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The
Russell Creek
Review
The Literary and Visual Arts Journal
of
Campbellsville University
2014
Division of Humanities
Editorial Staff
Editor-in-Chief: Dr. Susan A. Wright
Associate Editor and Layout Drudge: Dr. Judith Collins McCormick
Assistant Editors:
Holly Bowles
Nikki Bowman
Keila-Ann Coomer
Brian Davis
Michael Ducharm
Alyssa Gnadinger
Kaleb Harris
Sarah Johnson
Allysyne Lockhart
Miranda Loy
Tyler Magruder
Bethany McIntosh
Ashey Neal
Jessica Nolan
Bieonica Parsons
Ian Shepard
Melody Sims
Katie Terry
Kinzie Wells
Janelle Wilhelm
Joseph Yates
Cover Art Credits
Front cover:
Forgotten Hotel by Aletheia Chesnut
Back cover:
Garden Path by Susan A. Wright
ii
Russell Creek Review
In 1900, the members of the Russell Creek Baptist Association, consisting of
churches in several nearby counties, recognized a regional need for Christian higher
education. In a meeting at Salem Baptist Church in Campbellsville, Kentucky,
the members appointed a committee to raise funds for the building of Russell
Creek Academy, which first opened its doors to students in 1907. Russell Creek
Academy became Campbellsville College in 1924, and Campbellsville College
then became Campbellsville University in 1996.
For the 2007 issue, in honor of Campbellsville University’s centennial year,
the annual literary magazine published by the Division of Humanities changed
its name from Connections to The Russell Creek Review. Russell Creek itself, from
its headwaters in nearby Adair County, flows northwest, deepening and widening as it gathers tributaries. In just such a way does the human mind deepen
and widen as it gathers information, experience, and spirituality. Literature, the
product of human minds, reflects that deepening and widening. We hope that,
as our students flow outward from the headwaters of what was once the Russell
Creek Academy, they too will deepen and widen, and that the words some of
them have inscribed within these pages will aid later generations of students in
navigating their own courses.
iii
Contents
Poetry
Kailene AllisDreamcatcher
Holly Bowles
Arsonist
Michael Ducharm The Polymath
Michael Ducharm The Space Colony of New Denver
Alyssa Gnadinger
Anti-Sonnet
Allysyne Lockhart Sleepless Nights
Tyler Magruder
Lawrence of Arabia
Jessica Nolan
Needle
Jessica Nolan
Numbers
Ian Shepard
Ten Percent Elation
Melody Sims
Buried in the Sand
Kinzie Wells
Broken Body Ideology
Kinzie Wells
Sometimes You Wake up and Feel Weird
Janelle Wilhelm
Valentine’s Day
Janelle Wilhelm
When Time Has Won His Everlasting War
Joseph Yates
Weatherman
Photographs
Aletheia Chesnut
Nikkita Buntain
Shelby Courtney
Bieonica Parsons
Bieonica Parsons
Bieonica Parsons
Bieonica Parsons
Rick Wilson
Susan A. Wright
Susan A. Wright
Susan A. Wright
Kentucky Ride
Innocence
Sound of Freedom
Evening Rain
Microcosm
Royalty Alights
Simba
Predator Landing
Beaded Kitties
Koi Pond
Spring Arrives
Fiction
Katie Terry
Keila-Ann Coomer
Brian Davis
Alyssa Gnadinger
Kaleb Harris
Sarah Johnson
Susan A. Wright
Caitlyn’s Nightmare
Winter Tree
On the Edge
Silent Winter
The Fountain
My Friend Dep
An Encounter with a Legend
Little Japan
Ian Shepard
Editorial Policies
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The Russell Creek Review 1
Poetry
Dreamcatcher; by Kailene Allis
The Russell Creek Review 3
Arsonist
Holly Bowles
Something within me loves to burn,
to ignite destruction, dismay.
The sadistic fire my tongue wields
longs for leave to do its damage.
A gas-soaked word, a smoking phrase—
relationships burst into flame.
Were my impulse rage or malice,
these desires might be (somewhat) valid.
But all I crave are burned-down bridges,
consumed by fires for my delight.
4 The Russell Creek Review
The Polymath
Michael Ducharm
In a grey age of specialization,
the interconnectedness of knowledge
is the subject of no one’s attention.
Supposedly great monopathic thought
is never truly divorced from the web
of silky ideas, things the writer jots.
And yet, it is only a small breed that
wishes to bridge synapses, building roads
around the round world, not one that is flat.
Humanity is multifaceted,
a greenhouse full of DNA, lively
patterned like a lush quilt of verdant thread.
To love the complex is to walk a path,
a path few choose, yet one travelled by all.
Accept who we are; we are polymaths.
The Russell Creek Review 5
The Space Colony of New Denver
Michael Ducharm
Wake me when the robots are here,
when all the pestilence is gone.
Fatigue has overcome me, dear,
and I’m afraid I won’t see dawn.
I will not succumb to death, though.
When I’m up, show me clean rivers
and rockets. We’ll sip fancy drinks,
we’ll fly off to New Denver;
while in space, I won’t even blink.
Utopia means no shadows.
Now I feel numb, but that’s okay.
I’m joyful; although I’m broken,
I think only of the next day
and you, wearing your red ribbon.
Granddaughter, your smile brightly glows.
A future in which you can dance
and sing, I do look forward to.
We’ll go to the cyber-park in France;
Digital ducks I’ll feed, with you.
That’s the last memory I’ll have
the next day, your red ribbon, and—
6 The Russell Creek Review
Anti-Sonnet
Alyssa Gnadinger
I cannot write a sonnet, that’s for sure.
I try and try again—to no avail.
I try to find a rhyme scheme that is pure,
Then end up losing meaning—tiny snail!
I try to keep the meter going true,
But sometimes botch the rhythm (as you’ll see).
In the throes of creativity,
I reverse the rhyme out of the blue.
Now back to iambs (lovely little feet!).
I’ll try to stay on track, I really will!
To write a sonnet well is such a treat,
But must be tackled like . . . a giant . . . hill.
(Hmm...hill perhaps was not the right word here.)
Perhaps I’ll try again sometime—next year.
The Russell Creek Review 7
Sleepless Nights
Allysyne Lockhart
The seconds tick by as my mind races.
Thought after thought,
Like ominous storm clouds rolling in,
Never ceasing.
The minutes tick by as my mind flies.
Body restless and resonating regret,
The thoughts continue,
Never stopping.
The hours tick by as my mind flits.
I’m a slave to my thoughts,
Damned to the darkness,
Never ending.
It is morning.
8 The Russell Creek Review
Lawrence of Arabia
Tyler Magruder
A candle flickered amber,
a solemn face illuminated,
etched in the wrinkles
of worry and pain.
Lawrence of Arabia
observed a unique practice:
Whenever he extinguished a candle,
he did so by squeezing
the live flame between his fingers.
When asked what was his trick,
he replied, “The trick
is not minding that it hurts.”
Poor bastard.
A thumb and a finger,
scarred and calloused,
closed on the flame.
Darkness, a hiss,
and the acrid odor
of burning flesh.
My trick is
I cannot feel pain.
The Russell Creek Review 9
Needle
Jessica Nolan
When
a
needle enters
my skin, the
pressure
beneath the
plunger, the
horror that
my life is
dependent on
liquid in a vial,
the staring
from random
people when
I give myself
a shot makes
me feel like
life spiraling
out of control
because I can’t
produce my
own insulin,
I must endure
the sting of
needle after
n
e
e
d
l
e
.
10 The Russell Creek Review
Numbers
Jessica Nolan
24 hours a day
364 days a year
without a break.
Five needles
Infiltrating my body,
my life.
Blood
Flowing from nine self-inflicted punctures,
Staining my possessions.
Four test strips
Telling me where I stand,
Leaving a trail behind me.
Readings
Too high and too low,
Telling me when and when not to eat.
I am not defined
By needles, blood, test strips.
I am not defined by
Numbers.
The Russell Creek Review 11
Ten Percent Elation
“Acting is ninety percent Disappointment, ten percent Elation.”
Ian Shepard
Disappointment when auditions end, days of work
dissolving when a faceless director
throws you aside.
Disappointment when you strive for Hamlet;
instead you’re saddled with the armor of
Guard Number Three.
Disappointment when stress overwhelms you,
countless hours of memorization
pushing out other thoughts.
Disappointment every time you call for line,
punishing yourself for
forgetting words endlessly studied.
Disappointment in every actor you work with,
their vague and cloudy methods
foreign to your understanding.
Disappointment at tech rehearsal,
lights failing, microphones shrieking, feedback
tearing through the room like blades.
Disappointment in your costume, never fitting.
Shirt so tight it suffocates,
pants dragging the floor.
Disappointment as Hell Week arrives and
gives shape to every angry thought. You
explode as pressure becomes overwhelming.
Elation at opening night. Your feet
touch the stage, light caresses your
face, and the anxious crowd fills your
heart with glorious energy.
Disappointment as the show ends. You
sob into your hands and wait anxiously for
more auditions.
12 The Russell Creek Review
Buried in the Sand
Melody Sims
The cold sand beneath my feet,
I stand at the line
Where the sea reaches for the dry sand.
The mist spraying against my face,
As the wind rushes through my hair,
The sun’s rays radiant on my skin.
The scent of sea salt flows through my nose.
Cries of seagulls ring loudly in my ears,
And as I close my eyes,
I feel the sensations of the ocean flow over my feet.
This is my get-away place.
Stress is like a leaf frolicking in the wind,
As it happily flies away from me.
Pressure peels away from me
To uncover something new.
All troubles are left behind
Where I bury them all in the sand.
The Russell Creek Review 13
Broken Body Ideology
Kinzie Wells
Society told her from an early age
To be accepted one must be corrected.
Sit up straight, brush your hair,
Line your lips, act like you care.
She was told that to be accepted
She had to play by society’s rules.
“Obey your elders and never question.”
(Even though they perpetuate suppression.)
The Internet told her that to be successful
She must have soft, flawless skin and doe eyes.
She must be sensual and consensual,
Be skinny but have an hourglass figure.
Society told her if she wanted to be accepted,
She must be modest but sexy.
She must show skin but not be scandalous.
She must be internally strong but emotionally soft.
Society told her that she must accept the unwanted advances.
She should accept being called by names like “Baby” or “Tits,”
Personified by only her body and bits,
Her creativity and intelligence are nothing to a man’s wandering eyes.
Religion told her she must go to church.
She would often hear, “Be religious but not too zealous.
Help the poor, but if you screw up
Not even your allure will keep you from being ostracized in a blur.”
The church told her that her body wasn’t hers.
She was ordained to be holy and pure
(Or until “death do we part” is murmured).
The congregation turned her body into a sexual temptation.
“Modest is hottest,” they would be quick to say.
Yet “modest is hottest” brought on its own contradictions.
The Television told her,
If she enjoyed sex, she’s a slut.
If she remained “pure” then she’s a prude.
If she said no, she’s a friend-zoning bitch.
Magazines told her she must change her way of thinking-She must always be the one to please her man.
14 The Russell Creek Review
She must always be the one that understands
What he wants before he wants it,
Why he wants it, and how.
From an early age girls are taught
That true fear resides in the dark.
Rape occurs by her choice:
“Her skirt was too short.”
Society strips them of their voice.
A girl’s mind from a young age
Is filled with skewed images
And suggested fear of loneliness.
That subtlety makes her believe that what society tells her is true.
That to be successful, she must play by every societal rule.
Then the very same society is surprised
When they find that she fears the only way she can find
The dream of that “one true love”
Is to be willing to chase the lies
Of thigh gaps and hip bridges.
Then she feels fat because magazines pass
Size 5, 6, 7, 8 as plus-size fat . . .
Yet her friends tell her there’s something chemically wrong
When she attempts to pass along
And follow the skewed body ideology.
Society tell her she has a disease
When all it chooses to see
Is that she is too skinny or fat,
Not that she doesn’t want to be categorized like that.
Family members perpetuate these thoughts
With “You’re too skinny, gain some weight.”
Or “You’re too fat, no one could love that.”
She’s told to put on more clothes
Or take some off.
But yet, rape is her fault.
And a nation is stunned when someone so young
Becomes broken, silenced, and starved.
When will we break the mold?
When will we start loving ourselves as ourselves?
When will we begin to uphold
That intelligence, creativity, love, and joy
Is not bound by a size or choice?
The Russell Creek Review 15
Sometimes You Wake Up and Feel Weird
Kinzie Wells
Today I opened my eyes.
I looked into a mirror and saw that the youthful guise
I had hid behind felt like a lie.
Now I’m twenty-two.
Four years gone so fast,
Like it was covered by a blast
Of colorful images
Of sweet southern days past.
For the first time,
I looked in a mirror and realized I felt older.
My life was no longer fluid and free;
It was covered in deadlines and priorities.
My nights that were once full of laughter
Now carried the weight of every responsibility.
The face that stared back at me
Wasn’t the face I had recently seen.
I wasn’t who I thought I could be
And now I’m older.
Long gone was the baby face,
Make-up free and barely awake,
The face that settled for merely existing was replaced
With the woman who stood in the mirror.
Now she’s all that I see,
And I wonder how she could possibly be me.
I never wanted to feel older,
But something clicked.
All my brain could do was freeze
And realize there was nothing else I could be,
Merely older and me.
16 The Russell Creek Review
Valentine’s Day
Janelle Wilhelm
I never have a sweetheart. Every year
I wish for roses—candy—a caress—
A card at least, but . . . No. Wipe off that tear.
Pretend you’re having fun. Take off your dress.
Remember what your daddy taught you, kid:
All men want just one thing and don’t like hassle.
You’re worth no more to them than what they’ll bid.
Yet still I dream of true love’s kiss, a castle,
A handsome prince who’s gentle, kind, and sweet.
I dream of fairy tales. Instead I get
Another night of heels that hurt my feet
And John’s sadistic games and smoke and sweat.
No money in it, either—not for me.
“How old am I, sir? Eighteen.” (Minus three.)
The Russell Creek Review 17
When Time has won his everlasting war
Janelle Wilhelm
When Time has won his everlasting war
Against your body, making brown hair gray
And smooth skin slack, and all that I adore
In your physique is forced to fade away . . .
If ever Age erodes that brilliant mind,
Unraveling the thoughts you’ve told me of—
Should Memory depart and leave you blind,
Robbed even of the knowledge of my love . . .
When Death has come to claim you as his prize
And drag you from my arms to colder rest—
When he has stopped your breath and closed your eyes
And quieted the thumping in your chest . . .
My heart will even then belong to you,
Whatever Time and Age and Death may do.
18 The Russell Creek Review
Weatherman
Joseph Yates
In the morning, I give people information
That in the evening may have proven false.
In the evening, I give people information
That may cause grief.
Sometimes it seems nothing I say is honest.
Sometimes it seems all I say is for nothing.
I wish my job didn’t force this on me.
No one likes me.
Everyone calls me a liar.
I don’t lie on purpose;
It’s just my job.
The Russell Creek Review 19
Photographs
Kentucky Ride; photo by Aletheia Chesnut
photo by
Nikkita Buntain
Innocence
20 The Russell Creek Review
photo by
Shelby Courtney
Sound of Freedom
The Russell Creek Review 21
photo by
Bieonica Parsons
Evening Rain
22 The Russell Creek Review
photo by
Bieonica Parsons
Microcosm
The Russell Creek Review 23
photo by
Bieonica Parsons
Royalty Alights
24 The Russell Creek Review
photo by
Bieonica Parsons
Simba
The Russell Creek Review 25
photo by
Rick Wilson
Predator Landing
26 The Russell Creek Review
photo by
Susan A. Wright
Beaded Kitties
The Russell Creek Review 27
photo by
Susan A. Wright
Koi Pond
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photo by
Susan A. Wright
Spring Arrives
The Russell Creek Review 29
The Russell Creek Review 31
Fiction
Winter Tree; photo by Katie Terry
The Russell Creek Review 33
On the Edge
Keila-Ann Coomer
When I was young, life had a certain brightness to it. Something about
the way the light shined on my face gave me hope. It was beautiful, pure even.
Everything I did seemed to have meaning to it. Those years, all those years ago,
they feel so far away. Not a day goes by that I don’t try to remind myself of that
brilliant light, the one that’s at the end of the tunnel. I was naïve then. Life was
a dance, and I enjoyed it.
Lately, the days have been getting longer. The brisk autumn wind used to
fill my lungs with clean, crisp air that refreshed my soul. I lived for the moments
when I could feel the cool breeze blowing through my hair. My heart always
spilled over with hope because of it.
It must have been my youth that caused me to be so naïve. To be so young
and happy again, what I wouldn’t give for that. I had thought myself mature, brave,
even. Until it all went tumbling down. It was gradual, like most terrible events in
our lives. None of us wake up and decide we are going to fall off the deep end.
The edge of despair is so very cold. It’s almost as though your soul is being sucked out of your body, slowly and painfully. The ledges of some buildings
are also cold. They show no mercy to those trying to simply get away from the
madness. Those who want to leave can never go, while those wishing to stay are
always taken too soon. It doesn’t seem fair in my eyes. But this is life, and nothing about life is ever fair.
I should get out of this room. The sun is just barely starting to set. The sky
is turning its usual burnt orange and cream color. A gentle stillness is beginning to
set over the city like a blanket. I’ll surely have time for a short walk before nightfall.
Besides, a walk will help me clear my mind. It will get rid of these evil thoughts.
So I’ll take the usual route, down to Central Park and around. It’ll be short; I
won’t even have time to get cold. The dog probably won’t notice I’m gone either.
The park is always full of life in the fall. All of the children of New York
trying to suck up the few remaining hours of day light. The city is beautiful at
twilight. I can never seem to get over the tiny stars that speckle the sky, like little
lights guiding me home. There are never many, but they always do the trick when
I’m feeling down. I’ve never enjoyed the noise of the city more than I do tonight.
The loneliness I feel, it’s even more suffocating than the memories of my past.
The images that words cannot describe, they torment me so relentlessly.
My doctor tells me that if I work hard enough at it, I will forget these terrible thoughts and become free again. Doctors are usually right. What can I say
to conflict with his method? The walks do help me, sometimes. It’s the night
that is the hardest to take. It comes like a black cloud, a sheer veil of lifelessness,
especially when those stars are hidden. The weight of it bears on my mind until
I can no longer breathe. Sometimes, I can feel it coming on, and other times it
hits me all at once. They used to tell me I would get better.
There really isn’t anything wrong with me, though. I’m a little melancholy
on occasions, but I rise up above it. I can almost always find my way back out of
the darkness. It’s the light I saw as a child that keeps me afloat. I do wish I had
someone to share my thoughts with, just one person who I can trust with my
troubles. There is never any one to beg me to come away from the ledge when
34 The Russell Creek Review
the urge hits me. Not even someone to make me listen, and nobody to whisper
sweet nothings to me so that I change my mind.
Maybe if I hadn’t run into him that afternoon I would still be myself. If
he hadn’t taken all of my dreams and stolen my innocence I would be happy at
this very moment. I truly think it’s my fault. How could I not? Everyone was
whispering in my ear,
“You shouldn’t have been walking alone.”
“If you had put up a good enough fight, he wouldn’t have bothered with you.”
The walk isn’t helping tonight. A few people glance my way as I push past
them into a run. I need to get out of here. I need to go anywhere but this place.
I shouldn’t be anywhere near where it all happened. What if he comes back and
tries it again? Why do I keep coming back here?
I’ll just go home now. I’ll lock the doors and shut the world out. That should
help keep the fear away. It won’t keep the shame out, though. My feet come to a
halt as that thought begins to sink in. I know that nothing takes that feeling away
from me, ever. The medicine doesn’t help, the light doesn’t help, and nothing
will ever help. The brown, dead leaves under my feet crunch as I shift from foot
to foot. What do I do now? It’s already dark; the day has died before my eyes.
I do wish, sometimes, that I could escape easily like that. There isn’t anything
holding me back from leaving. I could do it tonight and no one would notice I’m
gone for a few weeks. I pass by the buzzer to my building, pushing the glowing
red button to my floor. A scratchy voice asks for my name. I don’t even know
if I can remember it right now. I push the button again, impatiently this time.
The iron gate in front of the door unlocks. Do they know how I’m feeling right
now? Can they understand me by the way I push a button? Does it even matter?
I usually take the elevator, but not today. I’m not ready for such an enclosed
space. The stairs seem safe. I’ll try not to think too much as I take them, focusing
on one step at a time as I climb the mountain before me. I’m almost to my door
when I hear the first voice calling for me. It’s a soft lullaby. The kind my mother
used to sing me to sleep with.
Those voices on the other side of the door are sweet to my ears. Their loving
talk of summertime and joy leads me ever closer to them. They’re irresistible. I
must see what their faces look like, they sound so familiar. The weight of the door
is almost too much for me, and I have to fling myself against it to press it open.
The voices are coming from somewhere over the edge of a railing. I take
no time lingering in the door being afraid. I’m too intent on knowing who these
people are. I even climb onto the edge to get a better view. They seem farther
down than they sound. I have to lean slightly closer and then just a little more
closely to catch a glimpse of their white faces.
All of a sudden, like a clock that stops ticking, they stop calling for me.
The whole world goes quiet. How did I get here? I vaguely remember walking
through the park, after that my mind is blank. It’s like all the times before when I
would stumble my way onto the tops of other gray, cold buildings. The memory
of how I got there eludes me every time.
I should get down, but my feet won’t move. I should leave this place and
its horrid memories of pain behind me. Instead, I lean over a little farther. All
the people walking below me and not one of them have the time to look up. I
can’t stop myself from leaning closer and closer until there’s just a rush of wind
against my face, cleansing me of my mistakes.
The Russell Creek Review 35
Silent Winter
Brian Davis
It was cold outside in the rural lands of Kentucky. A heavy snow had descended like a thick, white blanket the previous nights. Each day, a new layer was
added like an additional sheet on a bedspread, piling up so high that a bigger man
had to trudge through it with effort. It smothered the fields and roads, choking
out recognizable landmarks in a flat landscape of deep uniformity. There was a
quiet in such things. It was late at night, with the glowing moon half-hidden in
black clouds and only the gentle howl of wind whispering in the night. Occasionally a star or two would twinkle above like in the children’s rhymes, its silver light
piercing through the black abyss to act as a beacon.
A humble farmhouse lay partially embedded in the deep drifts of snow. A
low golden light filtered through paneled windows and a steady column of smoke
rose from the stone chimneys. Inside was the Hamm family, having dinner right
after grace at the rough-hewn family dinner table. The tinkling of silverware and
the sound of low conversation carried like a gentle wave that lapped at shores.
It was consistent, familiar, and gentle. It was home for a little girl named Vera, a
bright-eyed thing with golden curls and a sweet, rounded face. She watched the
face of her father curiously as he conversed with his own father. It was grown
up talk. Stuff about the farm, about the nearby neighbors, and about the snow
outside and how it was the worst snow they had in years. Both were strong men,
with large, rough hands akin to tanned leather. They were the hands of men who
worked a plow on the fields and planted their rows of corn and tobacco out in
the burning sun of spring and summer. She knew from their hugs that they had
father smells, the musk of tobacco, sweat, and cologne. Her attention flitted to
her mother as they ate, her gaze on her children as she occasionally contributed
to the conversation. She had managed to get to town that morning before the
snowfall came again. Vera knew this, as she had been with her. It was only every
so often that they went to town, so the little girl was very pleased with the events
of that day. She even got to see some of her friends, and they had chatted about
a new doll that one of them acquired earlier that week. Her brothers started to
act up at the table, and Vera turned to them as they bragged about the snow forts
they were going to build after the chores were done tomorrow. Vera pouted. She
wanted to play, too, so she was about to speak up before a loud series of bangs
at the front door silenced everyone at the table.
After the rapid, desperate raps, a high-pitched voice, muffled from the door,
called in a pleading manner. “Open up! Please, oh please, open up!”
The silence and shock was palpable, like a powerful weight had descended
on the family. More knocks followed, fast-paced raps suggesting someone of a
smaller stature versus the deeper booms of an older man. Everyone at the dinner
table eyed the other before Papa and Grandpa caught each other’s eye. A silent
agreement seemed to be exchanged between them as Papa slowly rose. “Nelly,
keep an eye on the children.”
Vera’s mother nodded. “Come here children, quickly.”
Vera was quickly rounded up with her brothers, eyeing her Grandpa who
was already making a move for the gun cabinet. No guests were expected right
now. It was late at night, and a small blizzard was starting to kick up outside.
36 The Russell Creek Review
Papa cautiously made a move towards the front of the house as Grandpa
paced behind him, shotgun in hand as he did so. After peeling back the curtain
from the front windows, Papa narrowed his dark eyes at the figure outside before
they widened in recognition. Looking somewhat concerned, he turned back to
Mama, nodding his head as he did so. Nelly nodded back silently, eyes flicking
to the door and her husband.
With a furrowed brow, Grandpa ask in his deep voice, “Well . . . who is it?”
Papa didn’t answer immediately, making a move for the front door as he
undid the metal latches and swung it open, a gust of cold air and a flurry of
snowflakes following in the door’s wake.
Standing there half-buried in the snow was a boy, not much older than ten.
He had plain dark hair and sad blue eyes that almost carried a haunted look to
them as they stared up at Papa. He was shivering fiercely, his face red and his
fingers discolored a purple gray from the cold. Snot ran down from his nose, and
his teeth occasionally chattered. He barely had a proper coat on, and it showed
plainly on his frozen form.
Slowly, Vera recognized him. It was her cousin. Cousin Jimmy. Wonder
filled her face as questions ran through her mind. What was he doing here? Why
was he out in the snow so late? As it turned out, Papa was getting ready to answer
these questions for her.
“Jimmy? Boy, what on earth are you doing here—”
Jimmy piped up, interrupting him. “Mr. Hamm, you gotta help! Mama is
dyin’, and Dad is destroyin’ the house screamin’ and yellin’. He is gonna beat up
on poor mama, and she is really sick. Please . . .” Small trickles of tears ran down
Jimmy’s face as he turned back to the individuals gathered within the house, sniffling pitifully. “She is really sick . . .”
Papa threw a wary gaze back to Mama and Grandpa before he turned back
to Jimmy. “For heaven’s sakes, Jimmy, get inside before you catch your death of
cold. Nelly, get the coats.” Papa moved the small boy inside as Vera’s brothers
gave each other odd looks.
Vera herself was both fascinated and slightly frightened. At the talk of
Jimmy’s father, she tried to recall what she knew about the man. From what
Papa told her long ago, Jimmy’s dad was as contrary and mean as a snake. Ever
since the war, he had a metal plate in his head, and most of the family never associated with him. In fact, Vera was told never to go around him. Naturally, this
only made her more curious.
Mama went ahead and got the wool coats and boots, making sure everyone
had what they needed for the long trek through the snow. Grandpa still had the
gun in his hands, grim expression on his withered face. In the meantime, the fire
was warming Jimmy as Mama tended to him. Her expression was pensive, but
kind as she asked, “Jimmy, how could your mother be sick? We saw her at town
earlier today, and she was fine.”
Jimmy shifted in his seat, obviously still worried and quite upset. “I don’t
know. She just started throwin’ up after dinner, and Dad started screamin’ at
her . . .”
Vera’s eyes widened at the news, shivering slightly but not from the cold.
The whole situation was scary and strange. She did not fully understand, but like
many children she was still perceptive of the feelings in the room.
The sound of her father’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Alright, let’s go.”
The Russell Creek Review 37
The family got their coats on silently. It was a long walk through the snow.
Whereas the grownups had to trudge through deep ruts, Vera literally waded in
the cold stuff. She could feel a frigid gale blast across her face, and despite the
heavy wool coats and gloves, she shivered. It was dark out, and she could see
the faint outline of her father as he a carried a lantern towards their destination.
The back of his legs and his boots caked with snow were about eye level with
her as she did her best to follow the ruts he made. Her mama and Jimmy were
beside her, lagging behind the group as her brothers stayed with Grandpa and
the shotgun he carried. They were quiet the entire walk there; the only sound was
the wind and boots crunching through layers of ice and snow. In the distance,
they could see Jimmy’s house. Even from here, they could tell the door was wide
open, and a dark shape flitted back and forth beyond the windows. Grandpa
cocked his shotgun as they approached. Even from this distance they could hear
the screaming.
“Where is the money!” A scream that was more of an animalistic snarl followed
by the sounds of a horrific retching carried out the open door. Crashing noises
and something smashing followed soon after.
Both Papa and Grandpa looked at each other before quietly entering the
house with caution.
Vera turned her head, trying to peek in with wide eyes while her worried
mother held her. She couldn’t see a lot from here. However, what she could see
sent a chill down her spine—one unrelated to the winter cold.
The house was ransacked. Pictures frames were ripped off walls and tossed
aside. Cabinets were flung open, their contents spilled and scattered across the
floor. A thin, gangly man with a clenched jaw, wild-looking eyes, and scruffy black
hair continued to destroy containers and search through their contents as he ran
through the house. Jimmy’s mother sat doubled near the bed, pool of vomit at
her feet as she hacked and coughed up more. Her moans carried an agonized
note as she continued to rock back and forth on her knees.
Letting out a frustrated growl, Jimmy’s father rounded on to her again,
grabbing her shoulders and shaking her violently. “Where is the money? Where
did ya put it? I know ya have it!”
The poor woman only moaned again, spitting out more vomit as she weakly
declared, “Poison . . . You poisoned me . . .”
Jimmy’s father growled, mumbling under his breath. “I didn’t poison you.
No . . . You just ate some fish and milk.” He then gritted his teeth again as he
continued to shake her. “Where is the money?”
The stern, hard voice of Vera’s grandpa and the pump action of a shotgun
broke through the feverish ravings. “That will be quite enough, Henry.”
At the sound of Grandpa’s voice, Jimmy’s father sharply turned his head,
leaving his wife to collapse to the floor again, shaking her head back and forth
in a dazed expression. His eyes had a violent, wild glint to them as he stared at
the unexpected guests. Vera thought it was like the eyes of that mad dog Papa
once had to shoot near the barn. Idly, the little girl wondered if the same was
going to apply here.
Slowly, as if knowing he was cornered, Jimmy’s father rose to his feet. “This
ain’t yer business. Go back the way ya came.” His eyes flicked to the double barrel
of the shotgun before settling on Jimmy, who stood next to them. “So. Ya told
them, did ya boy?” His voice was laced with malice and ended with a hiss not
38 The Russell Creek Review
unlike a snake. “Should have killed ya when I had the chance.”
Again, Grandpa’s voice interrupted Jimmy’s father. “Alright, Henry. That’s
enough. What is this about?”
Jimmy’s father’s brow gave a strange sort of twitch. Vera wondered if it
were not for the gun and Papa being present that the crazed man would have
tried to attack them. Eventually, the violent man spat out the words, “I’m
lookin’ fer what’s mine.”
“Well, it ain’t lookin’ like yer findin’ it. How about ya go outside. Take a walk.”
Rapid, seething breathing followed soon after. However, Grandpa was the
kind of man who could stare a bull down in the eyes. The gun helped as well.
Eventually, Jimmy’s father dipped his head. “This ain’t over.” He carefully
walked out, Papa stepping aside as Grandpa followed slowly after him with the
gun. Once he was out of sight, both Papa and Mama rushed in to help Jimmy’s
mom and get her in bed.
Throughout the night, Jimmy’s mom continued to vomit, lay in bed for
awhile breathless, and then vomit more until she didn’t have anything left to
vomit. She died the next day.
Once they heard the news about what happened, her family demanded an
autopsy. However, her husband had more power, and rumor had it, was friends
with the coroner. Rather quickly they had her funeral and was buried. Thankfully, Jimmy didn’t have to stay with his father. His older sister, who was married
and already had a family, took him in. Grandpa kept the shotgun close to the
doorframe afterward and warned everyone in the family to never let Jimmy’s dad
get near the house.
Years later, Jimmy’s father passed away, and the family didn’t have to worry
about shooting him. As for Vera herself, she would never forget the events that
happened, nor did she ever cease to wonder if Jimmy’s father found his money—
the treasure he coveted enough to kill for.
The Russell Creek Review 39
The Fountain
Alyssa Gnadinger
Tim Callaghan sat astride his horse, bewildered, in front of the narrow
stone arch. Beside him an older man, a priest, sat and pondered, unmoving. The
tall iron gate that kept the town secure stood open and creaked idly in the wind.
“Father,” said Tim. “Somethin’ seems different.”
Father Paul knew something was different. The air was empty—empty of
the songs and laughter of children, empty of the calls of busy mothers, of the
chapel bell ringing the evening Angelus. The little town of Horeb had always
been alive. Now it lay dead and silent as the deeper blues of evening bled down
and crowded the setting sun. He had heard that there had been hardship here,
but he hadn’t dreamed of this.
“They’re gone,” he said. His little parish was gone, his flock. “But why?”
He had only been away for four months, called to a struggling missions parish
at the request of his bishop. The priest sent in to take his place, he was assured,
was an excellent priest, young perhaps, but wise and virtuous, as any priest ought
to be. And besides, the arrangement was only for a few months.
He led his horse through the gate, Tim following close behind.
“Father, I . . .” There was something in the young seminarian’s voice, an
uneasiness that was quite recognizable, Father having heard it for many years in
the confessional. “I think I know what happened.”
Father Paul kept his horse moving, following the large circle that the buildings made, peering in through windows and open doors for any sign of life. Late
autumn leaves crunched under the horses’ hooves, muffling the sharp clack of
hoof on stone.
“By all means, Timothy, tell me.”
“Well . . .” There was that reluctance again. “The new priest was a fine man
and all. I mean, not as fine as you, but . . .” Tim trailed off, embarrassed. “Well,
anyway. He came here.” They passed an alley, scaring a stray cat into the gathering
shadows. “Everyone seemed to like him well enough. He preached well. I kept
servin’ the Mass. We chatted a couple o’ times. Nothin’ too deep. At any rate, I
kept pullin’ the flowers out o’ the fountain, like you an’ me have always done. I laid
‘em up--once they dried, o’ course--around the feet of the Virgin in the chapel,
just like you showed me. That was for the first month or so after you left. Then
I got this feeling growin’ in me, that I ought to go to the seminary, that I wanted
to become a priest. I hadn’t ever thought about marriage, really. So I thought
about it an’ prayed for a while, and then one day, I left. I felt it was the right time.”
He fell silent quite abruptly. Father Paul gently halted his horse in front of
the chapel, catching a glimpse of its stained glass image of St. John the Baptist
resplendent in the rays of the dying sun. He turned to look at Tim. They had
almost made a complete circuit, but Tim was staring sadly at the large fountain
in the very center of the circle.
“I knew it,” said Tim. He slid down from his horse and tied it up to the post
in front of the chapel. Father Paul did the same and followed the young man. Tim
knelt at the white stone fountain, a triangular pond with a little pearl-hued statue
of the Madonna and Child in its center. As Father Paul came nearer, he realized
that the water’s tinkling music was missing, and so was the large reservoir that
40 The Russell Creek Review
usually gathered in the fountain’s recess. Its covered aqueducts that ran under the
streets like insect’s legs echoed hollowly when he stepped on them. Peering into
the fountain, he saw molding mounds of dark, twiggy material heaped within.
“I didn’t tell him.” Tim, elbows propped on the edge of the fountain, hid
his face in his hands. “It’s my fault.”
“The priest was told, Timothy.” Father Paul sat on the fountain beside where
Tim knelt. “Something as important as the town’s only source of water would not
have been left for you alone to take care of.” He swung his legs around so that
he was seated with his feet in the fountain’s bottom. He dug his fingers into the
muck gathered there and pulled. It was stubborn. He yanked again.
“I should have told him again, should have reminded him--”
“Regardless of whether or not you had told him, his compliance was not
guaranteed. Cleaning the fountain was not your duty. It was his.” The mess finally
came free in Father’s hands, sending him rocking back. He caught himself and
flung it on the ground beside the fountain. Tim leapt up and clambered into the
fountain to help. The two men yanked on the debris in silence until Father Paul
was forced to rest, sweat rolling in great drops off of his face.
“Where did all o’ this come from?” asked Tim between grunts. “This can’t
all be flowers.”
Father Paul, panting, pointed behind him to a handful of tall trees that
encircled the fountain.
“Those trees . . . when they shed their leaves in fall, they make quite a mess.
It was my grandfather’s job to clean this fountain. He taught me that fall is the
season of greatest vigilance. The dead leaves come down in such great abundance
that often he, my father, and I would have to come clean it twice in one day.” He
paused, regaining his breath. “As you can see, they’ve made a mockery of this
mighty fountain. A few dead leaves is all it takes to freeze up the mechanisms.”
“Can it be fixed?” Tim asked.
“Anything can be fixed with the right skill and knowledge,” replied Father
Paul. He chuckled. “Unfortunately, I have neither the skill nor the knowledge
for this particular task. All I can do is what I’ve been taught to do.” He wiped
his brow and began again to dislodge the dead, slimy vegetation. Even with Tim
working continuously and Father Paul trying as often as he could, the choking
piles seemed endless. The last of the sunlight dwindled dangerously; they finally
surrendered as the first few stars peeked through the violet curtain of night.
“Well,” said Tim, examining their handiwork in the dim light, “that’s about
all we could have done.”
“That is all we can do for now. Let us kneel and ask the Virgin for her
prayers.”
They stepped outside of the fountain, knelt with their Rosaries and offered a
few roses to the Madonna. Then in silence they stood and retrieved their mounts
from the chapel. Father Paul pulled a lantern from the saddlebag and lit it, and
they shrugged on their cloaks.
“We will have to travel awhile, but there is a town quite close where we can
stay tonight,” said Father Paul.
Tim nodded and looked one last time at the fountain. In the light from
the lantern he could see their piles of black leaves next to it. They had indeed
worked hard; the piles were rather large, looking like little misshapen hills in the
dancing light. The light began to move away. Tim stepped back towards his horse,
The Russell Creek Review 41
feeling for the reins.
He saw a brief glint of light from the fountain and stopped. The lantern
light kept moving away, but Tim peered closely at the fountain, straining to catch
that glint again. It had very much resembled the elusive reflection of sunlight
on water. As he watched, it happened again. The lantern light dimmed more.
“Are you coming, Timothy?”
Timothy thought he saw the Madonna’s lips turn up ever so slightly into
a tender smile.
“Timothy?”
He laughed to himself, shook off his fancies, and clambered onto his horse.
“Yes, Father.” The men on their horses trotted off into the twilight, Father
Paul praying for a miracle, Timothy praying for forgiveness.
Behind them, in Horeb, the fountain sputtered, paused, and gave birth to a
bare trickle of pure water, while the Madonna and Child looked on.
42 The Russell Creek Review
My Friend Dep
Kaleb Harris
John grabbed his books from his locker, filling his backpack for the next
set of classes, although he did it rather unwillingly. All AP classes, classes he was
expected to take, classes he was expected to ace, classes his family set up for
him. John came from a long line of intellects: his dad was an aerospace engineer,
his mom a philosophy professor at the local college, and his sister was on her
way to finish her second Master’s degree in some area of science. He hardly
paid attention at this point. Of course, it was expected John would handle the
load easily, and why not? No one else in his family ever had to worry about being bogged down with work. In fact, most of his family enjoyed the work, but
John was never asked if he did. John was never asked if he really wanted to be
an intellect like his family. In fact, he hated it. He hated anything more than his
standard classes. If it was up to him, he’d be playing varsity basketball. In fact,
he had been on his way to starting on the team before he had to drop it in order
to keep up with the workload. John closed his locker and leaned his head against the door, hoping the cool
metal would calm his throbbing head. However, a loud banging of the locker next
to him forced him to look at the person next to him. John saw the black sneakers
and dark wash jeans, and he knew who was next to him.
“Hey, buddy.”
“Hey, Dep.”
“Aww, already looking so glum this morning?” Dep asked his friend. “I was up all night doing homework.” John rubbed his eyes, still tired from
his lack of sleep.
“Again? That’s the third time this week, and it’s just Wednesday.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me.”
The bell rang, signaling that students should start heading to class. John
sighed and began to shuffle over to his classroom. Dep followed close to his side,
dodging other students who were walking past. “Well, this all could be much worse. You could not be going to school at
all. You should be happy with your education.”
“Yes, Dep, I know.”
“Just reminding you. You know I like to keep things real.” John rolled his eyes as he and Dep entered the classroom. John sank into
his seat, putting his bag on his desk. “Oh, and don’t forget that AP paper is due tomorrow.”
John groaned and rubbed his temples. “That’s tomorrow? I forgot”
Dep shrugged. “Sorry, man. I’m at least glad I reminded you.”
“Yeah, thanks.” The second bell rang, signaling the beginning of the first
class of the day. John struggled to keep his eyes open but inevitably fell asleep,
hiding behind his backpack.
* * *
John pushed the food around his plate, although his appetite wasn’t satisfied. In fact, his stomach was rumbling and gurgling with noise, but John didn’t
want to eat. His thoughts were elsewhere, namely the pile of homework waiting
The Russell Creek Review 43
for him in his room, and eating didn’t seem like it would do any good for him.
John’s parents, however, didn’t notice their son’s lack of appetite. They continued
to laugh at their own jokes about work or whatever had interested them that day.
John didn’t care because he knew that they didn’t care about him; they just cared
about the grades on the reports from school.
John finally excused himself from the table, retreating to the kitchen to
dispose his food into the garbage. Returning to his room and closing the door
behind him, he sighed and looked at Dep, who was sitting on his bed reading a
comic book.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” John asked.
Dep shook his head. “Nope, I don’t have a problem with school work, so
I’m going to hang out with you while you do yours.”
John rolled his eyes. “Fine, just please keep quiet. I have a lot of work to
do so I don’t need a lot of distractions.”
“Hey, if that’s what you want, be my guest.”
John silently thanked God that Dep was going to listen to him for once,
turned on some music, and sat at his desk, trying to tackle his homework. An
hour passed, John making progress and finishing the easiest of his subjects rather
quickly. However, he was still having trouble understanding what was left of his
AP algebra homework.
“Dude, just give up on that; you’re never going to finish your work in a
reasonable time the more you work on that.” Dep spoke up for the first time
that night.
“I can’t. It’s the first part of a three part problem, so it has to be done.”
“Fine. Do whatever, though if I were you I’d just give up on doing all this
work anyway. You hate it, and you’re barely keeping up with the other valedictorian candidates, so what’s the point in struggling more and more with the work?”
“I’m doing it ’cause I have to.”
“Have to? Or ’cause your parents said you have to? I’m not dumb, John,
and surely you can see that they really don’t expect you to be a perfect child. They
just expect a perfect report card and for you to be accepted to a large university
and go there and be highest in your class just like they were.”
John slammed his pencil on the table, his frustration reaching a boiling
point. “I know all of that, Dep! It bugs me every day, but do they care about
what I feel? Not a single bit, so what’s the use in fighting it?”
“’Cause you know you are far from perfect like they want you to be.”
Dep’s words rang with truth, and John accepted them again. He knew every
passing day that he was worthless in his parents’ eyes. All they saw were grades
and the next prodigy in the family line, not John.
Getting up from the bed, Dep walked up to John and wrapped an arm
around him.
“Hey, listen to me, buddy; I know a perfect way out of this.”
John looked up at Dep. “You do?”
“Sure do, but first there are some things that we need to do.”
“Like what?”
Dep swung John’s chair to where he was facing his computer. “First, you
need to write a letter, and make sure that you say everything that you are feeling.
Don’t leave out a single detail.”
“Alright, but I’m not really sure how this is gonna help.”
44 The Russell Creek Review
“No, believe me, it’s really essential. It helps let everyone know what you
really feel.”
John shrugged and began typing on his computer. He found that his
thoughts flowed well, and the more he typed, the faster he wrote and the more
upset he became. He became angrier and more frustrated, having to think about
how much that they had taken away from him. He became sad and lonely when
he discussed how he had few to no other friends besides Dep. No, he had to
constantly work, work, and work just to barely meet his daily quotas. On top of
that, the only people he seemed to be attempting to please were his parents, and
they barely cared at all.
Although only ten minutes had passed, John finished his letter, two and a
half pages worth of pain that flowed through his fingers. Dep leaned over his
friend’s shoulder and read it.
“Dang, nice letter. I can really feel how much you’re hurting.”
“Well, it’s how I feel.”
“Perfect. Now that’s just step one. The second step is a bit smaller.” Dep
turned John’s rotating chair and pointed him at his closet. “Inside there I know
there is one thing left from your basketball ambitions.”
“My junior varsity jersey.”
“Yes, that one. You got to go one season before they piled everything on
you your sophomore year. Why don’t you put it on? Get the feeling of wearing
a jersey again.”
John nodded in agreement, getting into his closet and pulling the jersey off
the hanger. Red and white mesh, cheap and familiar. It was the only real chance
that John had at playing any sport at all. He slid the jersey on his body for the
first time since he last played, feeling the fabric on his skin. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Dep asked.
“Yeah, it does. It’s been a long time.”
Dep smiled. “I thought this was a good choice. Now there’s only one thing
that’s left.”
John looked at his friend, wide-eyed. “What is it? I’ll be glad to get out of
here.”
Dep nodded. “Now this is the one thing I know may make you think hard
about your decision.”
“I don’t care anymore. I’ll do anything to be out of this situation.”
Dep leveled his gaze, staring straight at his friend. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I haven’t felt this strongly about this in a long time.”
Dep reached out and opened the window. “Then jump.”
“Jump?”
“Yes, jump; get out of this house and out of this life. End all the pain, all
of the hurt and the anger that you feel.”
John looked out the window. Three stories separated John’s windowsill from
the ground. “Are you sure that this is a good idea?”
Dep nodded. “I’m looking out for you. This is the best decision I know.”
John sighed and looked down at the ground. “Thanks, Dep. You really are
my best friend.”
Dep smirked and shook his head. “Nah, it’s just you.”
John turned and watched as his friend disappeared into thin air, leaving
him alone with his decision.
The Russell Creek Review 45
An Encounter with a Legend
Sarah Johnson
“If you would please step out of the carriage, Milady,” the masked man said
with a wave of his hand and a gallant bow. I knew I should be frightened, but the
gallantry of this gentleman calmed me despite the fact that he was robbing us. I
placed my gloved hand into his and stepped out of the carriage.
Once outside I looked around and saw a band of men and young boys
encircling the horses to block the road so we could not move. The two drivers
were tied up to the nearest tree with three of the men pointing arrows at them.
This scene brought my fear rushing back. Their leader must have seen it in my
eyes because he lowered his mask and his features began to soften.
“Little John, bring me some water for our guest,” the man said as he escorted
me to a tree stump and gestured for me to sit.
With a motion of his hand, the men lowered their bows and relaxed. A giant
man came up to me and offered a canteen of water. Was this Little John? More
like Giant John, I thought to myself. After a few moments of staring, he smiled
and placed the canteen in one of my hand’s, manually wrapping my other hand
round it to secure it in my grasp.
“Here,” he said with a slight chuckle and walked away.
While taking a sip of the water, I kept my eyes leveled over the brim of
the canteen on the leader. Why was he being so polite if he was just going to
rob me of all my jewels? He would probably take the horses and carriage if the
stories I had heard at court were true. That would mean I had to make my way
to Nottingham on foot, a full ten miles down the road based on the last wooden
road marker. I groaned inwardly at the thought. Either this bandit would kill me
or the walk would. Might as well get it over with quickly.
“I don’t have much of value with me, Sir. Only what is in my handbag.
Here, take it and let me go, please.”
The words came out in a rush. Mother would not be pleased. She always
said I talked too quickly, but this was different, not a social chat with the most
eligible noble at court. This was a plea for my life. I held my handbag out to
him and began to stand.
“Wait, Lady Madeline,” he said, placing his hands on my shoulders and
guiding me back down. “I’m not after your gold. To be honest, you weren’t who
I was expecting.”
Expecting? “How do you know my name? I don’t know who you are.”
“Now, Milady, I think you know who I am,” he said with a pointed look.
A group of men with bows and arrows all wearing outfits of assorted colors
of green—yes, I knew who this man was.
“Yes, Sir, I know you are Robin Hood. I know you unfairly rob from the
rich nobles of this kingdom.”
I had heard stories of Robin Hood and his “band of merry men,” as they
were called by the courtiers around Prince John’s court. Most believed he was
nothing better than a common criminal. There were a few, like my sister, who
believed he was doing good by giving money to the poor. I didn’t agree. I loved
the grand feasts that Prince John hosted often at the palace. They offered a chance
to mingle and dance. My sister lectured me when I came home from each one,
46 The Russell Creek Review
saying “Prince John over-taxes the people; that is how he gets the money to fund
his grand parties.”
After a long silence, Robin Hood finally spoke. “You are nothing like your
sister.”
“H-h-how do you know Marian?”
He threw back his head and laughed and continued to do so as he asked,
“Has she never spoken of me?”
Marian had spoken of him often enough, but I had no idea she knew Robin
Hood personally. “Marian has told me many stories about you and your men, but
I thought they were just stories.”
“I see,” he said, still smiling. “Maid Marian and I often meet to discuss what
is happening in the court of Prince John. In a way, your sister is my eyes and ears
into the world of the rich nobles and aristocrats. We planned a rendezvous for
today. In order to fool the drivers and make it seem as though Marian and I don’t
know each other, I decided to make our encounter look like a robbery. Plus, my
men are always looking for a bit of fun.” His grin was mischievous.
“But Marian could not come today; she said she had to meet with Friar
Tuck.”
“Yes,” he said, taking a seat on the grass next to my stump. “Imagine my
surprise when I opened your carriage door and found a young girl cowering on
the floor boards instead of Marian greeting me with her usual smile.”
I blushed and looked at the ground. It was true. When the horses stopped
and I peeked out the window only to see Robin and his men surrounding the
carriage, I immediately dropped to the floor, hoping to hide. Why did you think he
wouldn’t find you? Foolish Madeline.
“She asked me to come to Nottingham to see our uncle instead.”
“Did she happen to give you a letter before you left?”
“Yes,” I said suspiciously, “but it’s for my uncle.”
“I doubt it. Let me see it.” He extended his hand. Reluctantly, I pulled the
letter from my reticule and slowly handed it to him. Robin Hood opened it then
looked at me with a smile.
“See, it’s for me,” he said with child-like glee. Sure enough, the top of the
letter said Robin, in Marian’s elegant handwriting.
“That is entirely too sneaky of her. She knew you were going to stop the
carriage and scare me. I can’t believe Marian would do this to me. Why didn’t
she warn me?”
“Would you have believed her? Think about it: a noble-woman aiding the
cause of the rebel and notorious thief Robin Hood. You would have thought
she was playing games with you.”
“This whole day seems like a game so far. Wait till I tell Father when I
return to London.”
At this statement Robin stood and turned very serious. “You must not
tell anyone that you met me here today. If it was known that Marian passes me
information, she would be arrested. Also my men would be in danger because
the location of our hideout could be guessed.”
I slumped my shoulders, understanding the gravity of the situation my
sister had put herself in. Robin was right; if Marian was found out she would
be imprisoned and Father would be stripped of his title and land. “I will tell no
one, Robin, I promise,” I said solemnly.
The Russell Creek Review 47
Taking my hand and helping me up, Robin Hood led me back to the carriage. “I knew we could count on you, Lady Madeline.” He turned toward his
men, calling, “Release the drivers so the lady can be on her way.”
Once released, the two drivers wasted no time getting back to the carriage.
“Be on your way,” Robin said to them. “Next time I might not let you go so
easily.” He turned away from them and winked at me, “I hope to see you soon,
Lady Madeline. Thank you for delivering the letter, and please give my best to
your sister.”
The carriage pulled away with loud shouts and urgings from the drivers for
the horses to go faster. As we got farther down the road, Robin swept his off
hat and gave me one final chivalrous bow.
48 The Russell Creek Review
Little Japan; photo by Susan A. Wright
The Russell Creek Review 49
Caitlyn’s Nightmare
Ian Shepard
Caitlyn ran through the kitchen and laughed joyfully as she guided her toy
airplane through precarious terrain. The wooden table was just low enough that
Caitlyn could reach over, the plane nearly skimming the polished surface before
bursting into open air. Caitlyn had scooted the chairs to the room’s edges so she
could play by the table unobstructed. Now, though, she utilized them to reach
even higher, climbing onto the closest chair and opening the top refrigerator door.
The plane flew through the chilling air from the freezer, a little shiver traveling
down Caitlyn’s arm. She closed the door, cutting off the blast of air before leaping
from the chair to the floor. Her sock feet slid on the tile flooring, Caitlyn barely
regaining her balance after her landing. She laughed again as her mother walked
into the room and shook her head.
“Alright, little girl,” her mother said. “It’s time for bed. I have to be at the
school early tomorrow to get the classroom ready for our Revolutionary War
activity. The British are almost out of eraser bullets.”
“Five more minutes? Then I promise I’ll go to sleep,” Caitlyn said.
“You said that five minutes ago,” her mother replied. “You’ll have plenty
of time to play tomorrow, sweetie.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll go to bed.” Caitlyn started to walk to her bedroom, but
her mother suddenly wrapped the little girl in her arms and showered her face
with kisses. Caitlyn laughed and playfully pushed her mother away, though secretly she didn’t mind the attention. Caitlyn loved the way her mother’s dark hair
cascaded down and tickled her face. Her mother carried Caitlyn to her bedroom,
placing her on the bed and then pulling the sheets aside to tuck her in. Caitlyn
crawled over to her bright green pillows and laid her head down, smiling as her
mother covered her up.
“Now I’d better not hear you playing, or I’ll come in here and snatch you up,”
her mother said. With that, she kissed Caitlyn’s forehead and turned out the lights.
For some reason, the word snatch made Caitlyn shiver.
Caitlyn kept her eyes closed at first but found it difficult to fall asleep. No
matter how she positioned herself, she couldn’t get comfortable. Lying on her back
made her back hurt, so she turned to her side. Now her legs were uncomfortable,
and she changed to her belly. Lying on her belly made her neck hurt, no matter
whether she looked to right or to the left. She turned onto her back again and
opened her eyes. She gasped as she noticed a hand reaching down to grab her.
Caitlyn shuddered and pulled the covers over her head, keeping her eyes
open and staring at the blackness beneath her blankets. No one pulled the covers
away. Slowly, she peeked out from beneath the blankets. The moonlight streaming through the branches of a tree outside her window created a shadow on the
ceiling, like a bony hand reaching out to grab her.
I’ll Snatch you up, said a voice in her head. I’ll Snatch you. Caitlyn looked
around her room, her heart pounding in her chest. On the opposite wall was her
bookshelf, covered in children’s books her mother had just bought her. To the
right of the bookshelf was her laundry hamper, filled with dirty clothes. Tomorrow was laundry day, when she would help her mother load the clothes into the
washer to get them nice and clean. As she looked at her clothes, she caught sight
50 The Russell Creek Review
of something in the corner of her vision. It was a man in a dark coat, snarling at
her with ugly pointed teeth and bright red eyes. Her breath caught in her throat,
and she turned to look at him. She breathed a sigh of relief. There was no man
there to snatch her away – just her coat, sitting on a coat hanger.
“I need to go see Mommy,” Caitlyn said to herself. “She’ll protect me from
Snatch.”
You’re never safe from me.
Caitlyn pushed her green covers aside and jumped to the floor, quickly running out the door and across the hall to her parents’ room. Her mother would be
there alone this night; her father had left the day before to go on a business trip.
Caitlyn pushed past the white wooden door and entered the room. No windows
let moonlight into this room; Caitlyn stared into the darkness and squinted her
eyes, trying to see her mother. She could just make out the silhouette of blankets
on the bed. They were flat. Her mother wasn’t here.
But I am.
Caitlyn tried to scream as the mass of blankets suddenly rose up, a tower
of darkness that slowly reached out to take hold of her. Her voice caught in her
throat, no sound escaping as the grasping hand came closer. She turned to the
door and found it locked. She struggled to unlock the door, her fingers slipping
off of the small gold lock in the center of the doorknob. She couldn’t grab it, and
now she felt Snatch looming over her, his red eyes and sharp teeth hovering right
behind her. Caitlyn tried to scream one more time, and this time made a sound.
Her voice pierced the shroud of darkness around her, the door swinging open
and a pair of hands quickly pulling her away from Snatch. Her mother slammed
the door and then wrapped Caitlyn in her arms.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Caitlyn sobbed and hugged her mother, burying her face into her dark hair.
Her mother’s arms wrapped tightly around Caitlyn and brought her comfort.
Even Snatch couldn’t steal her from this sacred embrace. “He almost got me,
Mommy,” Caitlyn replied. “I was so scared.”
“I know, sweetie,” her mother said. “You’re safe with me.”
Caitlyn lifted her head and looked at her mother through eyes full of tears.
“You think he’ll get scared if we throw some eraser bullets at him?”
Her mother laughed and rose to her feet. “Maybe he will,” she replied. “I’ll
go and get some. You go to the living room and stay there, okay? I’ll be right
back, and then I won’t leave you again.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Caitlyn said.
“You’ll be safe. I’ll just be gone for one minute.”
Caitlyn nodded and made her way through the hall, taking the left fork to
the living room instead of walking into the kitchen. The focal point of the living
room was the television, where her family would gather to watch their favorite
Saturday morning cartoons or Disney movies. Rather than a sofa, her parents
used bean bag chairs as furniture. The wall opposite the television was decorated
with pictures of the family. Caitlyn, her parents, their parents--each one made an
appearance on the picture wall.
Caitlyn stayed away from the bean bags. She knew Snatch could be in any
one of them, waiting to swallow her up forever. Instead she stayed close to the
wall and looked at the pictures. Seeing her mother and father on the wall gave
her courage and made her feel safe. She imagined her mother kissing her face or
The Russell Creek Review 51
her father’s gentle hands tickling her belly. The thought made her smile. As she
looked at the photos, she noticed that every picture had an identical flaw: red
eye. Every person in every photograph had red eyes, including the picture of her.
She screamed when she noticed her pointed teeth in the photograph. She
jumped back from the photo wall and turned to run, gasping as she realized she’d
moved too close to the bean bag chairs. Snatch could reach her from there! The
television suddenly turned on with a flash of white on the screen as the signature
humming sound indicated that an image would soon appear. She stared at the
screen, her eyes locked even though she feared what would appear. Nothing happened. The screen was on, the subtle keening of the television echoed through
the room, but nothing happened.
I have you now, and I’ll never let you go.
Caitlyn jumped and turned about, nearly crashing into her mother as she
stepped into the living room. Caitlyn jumped into her mother’s arms and cried,
her shoulders shaking as powerful sobs wracked her body.
“I’m so scared, Mommy,” Caitlyn said. “Snatch is everywhere. He’s in my
room, your room, in the pictures, in my brain. I can’t get away. He’s gonna get
me, he’s gonna snatch me up and I’ll never see you again. I’m not safe, Mommy,
I’m not safe.”
“Of course you are, sweetie,” her mother reassured. “I have you now, and
I’ll never let you go.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught in her throat. She realized that her mother’s arms
were gripping her tightly, much tighter than her mother ever held her. Her hair
no longer tickled Caitlyn’s face but clung to it like grasping fingers. Caitlyn looked
up at her mother’s face. Red eyes greeted her and pointed teeth glistened with
expectation.
“I told you I’d snatch you up,” she said, “if you didn’t go to sleep.”
Caitlyn screamed as her mother’s dark hair swirled all around her and swallowed her.
52 The Russell Creek Review
Editorial Policies
The editorial staff of The Russell Creek Review encourages submissions of
poetry, short fiction, creative nonfiction, and artwork from the Campbellsville
University community, including faculty, staff, and alumni, as well as current
students. While preserving the freedom of creative expression, standards of decency regarding language and images are carefully observed. The editors reserve
the right to edit both the form and, in rare cases, the content of submissions.
Final decisions regarding the acceptance or rejection of questionable content are
reserved for the editorial staff.
All written submissions to The Russell Creek Review must be typed and contain
the following information: name, phone number, local address, class, major, and
hometown of the writer/artist. Artwork and photographs should be submitted camera-ready, mostly in black and white, although we do accept one or two
color works each year. Any submissions accepted for publication must be sent
electronically to the editorial staff by the deadline announced upon acceptance.
The ideas and views expressed in The Russell Creek Review are solely those
of the writers/artists and do not necessarily reflect the ideas and views of either
the editorial staff or Campbellsville University itself.
Comments and inquiries may be e-mailed to:
Dr. Susan A. Wright
[email protected]
This publication made manifest by Royal Palm Press of Punta Gorda, Florida.
www.rppress.com