survivor, but I was not. I was a manager. I managed to make it through
life, and, although I was dead inside, I was still here. It was not strength I exhibited all those
years but weakness. I’ve come to realize that strength is not found in isolation but in unity. You
see, life is like a spool of thread. Wrapped on the spool, we are strong and unified because we
have support, a foundation. However, when we unroll from the spool, drifting into darkness, we
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find ourselves in isolation. Each trauma, each flashback chips away at the thread, breaking down
individual fibers, until eventually, the thread breaks. However, if we wrap the thread back around
the spool, it begins to mend because there is strength in unity.
I look back over the years saddened by what I’ve lost by owning guilt that is not mine to
own, how much life I’ve missed because I was emotionally dead. I walked into my counselor’s
office that first day to pacify a professor who cared about me. I walk into her office now ready to
do the heavy lifting. I’ll be honest. Counseling is painful, but, in the words of Toni Morrison,
“Anything dead is [painful] when it comes back to life.” I plowed the fields last fall, dug up the
roots, and discarded the weeds I no longer needed. And in the spring, I reaped the benefits of the
harvest. And the thanks—well, it belongs to the one who cared enough to persuade me to seek
counseling and to the one who challenged my heart, thoughts, and perception. It’s not a thank
you for giving me back my life, but a thank you for giving me a life I’m proud to call my own.
Today I’d like to say thank you to those veterans, past and present. Thank you for
defending your country and ensuring the freedom of America and her people. You have done
your part and made the sacrifices you had to. But you’re not required to do that anymore. You’re
sacrifices have been at the expense of your family, friends, and happiness. Now is the time for
you to fight for the freedom that you deserve, freedom from a past that prevents you from
moving on with your future.
I’m reminded of the Psalm, “Weeping may endure in the night, but joy comes in the
morning.” I’m thankful I’m finally able to see the sunrise, thankful that joy has entered my life.
I’m able to claim that joy because of writing and counseling. I’ve wasted too many years
wearing a mask, pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m thankful that, even when I thought God
was removed from the situation, He still sent angels to guide me out of darkness. And to those
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angels who are the core of my spool of thread, you are forever etched in my heart. Dr. Beard (my
mentor), I’m grateful to you for helping me find my voice, and, Mrs. Janice (my counselor), I’m
grateful to you for giving me the courage to use it. You’ve both given me a strength that I could
have never found on my own and that strength has provided an opportunity for healing to occur.
Thank you for the good and the bad because it is only by braving the storm that I can finally
claim a future for myself. Thank you and God Bless!
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LSUA CONFERENCE
The New African American Bondage:
The Dick and Jane Narrative in Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye
Brandy R. Williams
Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye weaves the tale of a poverty-stricken African American
family at the onset of World War II. Set in 1941, the novel depicts Pecola Breedlove, an eleven
year-old girl who has felt ugly since the day she was born. Her invisibility is felt by the way her
family and society views her. With the rise of iconic depictions of beauty, Pecola feels that her
only path to beauty is by acquiring blue eyes. Pecola’s life is significantly affected by her
relationship with a mother who does not lover her. Her mother, Pauline, detests everything her
life stands for because it does not mirror the illusions depicted in movies; therefore, she allows
her anger to spill over into her home life in the form of emotional and physical abuse. Ironically,
Morrison frames Pecola’s story by using the words from the Dick and Jane primers. Throughout
the novel, Morrison juxtaposes the Dick and Jane narrative with the Breedlove family to show
that the ideal depictions set forth by society causes families to disintegrate.
The Dick and Jane primers, which were meant to teach young children how to read,
became increasingly popular during the 1930s and 40s. The primers depicted a perfect family
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who, in reality, did not exist (Werrlein 56). Although created to be educational and fun, the
initial readers have a racial undertone because they depict an all-white cast. Subconsciously, the
primers imprinted an idyllic standard that an elite white culture projected onto the lower class.
Poverty-stricken African Americans, especially, felt the backlash from the primers because the
increased stress associated with trying to achieve perfection presented problems within the
family dynamic: the “stresses of poverty can be hard on parents, leading to marriage problems,
less positive parenting, and poorer parent-child relationships” (Coon and Mitterer 83). The
inability to live up to the ideal family depicted often led to increased stress and violence within
the home. Morrison shows the violence in the Breedlove home by contrasting what the Dick and
Jane primer illustrates as a realistic home versus the violence that often occurs in the home.
Morrison introduces the novel by writing the Dick and Jane story in three successive
paragraphs in order to show the subsequent decline of a family impacted by society. The first
paragraph is written in perfect prose. The images are of a perfect, happy family who live in a
green-and-white house, with a cat and a dog. Morrison’s second version of the story is identical
minus punctuation and capital letters. This retelling without proper grammar shows the gradual
decline of Pecola’s life throughout the novel. The third telling of the story is unintelligible and
all punctuation, capital letters, and spaces are missing. Dianne Henningfeld states, “In just three
paragraphs, Morrison demonstrates the destruction of the ‘normative’ model of American life
into a mad jumble of letters on a page” (2). Morrison’s ironic twist on the Dick and Jane story is
her attempt to create a realistic narrative of one child who is less fortunate and unable to have the
happy, normal life that Dick and Jane share.
The chapter “HERE IS THE HOUSE…IT IS VERY PRETTY” introduces the reader to
the home of Pecola, which is a stark contrast to the home presented in the Dick and Jane story
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(33). Pecola’s family lives in a rundown, abandoned store, and passersby “wonder why it has not
been torn down” (33). The home consisted of a living room and a bedroom (34). The living room
contained used furniture, worn beyond repair. The bedroom consisted of three beds: one double
bed for the parents and two twin beds for the children. The home lacked proper bathing facilities,
and it only had one toilet bowl (35). It is noted that the only living thing in the Breedlove home
is the coal stove. Morrison depicts the home as slightly livable. Her description of the meager
furnishings and living stove as the only life in the home foreshadows the lack of love shown to
Pecola throughout the story.
In the chapter “HERE IS THE FAMILY…THEY ARE VERY H[APPY]” (38), Morrison
depicts the everyday life of the Breedloves inside their tiny apartment, a life filled with violence
and hopelessness. The Breedloves did not live in the store because they wanted to: “They lived
there because they were poor and black, and stayed there because they believed they were ugly”
(38). Cholly’s ugliness stemmed from his own violent circumstances: a mother who abandoned
him, a father who denied him, and a traumatic first sexual encounter. Pauline, Pecola, and
Sammy (Pecola’s brother) all wore their ugliness, although it was not theirs to wear (38). The
narrator states that Pecola “hid behind her [ugliness]” (39). She rarely peeped out to look at the
world, and, when she did, she quickly returned to the mask that became part of her identity (39).
The children bear witness to the consistent spousal abuse because of Cholly’s alcoholism and
Pauline’s negative self-image. The Breedloves are anything but happy as the Dick and Jane
primer suggests. The years of emotional and physical abuse witnessed by Pecola causes her to
question her own existence, and she wonders if life would be better if she were not in it.
Pauline Breedlove’s justification for her abusive nature is depicted in the chapter “SEE
MOTHER, MOTHER IS VERY NICE” (110). Morrison paints a picture of a woman who is
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treated differently because of her physical ailment. When Pauline meets Cholly, she is finally
happy that someone finds her desirable. However, Pauline’s joy is soon dismissed when she
loses a tooth and finds herself to be, once again, unattractive (116). During Pecola’s birth, the
doctors equate Pauline to a horse giving birth, stating that African Americans push them out
without pain (124-125). Pauline’s negative hospital experience coupled with her own feeling of
worthlessness causes her to despise Pecola. Society views Pecola as the ugliest little girl they
have ever seen, and Pauline’s animosity towards her child reinforces this notion. Because of
Pecola’s young age, the negative reinforcement that she gets from her mother has a lasting effect
on Pecola’s self-esteem. She deprives Pecola of comfort and love, a quality that is essential to a
healthy upbringing but is often lacking in low-income homes. Morrison’s ironic chapter heading
of a mother being nice is the complete opposite of the depiction of Pauline Breedlove, a woman
who projects her own negative self-worth onto her family.
Pauline’s infatuation with white society causes her to find refuge as a servant in the home
of the Fishers, a white family. At work, Pauline is surrounded by beauty, and she is able to keep
it separate from her home life (128). Pauline’s unrealistic view of white culture causes her to
treat her white charge in a more loving and civilized manner than she does her own children.
When Frieda and Claudia (Pecola’s friends) initially encounter the young white child, they are
confused because the child calls Pecola’s mother Polly, whereas Pecola is required to call her
mother Mrs. Breedlove. When a freshly baked pie burns Pecola after she accidentally knocks it
over, Pauline immediately starts beating her. She never once checks on her daughter’s burn, but,
when the white child enters the room crying, Pauline immediately consoles her. Pauline’s disgust
for her family causes her to turn on them in favor of her employers: “More and more she
neglected her house, her children, her man—they were like the afterthoughts one has just before
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sleep, the early-morning and late-evening edges of her day, the dark edges that made the daily
life with the Fishers lighter, more delicate, more lovely” (127). Pauline’s increased infatuation
with a perfect white family causes her to despise everything and everyone in her personal life.
By depicting the hardships of Pauline’s early life, Morrison attempts to make the reader feel
sympathy for Pauline; however, Morrison’s attempt is counterproductive in lieu of the affection
Pauline shows to the white child, especially since she never shows affection to her own children.
One of the most difficult chapters in Morrison’s book that foreshadows Pecola’s future is
the one titled “SEE FATHER HE IS BIG AND STRONG. FATHER WILL YOU PLAY WITH
JANE” (132). The chapter depicts Cholly’s life as marked by powerlessness over the events that
have led him to his current living situation. Cholly's life of abandonment, rejection, and rape
takes a turn for the better when he meets Pauline, or so he thinks. He first met her when she was
leaning over a fence scratching her broken foot (160). Their courtship was quick, and, although
their marriage started well enough, their life soon turned to shambles, and he regretted marrying
her. His despair soon led to alcoholism and physical altercations with his wife.
Morrison depicts the story of Cholly so that the reader might become sympathetic to
Cholly’s dysfunctional life, and she does an excellent job. However, when Morrison segues to
the present life of Cholly, all sympathy is lost. When Cholly, in a drunken state, walks into the
kitchen and sees his daughter reach down and scratch her foot, it reminds him of his first
encounter with Pauline. In a rare act of tenderness, he reaches down to scratch her leg. He tries to
show her he loves her, but he has difficulty discerning between past and present, and, instead of
making love to Pauline, he violently rapes Pecola (163). The rape leaves Pecola unconscious on
the floor. When Pecola awakens, she does not understand why she feels a sharp, burning pain
between her legs (163). Upon finding out what has occurred, Pauline beats Pecola and blames
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her for seducing Cholly. Pauline’s response to the rape is indicative of Pauline’s disgust for
Pecola. By beating Pecola instead of consoling her, Pauline reinforces Pecola’s negative selfimage. Cholly, the person responsible for the violence is never held accountable for his actions
by anyone. Morrison’s depiction of a big, strong father who will play with Jane contrasts the
weak, abusive father who is anything but playful.
In the chapter “SEE THE DOG BOW WOW” (165), Morrison uses Soaphead Church to
lay the foundation for the events that eventually cause Pecola to descend into madness. Pecola’s
pregnancy causes further isolation within her home, and her parents will no longer acknowledge
her. She believes that if she were beautiful, then everyone would love her; therefore, she visits
Soaphead Church, a religious man and fortuneteller, who is also a pedophile, in order to request
his help in acquiring blue eyes. Soaphead’s name derives from his germophobic behavior, and he
is repulsed by the filthiness of animals. His obsessiveness over external cleanliness is iron since
his internal self is consumed by filth. His germophobia and pedophilia can be viewed as a
revolving door: because he desires external purity, the only way he can find it is by robbing
young girls of their innocence; in turn, by stealing their purity, his internal self becomes dirty.
Therefore, the cycle continues to repeat itself.
Even though he is a pedophile, Pecola is so ugly that he dares not touch her. He feels
sorry for her because she is the ugliest little girl he has ever seen. Soaphead stays true to the
views of society and uses Pecola’s trusting and loving nature to his advantage. He convinces her
that he can grant her wish, and he tricks her into believing that if the neighbor dog acts strangely
after she feeds it, then God will give her blue eyes. Unbeknownst to Pecola, Soaphead poisoned
the meat, thereby causing the dog to act strangely. By using Pecola to kill the dog, Soaphead
reinforces the way society treats her. The character of Soaphead Church directly ties back into
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the Dick and Jane primer. Like Dick and Jane, Soaphead’s cleanliness causes him to appear
pristine, but underneath, his desire for perfection causes him to spiral out of control and use and
abuse young girls in whatever way he can. His emotional abuse of Pecola is the catalyst that
sends the blue-eyed little girl into madness.
The final chapter of the book, “LOOK HERE COMES A FRIEND” (193), notes the
contrast between the life of Jane and her never-ending supply of friends to that of Pecola’s only
remaining friend: herself. After becoming beautiful by receiving her new blue eyes, she is
distraught that her mother still does not love her. Pecola’s psyche fractures, and she creates the
one person who will never leave her. Claudia and Frieda try to help in the only way that they
know how; they plant marigolds hoping that the sign of growth will be evident in the birth of
Pecola’s child. When the marigolds fail to produce, they believe they have failed Pecola. When
Pecola’s baby dies, they are unable to forgive themselves, and they avoid Pecola forever. In one
of the most poignant lines in the book, Claudia states, “All of our waste which we dumped on her
and which she absorbed. And all of our beauty, which was hers first and which she gave to us.
All of us—all who knew her—felt so wholesome after we cleaned ourselves on her. We were so
beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness” (205). In the end, even her friends judged her
beauty, and they felt complete next to her ugliness. Pecola was a loving person, yet society
continuously picked away at her desire for love and acceptance. The friends, who had always
been available to her, could no longer be a part of her life, causing Pecola to internalize her
desires and reemerge with a split identity.
The Dick and Jane narrative throughout the novel juxtaposes the rapid and abusive
decline of Pecola’s life by society and her family. Because of the desire for perfection and the
stress associated with acquiring that perfection, the Breedlove family spirals out of control on an
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abusive path—emotionally, physically, and sexually. Pecola Breedlove is the only character who
represents the ideal that people strive for because she is the only one who loves without
judgment; however, she quickly becomes a scapegoat for others who believe that skin color
represents the beauty of a person. Rachel Blumenthal states, Morrison uses the Dick and Jane
narrative to offer “us a sample of how cultural narrative should be (re)constructed” (2). By
depicting the myth of Dick and Jane against the reality of one family, Morrison criticizes a
culture that depicts perfection when perfection does not exist. Morrison questions a society who
judge’s beauty based on an external rather than internal self. Her narrative forces readers to
deconstruct their own prejudices and become people who judge individual worth on the proper
merits. Morrison implies that until African Americans can recognize their own beauty and selfworth, despite how white society views them, they will always be in bondage to a set of
standards that are unattainable by all.
Works Cited
Blumenthal, Rachel. "Morrison's The Bluest Eye." The Explicator 65.2 (2007): 117-118.
Literature Resource Center. Web. 11 May 2013.
Coon, Dennis, and John O. Mitterer. Introduction to Psychology: Gateways to Mind and
Behavior. Mason, OH: Cengage Learning, 2009. Print.
Henningfeld, Diane. "An Overview of The Bluest Eye." Gale, 1998. Rpt. in Literature Resource
Center. Detroit: Gale, 2013. Literature Resource Center. Web. 7 May 2013.
Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. [1970]. New York: Plume, 1994. Print.
Werrlein, Debra T. "Not so Fast, Dick and Jane: Reimagining Childhood and Nation in The
Bluest Eye." MELUS 30.4 (2005): 53-72. Literature Resource Center. Web. 11 May
2013.
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The Quest Romance Versus Horror: The Hero’s Journey
Taurean Johnson
It is no easy task to define what a horror story is. The simplest and perhaps most
inadequate definition of horror might be found in an encyclopedia: it is
a story in which the focus is on creating a feeling of fear. Such tales are of ancient origin
and form a substantial part of the body of folk literature. They can feature supernatural
elements such as ghosts, witches, or vampires, or they can address more realistic
psychological fears. (Horror)
This definition does address, to an extent, the transitional creatures that cause horror. Anne
Rice’s Lestat is surely one of these fantastical creatures, as are Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein’s and
Bram Stoker’s Dracula. However, the definition fails when it suggests that these tales are
ancient, and they focus on creating fear. Not only does horror focus on creating fear but also it
focuses on teaching a cautionary lesson. The creature does not merely represent something that
readers should fear; it has qualities akin to what you should truly fear, which are things already
in the world. The fear they cause is, therefore, the byproduct of the message these tales convey.
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We fear these creatures not because they are there to inspire fear but because they appear to
violate the natural order of the universe, and that is what we truly fear.
Noel Carroll expounds on the importance of the unnatural when he writes in The Nature
of Horror that the creature inspires horror because it cannot be categorized. He says that horror,
or as he refers to it as “art-horror,” is the result of an overlap between fantasy and science fiction,
where realistic settings once coupled with fantastical creatures like vampires and zombies are
what causes horror. The true nature of their horror is the fact that they are not easily defined—or,
in short, the fact that these creatures violate the readers’ sense of natural order. These creatures
live in dual worlds. They are living yet they are not living. They are undead or the living dead,
and the fact that we cannot classify them is what causes terror for us.
What Carroll may overlook is the element of plot. In fact, a careful analysis will show
that the horror story is just an evolution of the quest romance. Let’s take a look at what exactly
quest romance is and determine if the same plot elements apply to a horror novel.
The Quest Motif in Literature defines Quest and romance in the following fashion:
A. [Quest] Literature based on a journey, a road of trials in which a hero hears a
call and leaves his home—alone or in the company of others—to search out a
treasure. Along the way he undergoes trials, receives aid, fights enemies and
may even die, and, if he succeeds in attaining the treasure sought, may change
who and what he is. (Howard )
B. [Romance] literature that expresses human wish-fulfillment and dreams; a
nostalgic yearning for a simple moral world and the romantic ideals of quest,
female beauty, wealth, power and wisdom; a world with a place for and
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meaning in a higher order; an orderly, unified world in the hands of an
imminent being; a spiritually progressive, purposeful quest. (Howard)
A quest romance is usually a story where a knight has to undertake a quest to find or
secure something. For instance, an example of this would be the quest for the Holy Grail. The
quest for the Holy Grail is a great knightly quest taken up by King Arthur and the Knights of the
Round Table in which they searched for the Holy Grail. The quest romance and many journey
narratives follow the hero’s journey. This term was made famous by Joseph Campbell.
What is the hero’s journey? According to Joseph Campbell, there are usually multiple
stages in the hero’s journey. Campbell describes 12 or 17 steps in the hero’s journey or as it is
sometimes referred to as monomyth. Instead of the entire step process, sometimes it is split into
the three large sections that the journey can be put into. They are the departure, the initiation, and
the return.
The steps are as follows:
The Departure
1. The departure starts with the call to adventure, which is with the hero in the ordinary
world. In the horror novel Salem’s Lot, this is where Ben Mears is on his way to
Salem’s Lot. In the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, it begins at a
Christmas feast in Camelot, the castle of King Arthur, for the Knights of the Round
Table. His ordinary world is that of Camelot, where the Knights of the Round Table
gathers.
2. Next is the refusal of the call, where the call to action is sounded, but the hero refuses
it. In Salem’s Lot, this is when the Glick child goes missing. In Sir Gawain and the
Green Knight, this is where we have Sir Gawain, who does not want to go to the
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Green Chapel, feeling very uneasy with the whole situation. However, due to his
honor code, he has no choice, and he must go to the Green Chapel to meet with the
Green Knight.
3. Next is supernatural aid, where the hero is committed to the quest, and a guide
appears to him. In Salem’s Lot, this is where we meet his old teacher Matt Burke,
who will fill in the mentor role. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, it is where Sir
Gawain receives the counsel of King Arthur, Ywain, Erec, Sir Dodinel le Sauvage,
the Duke of Clarence, Lancelot, Lionel, Luncan the Good, Sir Bors, Sir Bedivere, and
many other heroes present, who are more than glad to share with Sir Gawain some of
the knowledge that they have acquired in pursuit of their quests.
4. Next is crossing the first threshold, which is where the hero goes into the field of
adventure, entering into the unknown. This occurs when Ben starts asking about
Straker and Barlow. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain’s
quest in finding the Green Chapel begins. Many of the knights, as well as their leader
King Arthur, gather at the king’s court to encourage Sir Gawain and to praise him for
his bravery in keeping his word and accepting the quest laid out before him.
5. The belly of the beast is the separation from the hero’s world, where he must undergo
a metamorphosis in order to continue. This is when they start to really ponder the
existence of vampires. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain
rides his horse until Christmas Eve in his journey, which is a very difficult journey, to
find the Green Chapel, and he encounters many hardships in finding his way to the
Green Chapel. On numerous occasions, Sir Gawain has had to fight against
adversaries, which include wild boars, dragons, wolves, and many other creatures,
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that impede his journey. It is in these trails that Sir Gawain has an encounter with a
knight.
The initiation
6. Next is the initiation, which begins with the road of trials, which is a series of tests or
ordeals taken to start the transformation. This is where Ben and Jimmy Cody are in
the morgue, a vampire rises, and they must defeat it. In Sir Gawain and the Green
Knight, this is where, after his long journey, Sir Gawain sees a castle in which he
believes it is one of the fairest that he has ever seen. The castle is situated in a
meadow, and it is very beautiful and well secured. The castle belongs to the noble
knight that Sir Gawain met during his quest for the Green Chapel. The knight,
overjoyed to see Sir Gawain, invites him to stay at his castle.
7. Now comes the meeting with the goddess. This is where they see that love has a great
power. This could be seen in the relationship between Ben and Susan. In Sir Gawain
and the Green Knight, it is here where Sir Gawain is introduced to the wife of the
knight, who, according to Sir Gawain, is the fairest lady that he had ever seen, even
fairer than Guinevere is.
8. This leads to the woman as a temptress, which is where the hero faces temptations,
which are usually physical. This could be seen where the sheriff skips town. In Sir
Gawain and the Green Knight, it is when the knight went out hunting, and Sir
Gawain stayed back in order to rest; the wife of the knight enters his chamber and
tries to seduce him, but Sir Gawain refuses her advances, and she kisses him.
However, as per their agreement, Sir Gawain returns the kisses that he received to the
knight. On the third day, the wife of the knight comes in and kisses him again, but
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this time, she also gives Sir Gawain a gift: green silk and gold girdle. The lady tells
Sir Gawain that this girdle possesses a special power, which protects the person who
wears it from death.
9. Next is the atonement with the father, which is where the father figure or higher
power brings the hero into his confidences. This would be where Callahan agrees to
arm them for the fight. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain
receives fox skins and other animals that the knight slain during his hunt as a gift of
Sir Gawain’s generosity.
10. Now is the apotheosis, which is where someone dies. In Salem’s Lot, it is where
Susan dies. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, this does not happen.
11. Now is the ultimate boon, which is where the goal of the quest is achieved. This is
where they kill Barlow and Straker. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, he has the
girdle thinking it is the goal of his quest and will keep him alive against the green
knight, but it is his honesty in which he showed his host that is the true treasure,
which he has openly shared.
The Return
12. Lastly is the return, which begins with the refusal of the return where they do not
want to return to the world. This is seen when Ben and Mark run after destroying
Barlow and Straker. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain
holds on to the silk girdle and refuses to tell of its presence.
13. Next is the magic flight, where they escape with the prize. This is the prologue,
where they have ran and are escaping from Salem’s Lot. In Sir Gawain and the Green
Knight, it is where Sir Gawain also receives the silk girdle from the lady, which he
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hopes will save him when he meets the Green Knight on the day they are fated to
meet.
14. Now is the rescue from without, where guides must bring them to regular life. This is
where Ben is looking at newspapers from the Salem’ lot area. In Sir Gawain and the
Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain leaves the knight’s castle to continue his
search, with the aide of Gringalet, for the Green Chapel to confront the Green Knight.
15. Then is the crossing of the return threshold, where they must return to the normal
world. This is when they make the decision to return to Salem’s Lot. In Sir Gawain
and the Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain finally meets the Green Knight and
gives him his neck just as promised a year ago. However, the Green Knight barely
strokes his neck after the third stroke, only cutting through a small bit of his flesh. It
is when Sir Gawain becomes extremely angry with the Green Knight and thinks that
the knight has dishonored him that the Green Knight reveals his name, which is
Bernlak de Hautdesert, and tells him that he was indeed the knight that Sir Gawain
had stayed with for the past few days. Apparently, the Green Knight received help
from Morgain le Fay so that he could transform his looks so Sir Gawain would not
recognize him. Then, he explains to Sir Gawain that although he had returned all of
his wife’s kisses, he did not reveal nor return the girdle that he got from his wife on
the third day to him, and therefore, as a punishment, he cut his neck with his axe.
16. Now is the step master of two worlds, where they must achieve balance with the
special world and the normal world. This is where they return and set the town on fire
to cleanse it with fire. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain
must leave and return to Camelot with the scar of his shame.
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17. The final step is the freedom to live where they must live free from fear of death. This
is the end of the book where it is done, and they must live their lives knowing what
they know. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, this is where Sir Gawain returns to
King Arthur’s court and everyone is happy for his safe return. Sir Gawain feels very
shameful for the cut on his neck because it is a mark of his disloyalty, and, with this
shame, he tells everyone of his adventure.
Based on these steps, it looks very much to me that the horror novel and the quest
romance discussed follows the same steps of the hero’s journey. Very many things, even movies
and video games, follow these basic steps or formula to that of the hero’s journey. I am surprised
just how many actually follow this formula and how well it is throughout literature.
Bibliography
King, Stephen. Salem's Lot. New York: Doubleday, 1975.
Monomyth Website, ORIAS, UC Berkeley
Joseph Campbell Foundation - Works: Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, A and Joseph
Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949.
p. 30, n35. Campbell cites James Joyce, Finnegans Wake. NY: Viking, 1939, p. 581
Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1949. p.23.
Heroic monomyth
http://www.bookrags.com/notes/od/SUM.html
The hero's journey: Joseph Campbell on his life and work. Edited and with an Introduction by
Phil Cousineau. Forward by Stuart L. Brown, Executive Editor. New York: Harper and
Row, 1990.
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Leeming, David Adams. Mythology: The Voyage of the Hero. New York: Harper & Row. 1981.
Pacifica Graduate Institute | Joseph Campbell & Marija Gimbutas Library | Joseph Campbell Chronology
Jody G. Bower: The Lord of the Rings" — An Archetypal Hero’s Journey
Northup, p. 8
"African Oral Narrative Traditions" in Foley, John Miles, ed., "Teaching Oral Traditions." NY:
Modern Language Association, 1998, p. 183
"Women's Expressive Forms" in Foley, John Miles, ed., "Teaching Oral Traditions." NY:
Modern Language Association, 1998, p. 306
American Anthropologist, 92:4 (December 1990), p. 1104
Salon Arts & Entertainment | "Star Wars" despots vs. "Star Trek" populists
Clareson, Thomas (1992). Understanding Contemporary American Science Fiction: the
Formative Period. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. pp. 169–172. ISBN 087249-870-0.
Herbert, Frank (1985). "Introduction". Eye. ISBN 0-425-08398-5.
Jewett, Robert and John Shelton Lawrence (1977) The American Monomyth. New York:
Doubleday.
Ellwood, Robert, "The Politics of Myth: A Study of C.G. Jung, Mircea Eliade, and Joseph
Campbell", SUNY Press, September 1999. Cf. p.x
The Editors of Encyclopædia Britannica. "Horror Story (narrative Genre)." Encyclopedia
Britannica Online. Encyclopedia Britannica, n.d. Web. 08 Apr. 2014.
<http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/272144/horror-story>.
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"The Hero's Journey - Concentration Readings 1." Concentration Readings 1. N.p., n.d. Web. 08
Apr. 2014. <http://jleezerr-cr1.weebly.com/the-heros-journey.html>.
"HERO'S JOURNEY." Writer's Journey. N.p., n.d. Web. 05 Apr. 2014.
<http://www.thewritersjourney.com/hero%27s_journey.htm>.
Howard, Nancy. "The Quest Motif in Literature." (n.d.): n. pag. Web.
<http://commons.wvc.edu/nhoward/215/Course%20Documents/MYTH%20OF%20QUE
STF10SF.pdf>.
Prohászková, Viktória. "The Genre of Horror." American International Journal of Contemporary
Research 2.4 (2012): 132-42. Web.
<http://www.aijcrnet.com/journals/Vol_2_No_4_April_2012/16.pdf>.
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Naturalism and the (De)Evolution of Man
Dustin Bagley
Naturalism is a literary movement that started in the mid-to-late 19th century as an
offshoot of realism. To be categorized as naturalists, writers had to remain objective and
dispassionate, treating their characters and their plots as scientific experiments in a laboratory.
Naturalism revolved around the theory of determinism, which stated that men had no choice over
their destinies; rather, powerful forces outside of men’s control treated individuals as simple
pawns to be moved wherever these forces saw fit. Naturalist stories typically involved ordinary
characters being placed in unforeseen and extraordinary situations, pitting them against the brute
forces of nature and reality. To create this form of literature at its purest involved going against
the mass ideals of what literature “should” have been in turn-of-the-century America; this was,
as Malcolm Cowley called it, “honest writing” (431). If naturalist writing is honest and raw
literature, then what it truly depicts, specifically in the works of Jack London and Stephen Crane,
is that all men are beasts when desperation strikes; London and Crane both superbly describe the
brutality of Man when faced with cold, hard reality.
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A key tenet of naturalism is to create vivid landscapes describing Nature in all its
vastness and beauty. Both London and Crane do this very well in their short stories, “To Build a
Fire” and “The Blue Hotel,” respectively. Nature was also seen as a force against which the
characters continually battle with little to no success: “Men and women are part of nature and
subject to the same indifferent laws” (Cowley 415). In both of the short stories identified above,
Nature is cold, both figuratively and literally. London’s protagonist wanders along the Yukon
trail with his loyal dog, attempting to reach his friends’ camp by nightfall. To describe the bonenumbing coldness his character experiences, London writes, “The cold of space smote the
unprotected tip of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the
blow” (633). Likewise, Stephen Crane writes of the wintery plains of Nebraska, “The huge arms
of the wind were making attempts—mighty, circular, futile—to embrace the flakes as they sped.
A gate-post like a still man with a blanched face stood aghast amid this profligate fury” (602).
One of the main aspects of both stories is that the vicious winter storms rage on throughout, not
only providing definitive visual imagery to the stories but signifying how truly insignificant Man
is to Nature, with all his petty gripes and concerns. Both stories involve a man attempting to
establish his individuality, his masculinity, only to be shown time and again how unconcerned
Nature is: “Men were naught, life was naught; FORCE only existed” (Cowley 414).
Dealing with these extremes of Nature along with previously unforeseen circumstances
leads the men in both stories to begin to show fear, to panic, and to begin the degeneration of
their outer selves, allowing the beast within to grow more visible. In his article “Reading
Reality,” Santiago Juan-Navarro states that Crane’s Swede in “The Blue Hotel” begins to
resemble a “hounded beast” (44). London’s protagonist also shows increasing signs of losing his
humanity: “this thought tended to put him in a panic,” (635) and “the man lost his control” (637).
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What the reader begins to see ever more clearly throughout each story is Man’s gradual loss of
control in the face of imminent and perceived danger: Crane’s Swede’s absolute paranoia when
he becomes convinced that he will be murdered and London’s protagonist fighting against the
arctic weather that threatens to consume him.
The authors approach the narrative of Man’s struggle against overwhelming forces and
his eventual degeneration in slightly different ways. With London and his unnamed man, the
reader follows the man and his loyal dog along the Yukon trail in the middle of deadly sub-zero
temperatures. As he falls into a “snow-hidden ice-skin” trap (631) and is unable to maintain a
fire, the reader senses the man’s increasing fear and panic. Cowley states that “London believed
that such biological principles as natural selection and the survival of the fittest were also the
laws of human society” (416), and this belief is put on display throughout the narrative of “To
Build A Fire.” The man does not survive simply because “he was without imagination” (London
629); he is only alert to a point, and he is lacking in attention to “the significances” of a situation
as dire as his own. Indeed, following the story through to the climax shows London’s willingness
to tackle the most basic, primal narrative of Man versus Nature but with a twist: Man versus his
own ignorance. This evidence is seen from the beginning of the story, when the man ignores the
advice of other, more veteran Yukon survivors and treks out alone. His ignorance causes him to
suffocate his first fire, while his single-minded blindness pushes him farther and farther, ignoring
whatever instincts of safety and survival he has.
While London creates his primal narrative out of the most basic ingredients—a solitary
man, his dog, and the brutal wild that surrounds them—, in “The Blue Hotel” Crane establishes
his narrative with an attempt to display “intense—emotions against a physically large
background” (Cowley 422), specifically how the characters interact in the confines of a
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structured society (Fort Romper) set against the backdrop of the icy plains of Nebraska. Santiago
Juan-Navarro states Crane is at his best writing “situations in which human ability to perceive is
put to the test, only to be finally undermined” (37). The Swede fails to perceive the reality of his
situation until it is far too late, while the others fail to understand the Swede and his odd actions:
“What in hell are you talking about?” asked Johnnie. The cowboy repeatedly asks “What’s
wrong with you, mister?” and the Easterner, Mr. Blanc, simply states “I don’t understand you”
(Crane 603). In Crane’s work, much like London’s, there is a lack of accurate and successful
communication between characters. Navarro calls this “[the characters’] misreadings of the
world” (38). This failure is another key element in Man’s degradation into his primitive, beastly
form.
Crane builds the suspense of his story slowly, letting the failures of the men to control
themselves and their emotions grow, until only one question remains: What happens when the
beast in Man is pushed into a corner? Simply put, the beast lashes out: “Hoarse shouts of rage,
appeal or fear burst from every throat…the eyes of the two warriors ever sought each other in
glances of challenge that were at once hot and steely” (Crane 610). When the penultimate
moment comes for the clash between Johnnie and the Swede, Crane vividly describes animalistic
images of the men gathered “amid this great devastation of snow” (611); he details the two as
calmly stalking each other with “leonine cruelty” and bestows unique characteristics upon both:
“the Swede, pale, motionless, terrible; and Johnnie, serene yet ferocious, brutish yet heroic”
(612). Likewise, London has his protagonist undergo the same transformation as desperate
thoughts of survival crowd out his rational mind. First, the man has a “wild idea” (London 636)
as he sits and watches his loyal companion, the dog. Next, the change in his voice, “a strange
note of fear” (636) frightens the dog; the dog senses the beast rising up to the surface of the man.
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In his wild attempts to draw the dog in so he could kill it for his own survival, the man fully
conforms to the role of the beast: “He got on his hands and knees and crawled towards the dog”
(636) and finally, “the man lost his control” (637). Both Crane and London’s depictions of men
regressing into beasts are essential elements of naturalism; according to Cowley, the American
Naturalists’ talents and beliefs were “best displayed when they led to […] blood and sudden
death” (422), as in the case of Crane’s Swede or London’s unnamed man.
In all naturalist stories, the characters tend to have an optimistic ignorance of their
significance and their place in life. Only a select few can be labeled observers of a clear sense of
reality: the Easterner in Crane’s “The Blue Hotel” and the dog in London’s “To Build a Fire,” to
name a couple. They are semi-detached witnesses to the other characters’ regressions and
ultimately their demises. To pull back from the brink, to regain control of the beast within, the
characters must realize that “self-awareness is reached by accepting the absurdity of human
condition” (Navarro 48), as Johnnie did after his defeat at the hands of the Swede. Even in the
worst conditions, when Man is at his most raw and brutal, there are faint glimmers of hope; even
if the character does not survive his environment, he has the choice to accept a sort of stoic peace
in meeting Death, as Jack London’s man does: “Meeting death with dignity” (638) and accepting
his “new-found peace” (638). Naturalism can be bleak, brutal, and borderline nihilistic;
according to Frank Norris, “Men were nothings, mere animalcule, mere ephemerides that
fluttered and fell and were forgotten between dawn and dusk” (qtd. in Cowley 414). Ultimately
though, American Naturalists know the beast, if unleashed, will devour Man from the inside,
leaving nothing of Man’s spirit behind. Man must struggle to discover his strength, his inner core
of peace and serenity, and accept these virtues, for this acceptance is the one way naturalists
understood how they could bring Man to a pure and true form of humanity.
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Works Cited
Baym, Nina, ed. The Norton Anthology of American Literature Volume 2. 8th ed. New York &
London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2013. Print.
Cowley, Malcolm. “‘Not Men’: A Natural History of American Naturalism.” The
Kenyon Review 9.3 (1947): 414-435. Web. 12 Feb. 2014.
Juan-Navarro, Santiago. “Reading Reality: The Torturous Path to Perception in
Stephen Crane’s ‘The Open Boat’ and ‘The Blue Hotel.’” [1989]. Columbia University,
April 1990. 37-50. Web. 12 Feb. 2014.
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NULC CONFERENCE
Laughter in the Midst of Flames:
Reconstructing Sixo in Toni Morrison’s Beloved
Dustin “Max” Bagley
In the history of slave stories, very rarely, if ever, has there been a novel as outright
brutal, graphic, and condemning of this inhumane period as Toni Morrison’s Beloved. It would
be easy to read Beloved as a feminine-centered text or as an epic slave narrative, but that would
be to simplify Morrison’s work, taking away from the richness and depth of the novel. One key
theme of Morrison’s novel is her attempt to characterize the men of Beloved and their various
masculinities. Paul D is portrayed as the primary male in the text due to his role as Sethe’s
counterpart, but the other men (and women) form the backbone of the novel with their own
particular stories, especially Sixo, the rebellious slave who only exists in memories. Kathryn
Rummell states that Morrison argues “that her works demand an Afrocentric approach” (1) to
reading and comprehending the various themes as opposed to a Eurocentric viewpoint, especially
with regards to the issue of masculinity (1). Morrison constructs Sixo as a traditional African
hero, especially as compared to Paul D and his broken concepts of manhood; however, although
Morrison identifies Sixo’s masculinity as stemming from his African roots, studying Sixo’s
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character will reveal that his is a much more universal ideal of manhood, including a near-perfect
connection with Nature, the spiritual world, and with people.
First, one must determine some background information on the character of Sixo “whose
very name (6-0) recalls the ‘Sixty Million and More’ to whom Morrison dedicates her novel”
(Sitter 23). Sixo’s not having an actual name is key since naming rituals are important both in
African and Native American cultures. Morrison does this deliberately so that not only does Sixo
represent the countless millions who suffered through the Middle Passage and the institution of
slavery, but also so that he becomes something apart from normative society, something wild,
the nameless man, the stranger, the outlier. Michele Bonnet helps to elevate this unique role in
writing that “Sixo [is] the only truly flawless character in the novel, the African hero and role
model” (42). Sixo’s color, his “Indigo [skin] with a flame-red tongue” (Bonnet 25) also sets him
apart, even from the other slaves. The symbolism of his “red” tongue shows passion while
indigo, being on the same spectrum as the color blue, indicates truth and purity.
While Morrison never identifies Sixo’s age, he is one of the three characters in the novel
who “are African by birth, survivors of the Middle Passage,” the other two being Sethe’s mother
and Nan (Keizer 111). Paul D admits as much in Beloved while he is recalling his time enslaved
under Schoolteacher’s reign over Sweet Home; he wonders if the “manhood” that Garner gave
his slaves would hold true “in Sixo’s country, or his mother’s? Or, God help him, on the boat?”
(Morrison 260). This moment is one of the numerous times in the book that Paul D obsesses over
his manhood as compared to Sixo’s; it is obvious that Paul D considers Sixo a stronger man in
being able to survive on two separate continents and to endure the hell of the Middle Passage.
To reconstruct Sixo requires one to pay attention to Morrison’s use of narrative in
structuring the characters’ stories. Cynthia Hamilton states, “Morrison uses psychological time
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rather than real time, and memory rather than lived experience, to emphasize the importance of
perception” (437). The characters’ perceptions are vital to this story, and it is only through
multiple perceptions of an event that the reader gains a fuller understanding of the storyline and
the characters themselves (such as the pivotal event of the novel, Sethe’s act of infanticide in the
woodshed). Sitter calls this “saturated language” (20) and states, “Not only are stories repeated in
ever newer contexts, but words and images are made to swell with nuances and associations
derived from both within and without the text” (20), which makes Sixo’s case a singularly
unique one in that he only lives in the memory of Paul D and, to an extent, Sethe. The reader
only views Sixo through the eyes of Paul D, which could be seen as a hindrance. Instead, this not
only allows the reader to compare these two men intimately, but it also gives the reader an
opportunity to set and form the foundations of Sixo for themselves; the reader is not given
information time and again of various characters and their actions from various viewpoints, but
rather, we are left with a few fleeting but powerful images with which to build this significant
character.
The reader is introduced to Sixo after Paul D and Sethe make love for the first time. Paul
D begins thinking back to sitting under the trees at Sweet Home, where he and Sixo and the other
slave men sat and ate during lunch. Sixo is known for experimenting “with night-cooked
potatoes” (Morrison 27) and continually attempts to tweak and perfect his cooking experiments
on a daily (and nightly) basis. He is a very creative and resourceful man, especially according to
Sethe: “Taught me a lot, Sixo” (Morrison 189). He is also a storyteller with a vast amount of
experience and imagination: “Sixo had a knowing tale about everything” (Morrison 259). He
insists that what killed Mr. Garner was a gunshot wound by a feuding neighbor and that Mrs.
Garner was being poisoned to death by the local doctor (Morrison 258-259). He uses his
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creativity and imagination to help his Thirty-Mile Woman come up with an excuse as to why she
was late working in the tobacco fields: “He punctured her calf to simulate snakebite” (Morrison
29). The other slaves simply laugh when he tells his stories, “in daylight, that is, when it was
safe” (30). They all understand that Sixo is fundamentally different than them in some
unknowable way, possibly due to his pure African birth. They can choose to laugh or to be
“ignorant of or amused by Sixo’s dark stories” (Morrison 261), but there is always the slightest
sensation in the back of their minds, in the core of their spirits, that certain things Sixo says and
does ring true, especially when night falls.
Sixo moves stealthily about during the night while everyone else on the plantation sleeps.
He acts out these “night creeps” for two primary reasons: one is that he travels during the night
to visit his “Thirty-Mile Woman” (Morrison 29); the second is “For dancing, he said, to keep his
bloodlines open” (Morrison 30). Sixo’s nocturnal excursions are one of the many unique features
separating him from the other slave men around him. He enjoys a special sort of freedom in his
nightly travels, one unencumbered by the literal and metaphorical bonds of slavery. He shows no
fear in slipping through the darkness; his knowledge of the region, “Covington—High Trees—
those places Sixo used to sneak off to” (Morrison 70), makes him the unspoken leader of the
Sweet Home slaves’ escape attempt. When the slaves are planning their escape out, they wonder
if it would be better to leave at night or during the day for better visibility: “Sixo spits[…]Night
gives them[…]the protection of color” (262). While Sixo does not understand time in the same
manner as the others, he understands perfectly well that leaving at night through the corn fields
and the trees, slipping further into the darkness of Nature, gives them natural camouflage and a
much better opportunity to flee.
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Sixo understands Nature in a way that none of the other slaves can. Being in the natural
world surrounded by “the vibrant depth of the green leaves, which irradiate…vitality” (Bonnet
42) is where Sixo finds peace, not in the slave-dwelling plantation known, ironically, as Sweet
Home where Paul D and the others were “convinced they were special” (Morrison 260). Sixo,
much like Baby Suggs and Sethe’s mother, has experienced life outside of Sweet Home; he
knows that slavery is slavery, pure and simple, and that Sweet Home and the Garners are part of
the slavery system, even if “Mr. Garner disallowed” (Morrison 231) beatings. Paul D admits
upon reflection that while Sixo and Halle were planning on escaping Sweet Home, he and Paul A
were scared to leave “Because they had been isolated in a wonderful lie” (Morrison 260). They
feel that they have some sort of freedom on Sweet Home because Garner allowed them to carry
and shoot guns, to learn to read and write (if they chose), and to make decisions that Mr. Garner
would sometimes listen to (Morrison 259). But Sixo knows intuitively that the only true freedom
is to love without restrictions, to wander through the trees (Life) breathing in the sweet cool air,
freely and without shackles.
Trees play a large part in the symbolism of Beloved and are intimately connected with
Sixo and his love of nature. Bonnet writes, “The tree is a natural element that serves as a law—
and a sacred one at that—unto man” (42). She goes on to say, “It is what the tree encloses, Life
itself, which is sacred” (Bonnet 44-45). Sixo is particularly sensitive to the power of trees in the
text, due to his native African upbringing. He “went among the trees at night. For dancing, he
said, to keep his bloodlines open, he said” (Morrison 30). The trees, Life enclosed within them,
give Sixo strength; they revitalize and empower him. Bonnet writes, “The trees whip up the flow
of the blood that animates his body; they infuse him with some vital energy that feeds and
multiplies his own” (42). Sixo’s unborn son is even referred to by the narrator as “his blossoming
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seed” (Morrison 270). Not only do the trees give Sixo the essence of Life, but they also protect
him. In the scene just after he sends his Thirty-Mile Woman back to her plantation, a wagon
comes around a bend in the road and the white driver, seeing Sixo, goes to whip him. Sixo
“melted into the woods” (30); he blends in with the trees and they protect and hide him from the
inevitable beating that would occur if he were to be caught by white men.
For Paul D, on the other hand, the presence of trees in the novel is ambiguous at best. He
remembers his favorite tree, Brother, and he recalls that “trees were inviting; things you could
trust and be near; talk to if you wanted to” (Morrison 25). This idealized notion that Paul D has
leads to him rejecting the “tree” on Sethe’s back; he refers to it as “a revolting clump of scars”
(Morrison 25) instead of accepting that her “tree,” in essence, tells the brutal and tragic story of
how Sethe fought and paid in blood for her and her children’s freedom. Lorie Fulton notes that
“Paul D even diminishes his own manhood with tree-like terms when he lies in bed observing
Sethe’s scar and compares himself and her scar to Sixo and Brother[…]‘Now there was a man,
and that was a tree. Himself lying in the bed and the tree lying next to him didn’t compare’”
(196). He fails to connect spiritually with trees (givers of Life) and Nature in general. In a setting
where the reader can picture Sixo being perfectly at home, settled in the woods among a group of
Native Americans, Paul D is lost. After “admitting his ignorance,” he is told the way north is to
“Follow the tree flowers” (Morrison 132). Where Sixo dances among the trees to renew his being
and have the trees embrace him, Paul D simply refers to them as “things” and does not “touch
them or stop to smell them” (Morrison 133); he treats them as objects whereas in African
religions “they are considered as intermediaries between God and man—they are even worshiped
by some tribes as God himself” (Bonnet 42). Sixo embraces the sacredness and inherent power
of the tree, leading to a fuller, more defined ideal of masculinity in all its forms.
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An element of spirituality is also evident throughout the novel. This spirituality, distinctly
unrelated to Western society or culture, is not based in a book and does not have a traditional
religion built around it. There are strong elements of both tribal African religions and Native
American religions built into it. Studying characters such as Sixo and Baby Suggs, the reader can
observe that it seems to be based around four principles: 1) Love yourself; 2) Love and respect
others; 3) Love the world around you (Nature); 4) Be thankful for everything you have. This
unique form of spirituality gives Sixo strength, keeps him in close remembrance of his ancestors
(“to keep his bloodlines open”) and allows him to navigate through Life confident in himself and
in the world around him. Sixo understands the spiritual nature of all things, especially evident
when Sixo stumbles upon a “deserted stone structure that Redmen used”; he “asked its
permission to enter” and “having felt what it felt like, he asked the Redmen’s Presence if he
could bring his woman there. It said yes” (Morrison 29). Later, when he cannot find the ThirtyMile Woman, “he stood in the wind and asked for help. Listening for a sign, he heard a
whimper” (29). For Sixo, spirituality is not African, European, or American; it is simply the way
of the world, the Spirit intermingling with the Man interacting with Nature.
Paul D lacks this spiritual assuredness. He finds himself tormented, always looking into
the past, obsessing over his manhood, and wandering alone and weary. In regard to both Paul D
and Sethe, Arlene Keizer states, “They have cut off the positive as well as the negative aspects of
their histories; the knowledge that might sustain them spiritually is consigned to the same
forbidden area as the knowledge that might destroy them” (107). This cutting off of personal
history is obvious in Paul D’s case, especially when he believes that “his little tobacco tin” was
“rusted shut” (Morrison 137). His lack of spiritual strength, his “wariness and paranoia” (Kang
839), is graphically illustrated when he finally gives in to Beloved’s sexual pressure: “he
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trembled like Lot’s wife and felt some womanish need to see the nature of the sin behind
him[…]he didn’t hear the whisper that the flakes of rust made either as they fell away from the
seams of his tobacco tin” (Morrison 137-138). He becomes enraged at his lack of fortitude and
argues (convincing himself?) that “he was a man and a man could do what he would” (Morrison
148). To replace his spiritual gap, the one preventing him from embracing any sort of
masculinity whatsoever, he attempts to convince Sethe to have his child: “Suddenly it was a
solution: a way to hold on to her, document his manhood and break out of the girl’s spell—all in
one” (151). He has the urge to “document his manhood” because he is lost, rudderless,
spiritually, physically, emotionally and mentally. Sixo, on the other hand, is the only slave at
Sweet Home with the spiritual strength not to become “paralyzed with yearning” (30) for Sethe
upon her arrival; it is his pure love for the Thirty-Mile Woman, along with his strength, that
keeps him from giving into temptation and desire. He attempts to explain what his feelings are
like to Paul D at one point in the novel. The dialogue that comes next is one of the most poetic,
raw, and honest sections in the entire novel:
She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am,
she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s
good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your
mind. (321)
Paul D does not understand what Sixo was attempting to say about his love for the Thirty-Mile
Woman until years later, at the end of the novel, when he finally realizes that he and Sethe
together can move beyond their history. They can finally put together the spiritual, mental,
emotional and physical pieces of each other due to their pure, untarnished, love for one another
(Morrison 322).
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A final step in reconstructing Sixo and his unique form of masculinity is in analyzing
Morrison’s use of language and song, specifically in the context of European versus African
narratives. Bernard Bell writes, “In addition to the three basic types of represented discourse
(direct, simple indirect, and free indirect), five different yet related linguistic codes and their
concomitant ideologies […] are present in Beloved: standard American English, rural black
vernacular English, black feminist discourse, black patriarchal discourse, and white male
hegemonic discourse” (10). He later goes on to state, “The scars of sexual, racial, and class
oppression on the soul—the price of the ticket for the journey from slavery to freedom and from
object to subject—are more horrible than those on the body” (Bell 12). These oppressive soulcrushing scars are evident on both Paul D and Sixo. Paul D’s time spent in Alfred, Georgia, the
rape and violations that were forced on him by white men, the fact “that anybody white could
take your whole self for anything that came to mind[…]Dirty you so bad you forgot who you
were and couldn’t think it up” (Morrison 295), has crushed his manhood and left him broken,
beaten, and with no identity: “The act of claiming a self-fashioning individuality is immanently
disabled by a history of being claimed as property” (Kang 842). Sixo attempts to use his keen
intellect and strange use of the English language to outwit Schoolteacher when he is caught
stealing a small pig (shoat). But, as Sethe states, “schoolteacher beat him anyway to show him
that definitions belonged to the definers—not the defined” (Morrison 225). Sixo combats the
oppression that living under Schoolteacher’s tyranny causes by making his nightly escapades; he
also “watched the sky. Not the high part, the low part where it touched the trees. You Could tell
his mind was gone from Sweet Home” (Morrison 233). It is probable that Sixo is watching the
horizon, praying to turn into a bird so that he can fly low across the treetops, meeting his ThirtyMile Woman and whisking her away from the daily hell of slavery.
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A key dialogic component to what both Sixo and Paul D do to combat the despair of
slavery lies in the use of song. Paul D remembers singing while on the chain gang in Georgia to
survive another day: “They sang it out and beat it up” (128). He also sings to fight his
restlessness while fixing the furniture he broke his first day at Sethe’s house (48). Paul D sings to
battle his depression, to make certain his inner demons do not gain control, and because it
comforts him in his restless wanderings. Sixo sings only once in the novel. It is after they attempt
their escape from Sweet Home, only to be caught by schoolteacher and his group of white men.
Faced with imminent death, Sixo “begins to sing” (266). Peter Capuano states, “The white men
find it impossible to shoot Sixo as he sings because the song locates ‘personhood’ among slavery
for a group of slave catchers who are conditioned to see only the ‘animals’ of Schoolteacher’s
calculations[…]Sixo establishes his humanity in front of the white men with his song” (100).
Paul D, listening to the song, makes a reference to “juba,” which Capuano states is “Sixo’s song
of hope—his ‘triumph and calm confidence’ in the ultimate justice of things” (101). Sixo’s song
has no words and needs no words. It is a song of hope and justice and celebration because Sixo
knows that he has done everything possible to give his woman and his unborn child the time they
need to escape.
Sixo’s tale is not one that has what civilized people in modern society would call a
“happily ever after” ending. Burning alive while tied to a tree is by far one of the most horrifying
and gut-wrenching ways to meet Death, not to mention more painful than one could possibly
imagine. Sixo, though, in an unusual example of individual masculinity, laughs, a genuine laugh,
“so rippling and full of glee it put out the fire” (Morrison 270). All Paul D can think as he
watches Sixo burn alive is, “What a laugh” (Morrison 270). Schoolteacher’s men eventually
have to shoot Sixo to finally kill him. Before he dies, he cries out a name that no one understands
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except for himself and Paul D: “Seven-O! Seven-O!” (267). This scene is where Sixo truly
displays what it means to be a man, not in overwhelming strength or force, not in domination,
not in heroic feats to sweep a damsel-in-distress off her feet, but in “the heart of the man,
manifested in the sacredness with which he lives: his respect for the otherness of others,
tenderness for their sorrow, and sense of responsibility for helping them” (Sitter 26). This form
of manliness is where Paul D is the most broken: “the qualities Paul D associates with manliness
originate in the dominant culture of the white slaveholder Mr. Garner[…]Paul D is not convinced
he is a man because he locates manhood in an objectified image of another” (Sitter 24). Paul D
will never be fully a man, a whole being, until he steps away from society’s perceptions and
preconceived notions of how a man should act, especially an African-American man. Sixo is a
man fully confident unto himself; his cries in the fire are cries of happiness for his unborn son.
The “blossoming seed” of his son is what makes Sixo’s ideals of manhood so right and so true,
not what Western society or African culture or religion dictates; Sixo’s spirit will live on
indefinitely in his son and his son’s son. His legacy is what Toni Morrison ultimately points at
(however indirectly) as being a universally sincere form of masculinity: it involves trust, respect,
and love for yourself and others, and it revolves around obtaining harmony in the Natural, the
Spiritual, the Universal, and in the Man, all intimately interwoven together to form Life.
Works Cited
Bell, Bernard W. “Beloved: A Womanist Neo-Slave Narrative; or Multivocal
Remembrances of Things Past.” African American Review 26.1 (1992):
7-16. EBSCO. Web. 5 November 2013.
Bonnét, Michele. “ ‘To Take the Sin Out of Slicing Trees…’: The Law of the Tree in
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Beloved.” African American Review 31.1 (1997): 41-54. JSTOR. Web.
1 Nov. 2013.
Capuano, Peter J. “Truth in Timbre: Morrison’s Extension of Slave Narrative Song in
Beloved.” African American Review 37.1 (2003): 95-103. JSTOR. Web.
1 Nov. 2013.
Fulton, Lorie Watkins. “Hiding Fire and Brimstone in Lacy Groves: The Twinned Trees
of Beloved.” African American Review 39.1/2 (2005): 189-199. JSTOR. Web.
1 Nov. 2013.
Hamilton, Cynthia S. “Revisions, Rememories and Exorcisms: Toni Morrison and the
Slave Narrative.” Journal of American Studies 30.3 (1996): 429-445. JSTOR.
Web. 21 Nov. 2013.
Kang, Nancy. “To Love and Be Loved: Considering Black Masculinity and the
Misandric Impulse in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.” Callaloo 26.3 (2003): 836-854.
JSTOR. Web. 21 Nov. 2013.
Keizer, Arlene R. “Beloved: Ideologies in Conflict, Improvised Subjects.” African
American Review 33.1 (1999): 105-123. JSTOR. Web. 1 Nov. 2013.
Morrison, Toni. Beloved. [1987]. NY: Vintage Books, 2004. Print.
Sitter, Deborah Ayer. “The Making of a Man: Dialogic Meaning in Beloved.” African
American Review 26.1 (1992): 17-29. JSTOR. Web. 1 Nov. 2013.
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Into the Light:
Naomi Shihab Nye’s Use of Concrete and Abstract Imagery in “Making a Fist”
Brandy R. Williams
I stood in the shadows of the small hospital room, and the beeping monitors rang in my
ears. By all accounts, the wave patterns on the monitor registered life, showing an active pulse
rate, breathing rate, blood pressure, and temperature. A constant clicking gnawed at me as the
ventilator heaved up and down in a violent motion. However, when I looked at the bed, his body
did not mirror the monitor. My father laid still, and his only movement was the rise and fall of
forced ventilations. I stepped into the light and placed my hand upon his chest, his heartbeat
barely palpable. He was haggardly looking, withering away as he clung to life. When I received
the phone call a week before, and I was told he had a heart attack, I did not know how to
respond. I had not seen or spoken to him in five and a half years. So many things had happened
in the last five years, and the woman he once knew no longer existed. I visited him earlier that
day and told him all the things he had missed by not being my father. I told him I knew
everything, and, despite all that, I still forgave him. The gesture seemed meaningless because the
man who laid before me was a stranger, even though his blood coursed through my veins. In that
moment, I did the only thing I knew to do; I prayed for him. When I was done, I stood there
watching his body struggle to stay alive, one shuttering breath after another.
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In the poem “Making a Fist” by Naomi Shihab Nye, the young girl encounters a similar
experience as she journeys cross-country with her mother. At the age of seven, she is forced into
the realization that she might be dying and asks her mother how she can tell the difference
between living and dying. “Making a Fist” is a simplistic, beautiful poem about the hardships
that we endure in life. Nye’s combination of poetic elements blends with her use of concrete and
abstract imagery, illuminating the struggles that leave people questioning the boundaries of life
and death.
Nye’s blending of several poetic elements is displayed in the first few lines of the poem.
The speaker notes that she is traveling on the road to Tampico when she suddenly “Felt the life
sliding out of [her], / a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear” (2-3). The reader is
engaged from the beginning, and Nye metaphorically compares the young girl’s life to that of a
beating drum. The young girl feels like she is dying, and, although at one time she could hear the
booming of her heart pounding in her head, the sound grows weaker, as does she. The poet’s use
of the word “sliding” in reference to life is a jarring realization. The connotation is that death is
uncontrollable, an entity of its own, draining one of her last breath. The understanding that death
is not controllable makes one realize that everyone dies a physical death. Nye’s use of
abstraction describing the little girl’s life slipping away complements her concrete imagery of the
beating drum in the distance. The use of alliteration with the words “harder,” “harder,” and
“hear” compounds this notion. The letter h is known as a fricative, which is an “audible friction
over something that interferes with the airflow from the lungs” (Mason and Nims 159). The h is
the only fricative that makes a rough, raspy noise when air passes through the vocal cords in
order to prepare for the vowel that follows (Mason and Nims 159). When a person’s breathing is
initially hampered, the heart rate increases, similar to when a person holds her breath. The
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repetition of the words “harder and harder” (3) also mimics the repetitive lub-dubb sound of the
heart, a sound associated with life. The repetition and alliteration of these words increases the
anxiousness of the reader, and the reader is able to identify with the panic-stricken child.
Nye continues with the theme of life and death when the speaker describes her experience
in the backseat of the car. As she lay in the backseat, she “Watch[ed] palm trees swirl a sickening
pattern past the glass. / [Her] stomach was a melon split wide inside [her] skin” (5-6). The
confines of the car mixed with the constant motion leave her feeling carsick. The swirling pattern
of the trees makes her dizzy and nauseous to the point where she feels like she is going to burst
wide-open like that of a rotten melon sitting in the sun for too long. The concrete imagery of the
swirling trees intensifies the abstract meaning of the word “sickening” (5). Nye also uses
alliteration with the words “stomach,” “split,” and “skin.” The s sound is also a fricative, and the
s sound is made “when the breath hisses between [the] tongue and [the] teeth” (Mason and Sims
159). When a person is in pain and feeling nauseous, one often makes a hissing sound as a way
to control the pain. The use of the alliteration coupled with the blended use of concrete and
abstract imagery enhances the child’s experience and increases the level of anxiety for the
reader. Nye’s use of the withheld image regarding the young girl’s pallor no doubt has the child
concerned. Most children associate death with pale, cool, clammy skin and unbearable sickness.
She is experiencing all of these symptoms and feels that she is on the brink of death. Difficulty
breathing is also associated with death. Nye’s use of alliteration mimics this notion with the
words “palm,” “pattern,” and “past.” The consonant p is called a stop because air is briefly
interrupted as pressure builds behind the tongue and lips (Mason and Nims 160). The stop
mimics the stoppage of the lungs as the body shuts down, culminating in death.
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The speaker becomes overwhelmed by her sickness and begins to contemplate the
meaning of life and death. Feeling as if she is about to die, she pleads with her mother, “How do
you know if you are going to die?” (7). For a seven-year-old, the idea of life and death is an
unfathomable concept. Her journey has just begun and already she feels like it is over. Never
having been so sick, she does not know the difference between motion sickness and impending
death. Her mother answered “with strange confidence” (10), and she said, “When you can no
longer make a fist” (11). Her mother’s confidence seemed foreign to her, almost as if the mother
was doubtful of her answer but wanted to sound strong and brave for her ailing child. The
revelation of life and death being linked to the ability to “make a fist” (11) is astonishing. Nye’s
use of abstraction referring to the mother’s “strange confidence” (10) coupled with the concrete
image of “mak[ing] a fist” (11) is a revelation of paramount proportions. Even though the mother
responds wearily, her answer is definitive and resolute. The mother’s reply to her daughter is a
simple act, easily manageable for a person who still has the ability to fight for every breath.
In Nye’s last stanza, the narrator uses the lesson that her mother taught her many years
ago to deal with her current struggles. In the beginning lines, the narrator states, “Years later I
smile to think of that journey, / the borders we must cross separately, / stamped with our
unanswerable woes” (12-14). She looks back with fond memories of her cross-country trip,
reveling in the notion that she is, in fact, still alive. She has come to the realization that the
battles one faces in life must be fought individually. Although people are stricken with grief and
regret over their life choices, the choice one makes balances the equation of life and death. She
goes on to state, “I who did not die, who am still living, / still lying in the backseat behind all my
questions, / clenching and opening one small hand” (15-17). Nye’s abstract imagery noted by the
little girl “who did not die” but is “still living” (15) strengthens the concrete image of the
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“clenching […] hand” (17) as proof of life. The resounding confidence that she has when stating
that she “did not die” (15) but is still breathing is a stark contrast to the “strange confidence” (10)
her mother displayed earlier in the poem. Although her mother was leery of her words, the
narrator gained strength from the lesson her mother taught her. She has taken that strength and
knowledge and used it in every aspect of her life. The subtle use of synecdoche in the closing
line, “one small hand” (17), reminds the reader how fragile life is. The idea that the small hand
represents a small child is jolting. A seven-year-old should not understand the notion of death,
but, in this moment, she is forced to grapple with the realization that she is not immortal.
Although the thought of dying is a heavy burden for a person, she clenches her fist in defiance to
prove she can be victorious in the most difficult times in life.
Nye’s poem, “Making a Fist,” is a testament to the beauty of poetry. Her blended use of
concrete and abstract imagery coupled with the predominate use of alliteration draws the reader
into the mind of a seven-year-old girl who feels that she is on the brink of death. The reader is
immediately engaged in the poem, identifying with the child as her level of anxiety increases.
The young child’s emotional plea to her mother of trying to understand her own immortality is
heart wrenching. A child of such a tender age should not have to deal with the adult realizations
of life and death. Although her mother replied with “strange confidence” (10), the ability to
discern life and death was a simple task. Her mother’s lesson was one that the little girl carried
with her for the rest of her life. The adult struggles of heartache and grief are inevitable, as she
learned. Regardless, when struggles consumed her life, and she thought life too painful to bear,
she fell back on the knowledge that as long as she could “make a fist” (11), then she could
survive anything.
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A week had passed before I stood in the cold and unforgiving hospital room again. I
stepped into the light and stared at my father’s lifeless body. He appeared more haggard and
withered than last I saw him. The vital signs machine still registered life, but he did not. I
watched him, trying to recall a fond memory to cling to once he was gone. Despite my medical
knowledge and knowing the inevitable, I still hoped for a miracle. I reached down and grabbed
his hand, praying that my being there would make a difference. His fingers twitched, and he
slowly opened his eyes. He had been in the dark for three weeks, and his eyes rolled around as he
tried to adjust to his surroundings. His eyes drifted towards me, but he turned his head away as if
he did not see me. But then, slowly, he turned back towards me. He watched me with a look of
consternation, as if I, too, was a stranger. And then a glimmer of recognition flickered in his
eyes. Rising out of his bed, he stared at me intensely, as though he were trying to memorize my
every feature. His face was crimson, and the look of anguish on his face told me he had heard
everything I said to him the week before. The monitor beeped incessantly, and his heart rate
increased. I told him everything was okay, and I slowly eased him down into the bed. I placed
my hand upon his chest, and his heart pounded powerfully beneath my hand. I leaned down and
caressed his head. With teary eyes and broken voice I asked, “Daddy, can you make a fist?
Please! Just make a fist.”
Works Cited
Mason, David and John Frederick Nims. Western Wind: An Introduction to Poetry. 5th ed. New
York: McGraw-Hill, 2006. Print.
Nye, Naomi Shihab. “Making a Fist.” [1988]. Poets.org. Academy of American Poets, 2012.
Web. 23 October 2012.
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PHOTOGRAPHY
Reflections of a Small Town, Angela Walker
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Disturbia, Angela Walker
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Taking Flight, Angela Walker
Streetcar in New Orleans, Angela Walker
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Signs of Poverty, Angela Walker
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Houmas House, Brandy R. Williams
A Moment of Silence, Brandy R. Williams
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Campus with a View, Brandy R. Williams
Dark Skies Ahead, Brandy R. Williams
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Force of Nature, Brandy R. Williams
Shotgun House at Bayouside, Brandy R. Williams
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Jug—Color Splash, Andrea Guillory
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High Key, Andrea Guillory
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Glow in the Dark, Andrea Guillory
Antique Shop, Andrea Guillory
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Flower in Bath, Andrea Guillory
Duck Down, Andrea Guillory
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DRAWING
Street Called Straight, Bobby Wadzeck
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Angel Sword, Bobby Wadzeck
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Marine Sword, Bobby Wadzeck
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Rose Sword, Bobby Wadzeck
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Horse Sword, Bobby Wadzeck
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Luck Sword, Bobby Wadzeck
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Dragoneye, Bobby Wadzeck
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Dragon Head, Bobby Wadzeck
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A Little Peace in the Country, Brandy R. Williams
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Oak Grove, Brandy R. Williams
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