The
Russell Creek
Review
The Literary and Visual Arts Journal
of
Campbellsville University
2015
Division of Humanities
Editorial Staff
Editor-in-Chief: Dr. Susan A. Wright
Associate Editor and Layout Drudge: Dr. Judith Collins
Assistant Editors:
Marie L. Ego
Serena Kotter
Tyler Magruder
Bethany McIntosh
Janelle Wilhelm
Cover Art Credits
Front cover:
Untitled
by Josh Williams
Back cover:
“Nice, France”
by Jarrod Ball
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
1
1
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
10
11
12
14
15
16
Photographs
17
17
18
19
20
Creative Non-Fiction
21
21
22
23
24
25
Drama
27
27
29
33
Jarrod Ball
Holly Bowles
Marie L. Ego
Marie L. Ego
Marie L. Ego
Marie L. Ego
Marie L. Ego
Thomas R Jeffrey
Tyler Magruder
Tyler Magruder
Bethany McIntosh
Janelle Wilhelm
Janelle Wilhelm
Janelle Wilhelm
Jackie Woolums
Molli Guelde
Josh Williams
Josh Williams
Beverly Ennis
Untitled
Constellations
Untitled
Birth of a Ghanaian Pot
Untitled
The African Potter
Cemetery Morning
Springtime
Alone in the Dark
The Inscription Read
Puppet
Los Niños
How to Be Attractive
A Postcard from Manila
Rain
Kouraj
Untitled
Untitled
Big Bird
Jarrod BallUntitled
Rick Wilson
Sasha in the Snow
Thomas R. Jeffrey Idiot
Bethany McIntosh The Chosen One
Ramiro Perozo Morles Who Is Stupid?
Molli Guelde
Holly Bowles
Tyler Magruder
Beauty of Paris
Your Wish Can Be Appealed
Mr. Broadburn’s Legs
Editorial Policies
v
36
The Russell Creek Review 1
Poetry
photo by Jarrod Ball
The Russell Creek Review 3
Constellations
Holly Bowles
Constellations are
just connect-the-dots we play
with space’s freckles.
4 The Russell Creek Review
photo by Marie L. Ego
The Russell Creek Review 5
Birth of a Ghanaian Pot
Marie L. Ego
Her hands
reach into the depths of the earth
for unblemished material;
she brings forth
silt of ages past,
without an umbilical cord,
dug with the strength of a woman.
She releases her energy
into the form,
dancing around
and around,
patting,
tapping,
shaping
creation
born of the joy and sorrow of
a woman.
A cornhusk
presses and slides
across the slick outer surface,
a stone dent is
meticulously placed,
forever designed with the truth of a woman.
Infinite patience.
Among the twigs and sticks
of special trees,
in a fire circle,
smoke
swirls
around her to tweak the
nose of the child on her back.
Protected only by a long stick,
she shakes the vessel
free of burning ash
as she twirls
the clay-made-pot
against a huge shard,
calabash-like,
filled with shredded bark
and water,
now marked black and orange.
A womb image,
the treasure of a woman;
she, who has no mirror,
holds in her hand
Creation reflective of all women.
6 The Russell Creek Review
photo by Marie L. Ego
The Russell Creek Review 7
The African Potter
Marie L. Ego
I met a woman
in a village
miles from the highway,
where the dirt road
turns to a track.
She created a beautiful pot.
Her eyes watched
the white-skinned visitors.
The people with us
explained she is crazy.
She created a beautiful pot.
Her hand held the clay
reverently;
knowingly,
she pressed and molded
the soft, moist earth,
forming a work of art.
She is basa basa,
they said.
She created a beautiful pot.
Her eyes watched
the white skins, and her hand
formed the clay;
her face was without
a smile.
The joy was in her pot.
8 The Russell Creek Review
Cemetery Mornings
Marie L. Ego
Mist reaching
up the valley
to clutch
the throat of
summer-fall,
leaves
arrive in one pile
as the Ginko tree
basks in the
early morning sun
and little gets done.
Surrounded in beauty,
leaves fall
in slow motion,
and frost arrives
to shroud the stones
which stand
as a violation
of the mystery,
carrying names of
the ones before
us whose
energy is eternal.
Time paused,
the land sings to spring.
The Russell Creek Review 9
Springtime
Thomas R. Jeffrey
Let’s you and I lie down,
Under this cloudless sky,
Just beyond the shadow of that tree,
In that spot sprinkled with dandelions.
Let us not talk,
But listen to the bees whisper
And the birds sing,
Urging us “Be. Here. Now.”
Let us not touch,
But feel the wind caress our skin
As it wafts across the field
Like the rolling waves of a lush green ocean.
Let us not kiss,
Not yet, anyway,
Because I am afraid it would be
Altogether too sublime.
No, let us dance
An ethereal dance to these
Transcendent rhythms,
Our hearts rising in wonder.
10 The Russell Creek Review
Alone in the dark
Tyler Magruder
Alone in the dark.
Strike a match and light a lamp.
Alone in the light.
The inscription read
Tyler Magruder
The inscription read
“Only gold lasts forever”
on the gilded tomb.
The Russell Creek Review 11
Puppet
Bethany McIntosh
There it is again: the string pulled taut
under the skin. Snaps the mind back
to a single point: all for naught.
White shoulders wrenched into a knot
of wood (Stand straight! Stand tall!) with a dry crack;
There it is again: the string pulled taut
And threaded through each limb. Thought
takes a fleeing hare’s wild track
to a single point: all for naught.
And the thread pulls tight,
every limb pulls in, clenched, wracked—
There it is again: the string pulled taut.
Pining, protesting joints stiffen in the winter—
frozen, curling toes; lungs; spine on the rack—
There it is again: all for naught.
What?
And there it is again: the string pulled taut,
arms yanked up and cranked into motion.
I’m thinking. Right?
Head hurts with the thudding hare’s wild, repetitive track;
There it is again: the string pulled tight
And stop. What?
There it is, the string pulled taut;
Someone’s carved a name into the wood
at a single point: “all for Naught.”
The outside splinters—the string is too tight
and the stress is too much, it might—
There it is again: the string pulled taut
To a single point: all for naught.
12 The Russell Creek Review
Los Niños
Janelle Wilhelm
—¿De dónde eres?
—Soy de América.1
I.
A classroom in a snow-clad city—
Conversation Day.
A roar of voices, each one warring
to be heard above the rest.
In pairs the students practice phrases:
¿Dónde vives? ¿Cómo estás?
Read the questions, read the replies.
Repeat. Rehearse. Rehearse. Repeat.
This is pointless, one young man mutters,
his sullen blue eyes fixed on his desk.
His partner ventures, ¿Cómo te llamas?
He says his name—nothing more.
II.
A restaurant in a little town—
Sunday afternoon.
A man is eating chips and salsa,
his tie bright blue against his shirt.
He says, I’ll take the polo2 loco.
The waiter smiles and writes it down.
III.
A small home in an arid place—
the weary after-work hours.
The living room is dark
besides the television’s ghostly glow.
The woman at the kitchen table,
distracted from her open book,
sees through the doorway a parade
of images onscreen: first fences,
then a protest, and people holding signs,
and then… Oh, no. Not this again.
A banner scrolls past over the picture,
ferrying familiar, hateful words
across the screen: Aliens. Illegal.
And of course, Deport.
1
2
Where are you from? I am from America.
Not a typo.
The Russell Creek Review 13
White text glides through the flat red banner.
Behind the words are grubby children.
The baby kicks. Ah yes—the book.
Oh Dios, tú eres mi Dios, yo te busco intensamente…
—They’re calling them invaders.
Mi alma tiene sed de ti; todo mi ser te anhela…
—They call them a disease.
…cual tierra seca, extenuada y sedienta.3
The TV flashes. She shuts the book.
Her husband has changed the channel; now
some cartoon girl with big doe eyes
and violet hair is on the screen.
She speaks without an accent, her skin
is pale and clean, her yellow dress brand-new,
a perfect fit.
The woman turns away her face.
The spangled flag hangs on the wall.
“This land is my land,” says the song.
The land of the free, the home of the brave.
One lady, clad in green, once said:
Denme sus cansados, sus pobres,
sus masas hacinadas anhelando respirar libremente—4
Well, why should she have mentioned babies?
The child moves again inside her.
Soon she will be here, small, helpless,
hopelessly brown.
They cannot make her leave—but will they try?
Will there be protests at her birth?
Or signs held up outside her school?
Will people tell her, “Go back home”?
This is her home. She has no other.
And somewhere someone else’s children
—hungry—tired—scared—alone—
will ever crave and never hear
the words the mother whispers in the night:
Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos.5
3
Psalm 63:1 (Nueva Versión Internacional)
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free (Lazarus, “The
New Colossus”).
5
Welcome to the United States.
4
14 The Russell Creek Review
How to be Attractive
Janelle Wilhelm
You want to be well-known and liked?
Be sexy, then! Here’s my advice:
Be bronze or tan, not black or pale,
And have no wrinkles, pores, or scales.
Expose your body—butt and bust—
But hide your face with creams and blush.
And show no mercy to your hair;
Let neither heat nor wax be spared.
Don’t ever eat, and if you do,
Be sure to throw it up, and soon.
Neglect your mind, but not your looks,
Though it may mean your pocketbook.
Should all these measures fail to please,
Try surgery for what you need.
Obey these rules above all else,
And always hate your natural self.
Remember this, although it’s hard:
Appearance dictates who you are.
The Russell Creek Review 15
A Postcard from Manila
Janelle Wilhelm
Walls patched with cardboard.
Children playing in garbage.
Mega church nearby.
16 The Russell Creek Review
Rain
Jackie Woolums
You come to me cloudy,
Thunder in your head.
I say nothing, just watch.
I wait.
Your hands feel like a cold front
Over my warm body,
And I wait for the storm.
I wait for the clouds.
You remind me of summertime
When the rain comes,
And leaves without a trace.
I wait for the sun.
The sun warms and dries,
Leaving no sign of the storm.
And you leave.
I wait.
You will come back again,
Like a quick summer shower
Washing over me.
The Russell Creek Review 17
Photographs
“Kouraj” by Molli Guelde
photo by
Josh Williams
18 The Russell Creek Review
photo by
Josh Williams
The Russell Creek Review 19
20 The Russell Creek Review
“Big Bird” by Beverly Ennis
The Russell Creek Review 21
Creative Non-Fiction
photo by Jarrod Ball
22 The Russell Creek Review
“Sasha in the Snow” by Rick Wilson
The Russell Creek Review 23
Idiot
Thomas R. Jeffrey
It’s sloppy outside. A day of rain on top of a foot of snow has made a layer
of slush. I stand on the steps of the back porch, wearing my bathrobe and trying
to goad my dog, Sasha, into going into the mess to do her business. She is too
spoiled to walk more than a few paces off the back steps. At first I encouraged,
but now I demand. She is not persuaded by either tone and simply stares at me
with a look of disdain. My attention is distracted when I hear a diesel truck’s loud
chugging coming from across the back lot. I watch as a rugged, middle-aged man
finishes connecting a tow line from the bumper of a car stuck in the icy mire to
the back bumper of his four-wheel drive. He says something to the car’s driver,
then climbs into the cab and proceeds to inch expertly ahead until the tow line is
taut. The truck driver then revs the engine and tugs a few times as the stuck car
shudders with tension but does not budge. I can tell the truck driver doesn’t want
to yank with all the truck’s force for fear of ripping off the car’s flimsy bumper.
After one more tug and no results, the truck driver opens the door, climbs
partially out of the cab, and yells at the driver, “Punch it a little, damn it!”
He slides back into the truck and pulls again. The car’s engine revs, and
in no time, the car has broken free. The truck driver exits the cab and quickly
uncouples the two vehicles. In the meantime, the car driver has opened the door
and stands behind it as though keeping a shield between his rescuer and himself.
He seems to be verbalizing his gratitude to the truck driver, though I can’t hear
what is said. In one smooth motion, the truck driver flings the tow line into the
back of his truck and raises his hand in a half-hearted acknowledgement. In
seconds the diesel truck has rumbled away, and the driver stands in the cold for
a long second, staring blankly at where the truck has just been.
I don’t know what he is thinking. I’ve been transported to my younger days
in East Texas. I can smell the sharp scent of pine and feel the cool damp of
early spring. I can smell the dank aroma of red clay that has been churned into
mush by spinning tires. I can even sense my own gratitude for being helped out
of a foolish situation.
A short bark draws me from my reverie, and I turn to see Sasha standing
by the back door. She knows when I am not paying attention and has stealthily
made her way past me to wait impatiently for the warmth inside. Frustrated,
I start to tell her to do her business but am quickly quieted when she tilts her
head slightly and raises one eyebrow. I know that look. It is the same look the
truck driver gave the guy in the car, the same look the old cowboy gave me as he
drove away shaking his head – condescension, buffered with the slightest bit of
compassion for the human condition – a look reserved for those who are basically good people but who just don’t seem to get it. It says, very simply, “Idiot!”
24 The Russell Creek Review
The Chosen One
Bethany McIntosh
I was with my church in downtown St. Louis, working outside a homeless
shelter housed inside one of the older, ornate buildings. Our job was to paint a
fence around their grounds, and we were having a grand time singing at the top
of our lungs. We’d just finished up “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” (in honor
of the baseball game we would see that night) when an older man with a cane
and maybe five assorted teeth walked up beside us, shouting the end of the
song along with us. He ended it with his arms—cane in hand—thrown in the
air, shouting some nonsensical, animal noise, head flung back, looking toward
the sky. One girl smiled, saying encouragingly, “That’s the spirit!”—and that was
our fatal mistake. The man lowered his arms, eyeing the girl, and in a stern voice
rebuked her: “No. I’ll tell you about the Spirit.” And he began to tell us the story
of the Prodigal Son.
We knew the story, and we all agreed with him, nodding and giving our affirmation. I began to inch my way down the fence to be further away from him,
but no one else seemed to find him as unnerving as I did. He began insisting,
loudly and emphatically, that we didn’t understand; when one of our leaders tried
to calm him and make him leave, his language grew much more colorful as he
told her that she could go to Hell; she told us later that she was sure she smelled
alcohol on his breath and something else she couldn’t recognize on his clothes. Others from our group, who had been working on the other side of the building,
arrived, hauling wheelbarrows of dirt from digging up dead bushes. Of course,
this scene drew their attention, and the group grew in a semi-circle around the
man. He still talked, speech slurred and sentences incomprehensible—he was
the prodigal son, we were all doomed to Hell, we didn’t understand and never
would. I was quite relieved to see all the people because somehow I had ended
up in the center of the crowd, both my shoulders pressing into others’ from our
group.
Suddenly, he asked us our names, going around the circle methodically. We
had nothing to hide, so we just looked at each other as he pointed to each one
of us and in turn gave our names. After going around the semi-circle, he pointed
a gnarled, bony finger right at my nose, shouting, “You are the Chosen One!”
Immediately, he knelt at my feet, yelling, “I am Jesus, and you are Mary Magdalene!” His fists were in the air, desperate as a forgotten prophet. I was terrified.
Someone ran inside to call the security guard from the shelter, and when
the man came outside, it was obvious that the two knew each other and that the
self-proclaimed Jesus was not too happy to see the guard. He backed up, reluctant to leave, but slowly wandered away, shouting unintelligible phrases over his
shoulder. I realized I was shaking.
Prophets always seemed so tragically misunderstood; now I understood why.
The Russell Creek Review 25
Who is Stupid?
Ramiro Perozo Morles
Some people say it is a matter of education, while others believe that it is
caused by the way a person was raised. Whatever might be the reason, people
often underestimate others. I do not know if it is due to ignorance or arrogance,
but my dear uncle Elvis Perozo told me, “No one should be misjudged no matter
what background or appearance they may have.” He was a decent man who had
neither completed high school nor learned how to use a computer, although he
finally got a job as a waiter at a small bar in my hometown, after being a mason
for several years. I looked up to him.
My hometown is a very small place. It is so small that it looks like a grain
of sand on the Venezuelan map. The church bells ring and announce the time to
the people every morning. Like a typical small town, everybody knows everybody.
Also like a usual small town, there are a few people who everyone likes to call
stupid, dumb, foolish, and idiotic. I remember in particular one of these outcasts.
He did not talk too much, and he kept to himself. His face was like the moon;
however, it was not because of its beauty, it was because of the crater-like scars
in his skin. His hair was both messy and coarse like straw, and his body odor was
so terrible it smelled worse than a skunk. In addition, his clothes were not only
old-fashioned but also three sizes too big. The most important part was that,
unfortunately, the townspeople messed with him every day.
This foolish, odd, quiet man used to go at the end of every day to a local
bar called Cuatro Esquinas, which was in Los Puertos de Altagracia. The rustic
bar was filled with old photos as well as memorabilia hanging on the wall. The
pool table was well-worn and the dart board covered in holes. The rickety stools
and tables were marked with countless people’s names carved into the wood.
The bar, although almost uglier than the man, was crowded every night with the
same individuals, smoking, laughing, and telling stories.
This rundown bar was where the outcast usually drank a coke, read the
newspaper, and played with straws. As usual, all the people who normally gathered there both made fun of him and played the same joke on him. They always
showed him two dollar bills; one with the value of one dollar and the other with
the value of ten dollars. They always asked him, “Which bill do you like more?
And you can take it.” Unexpectedly, the man always chose the one dollar bill. His
reaction made everyone in the bar laugh. Some people even cruelly laughed in his
face until either the joke was not funny anymore or they got tired. This scenario
happened over and over until it became the joke of the town.
One day, my uncle, who was a waiter there, mustered up some courage, went
to him, and asked, “Are you really stupid? Have you not realized that people are
always laughing at you not only because you look like a vagabond but also at your
ignorance? Or do not you know that ten dollars are more than one? As a matter
of fact, why do you always take the dollar bill with less value?”
So, the simple man gave him a simple answer, “If one day I take the ten
dollar bill, the joke is not going to be funny for them anymore. It means that I
am going to stop earning one dollar per day. I would rather receive one dollar
every day than ten dollars only one day.”
The Russell Creek Review 27
Drama
“Beauty of Paris” by Molli Guelde
The Russell Creek Review 29
Your Wish Can Be Appealed
Holly Bowles
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
JULIE RAINES: One of the two Raines twins, this 11 year-old has a no-nonsense kind
of attitude towards life and makes snappy, logical decisions.
SHAWN RAINES: The other Raines twin, he has a whimsical side. He believes in the
fantastic and is convinced that magic exists in some form or another.
LAWRENCE (THE LAWYER): The legal representative for “HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIFIC HIGHNESS.” Utterly dry, LAWRENCE is of an
undeterminable age, but he appears to be a disgruntled, slightly overweight human male.
HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIFIC HIGHNESS: A hooded figure in
a dark cloak, HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIFIC HIGHNESS does not
speak, nor does he show his face. He is a magical entity from an alternate reality where silence
and dark fashion choices are prized in rulers and mages (of which he is both).
SCENE: A second-hand bookstore filled to the brim with stacks of old tomes, shelves full of
dusty hardbacks, and a few priceless books behind glass cases up at the front. JULIE and
SHAWN are looking through the books in a dark corner of the store, desperately searching
to find something that they both like.
[JULIE and SHAWN come into view as they walk down an aisle created by bookshelves.
They begin looking on either side of the aisle, each pulling a book down as they search.]
JULIE: [studying the spine of a heavy leather-bound book] This one looks pretty good,
Shawn. “Astronomy for the Beginner: How to Look at the Stars and See Them
Looking Back”. [flipping through the pages]. There aren’t too many big words in here
about science. You can handle this one.
SHAWN: Does it have any pictures of constellations? Like, big color drawings of
centaurs and Orion--oooh! I know! The Dog Star drinking out of the Big Dipper?
JULIE: No. But there are some mathematical formulas. You draw your own
pictures. I say we go with this one.
SHAWN: [sticks his tongue out at his sister] You forget, Julie, that Mom says that we
have to agree on a book to share, and nothing with formulas is making it on my
list. Unless, maybe, it’s a formula for some magical potion...
JULIE: You’re hopeless, Shawn.
[SHAWN continues searching, while JULIE looks sadly down at the astronomy book.]
SHAWN: Woah!
30 The Russell Creek Review
JULIE: What’d you find? [blowing air out of her mouth in a disgusted tone as she puts
her choice back onto the shelf]
SHAWN: Okay, follow me on this one: “Fireflies are Fairies Too: Why Insects
are Actually Magical Beings”. It’s a book about-JULIE: [interrupting her brother] Absolutely not. I am not struggling through another
one of your conspiracy theory choices again.
SHAWN: It’s not a conspiracy theory! Besides, this is almost like science. There
are bugs in it. Come on, I thought you’d like that about it. I’m just trying to find
something we both like.
JULIE: Shawn, if you think that anything having to do with fairies can also be
scientific, you’re crazy.
[SHAWN, looking longingly at the book, puts it slowly back onto the shelf. The siblings look
at each other and sigh, both at a loss at what to do.]
JULIE: [after a few moments of silence]. Maybe we should look together. We have to
find something soon if Mom’s gonna buy us anything. Something’s better than
nothing, you know?
SHAWN: You’re right. How about we stand together, close our eyes, and pick
something together? Whatever our hands touch first.
JULIE: Or we could keep our eyes open and pick something without tripping.
SHAWN: Right.
[Both walk down the aisle further downstage center. On stage right, the siblings both see a heavy,
black book with silver script on the side. A soft spotlight shines on the cover. They look at one
another, nod, and take it down together.]
JULIE AND SHAWN: “This is Definitely the Book You’re Looking For.”
JULIE: What kind of a title is that?
SHAWN: An awesome one.
JULIE: Yeah, right. It sounds stupid.
SHAWN: There’s only one way to find out. You’ll never know if you don’t look.
And I know how you are about finding things out. [winks slyly at his sister and holds
the book out to her invitingly]
JULIE: Fine. It’ll be stupid, and I’ll prove it to you.
[JULIE turns the first page, then the second, then begins flipping through.]
The Russell Creek Review 31
JULIE: Look, there’s nothing here. I told you!
SHAWN: Wait! You missed some writing on that page.
JULIE: Yeah, one page in an entire book. That’ll be really great. Hours of fun.
Let’s go find something else.
SHAWN: No, you have to read it. Come on, please? I’ll let you get that [struggles
over the word] astronomically book if you don’t like what it says.
JULIE: Astronomy, Shawn. And fine, I’ll read it. [pauses to clear her throat] “I invoke
a most sacred call across time and space to him that hears. Come to us now,
powerful one, and bring us our deepest desires.”
SHAWN: [awestruck] Awesome! I like it. It’s like poetry...
JULIE: Bad poetry. And Shawn, we’re not getting a book that has two sentences
in it. And that’s final. Now, where is that Astrono...
[Both siblings look up, speechless. LAWRENCE and HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND
HORRIFIC HIGHNESS have suddenly come up through the stage trapdoor, accompanied
by a cloud of smoke.]
LAWRENCE: Ahem. Yes, well, my name is Lawrence, and I am the legal representative of His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness, the entity who stands behind
me in the dark clothing to whom you must not address any of your questions or
requests. We are here at your summons, as is part of our legal duty, and we shall
give any requests that you make of us their due consideration.
SHAWN: Cool! I already decided what wishes I would want to ask for three
years ago.
LAWRENCE: Yes, well, you see, wishes are not-JULIE: [interrupting] This is ridiculous. Shawn, seriously. We can’t just request
things from strangers.
SHAWN: So you don’t actually believe that you read them here?
LAWRENCE: As I was saying-JULIE: [Visibly shaken] No. Of course not.
SHAWN: Fine. I get first dibs.
LAWRENCE: AHEM. Our contract with the makers of that book--which the
particulars of our legal agreements keep me from discussing around outside parties-binds His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness to do the bidding of the readers
of aforementioned book. My client can fulfill up to three approved requests.
32 The Russell Creek Review
SHAWN: So, I could ask you-LAWRENCE: Him, through me.
SHAWN: So I could ask Him, through you, to do whatever I want?
LAWRENCE: Every request has to be run through me for approval before it can
be carried out by His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness. He is not to be
simply ordered around. There are rules to be followed! Why, I have the ability to
deny any request made for any number of legal reasons that you human children
probably wouldn’t understand. However, any denied request can be appealed
through a lengthy process with lots of paperwork.
SHAWN: [to JULIE] I like him. Let’s keep him.
[JULIE, who has tried to look uninterested throughout this entire proceeding, begins to smile
widely.]
JULIE: Anyone who talks that much like a lawyer has to be real. [To SHAWN]
And I think we should keep them both. I think they’ll come in handy. [To LAWRENCE AND HIS MOST HONORIFIC HIGHNESS] We’ll start making wishes
when we get home.
LAWRENCE: Ahem, the correct terminology, if I may. Wishes are only for genies, and His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness is not a genie. He is a mage
and a prince. He grants requests.
SHAWN: Well, we’ll make cool requests to His Most Honoringly... Horrible...
Princeness when we get home. No worries.
[LAWRENCE puts his head in his hands. HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIBLE HIGHNESS shifts uncomfortably.]
JULIE: [To LAWRENCE] That’s my brother for you. You’ll learn to love him.
[JULIE smiles, waves, and shuts the book. LAWRENCE and HIS MOST HONORIFIC
AND HORRIBLE HIGHNESS disappear back through the stage trap door in a cloud
of smoke. She looks SHAWN in the eye] Shawn, you know what I just thought of ?
SHAWN: The fact that we have undeniable proof that magic exists? Or that we
should ask Mom if Lawrence could babysit us some time?
JULIE: [smiling widely] Better. We’re never going to have to share another book
again.
[The siblings high-five one another, then turn around and head offstage, book in JULIE’s
hand and arms linked.]
The Russell Creek Review 33
Mr. Broadburn’s Legs
Tyler Magruder
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
MR. BROADBURN: An average aristocrat, or so he was before he
woke up without legs.
BUTLER: A butler who takes care of Mr. Broadburn.
MS. PRETTER: A humble maid who takes care of Mr. Broadburn’s house.
SCENE: A large bedroom with a bed against a wall, with Mr. Broadburn asleep in the bed.
There’s a door on the other side of the room. The rest of the furnishings are insignificant.
[Mr. Broadburn awakens and tries to sit up. He then notices that his legs are missing, throws
his blanket off, and begins screaming.
MR. BROADBURN [screams]: My legs! Where are my legs? [He flails around and
eventually falls off the bed.] Help me! [He begins crawling to the door. The door opens
and Butler enters.]
BUTLER: Mr. Broadburn! What have we told you about crawling around in
your condition?
MR. BROADBURN: My condition? My condition? I’m missing my damn legs!
BUTLER [chiding]: Mr. Broadburn, having a condition does not give you leave to
go around making up stories.
MR. BROADBURN: Stories? Do you see my legs? Where are my legs!
BUTLER [quizzically]: I’m sorry, sir, but what are legs?
MR. BROADBURN: What are—I—what—legs! [Points at Butler’s legs] Those two…
things—limbs that you’re standing on, which I very clearly don’t have!
BUTLER: [looks down at his legs.] I’m sorry, Mr. Broadburn, but I simply don’t see
what it is you’re talking about. I can get you a cold glass of water and some
sleeping pills if you like; you are clearly frazzled.
MR. BROADBURN: [stares at Butler, confused.] I—yes, help me back into bed and
bring me a glass of water.
BUTLER: Right away, Mr. Broadburn. [Grabs Mr. Broadburn across the shoulders and
lifts him to bed and gingerly covers him in a blanket.] You’ll be all right, Mr. Broadburn.
You’ll see.
34 The Russell Creek Review
[Butler bows then walks to the door and exits. Mr. Broadburn closes his eyes and begins to
nod off. Ms. Pretter walks in and walks to the foot of the bed.]
MS. PRETTER: Excuse me, Mr. Broadburn, but are you feeling well today? You
seemed thoroughly distressed last night at the party.
MR. BROADBURN: [jumps at Ms. Pretter’s voice.] Who are you?
MS. PRETTER: Oh dear, you are feeling unwell. I’m Ms. Pretter. [Mr. Broadburn
stares blankly.] The maid. [Mr. Broadburn stares blankly.] Dammit, sir, I’ve only
served here twenty years of my life!
MR. BROADBURN: [shakes his head.] Sorry, but I’ve clearly had a rough day.
I’m not myself.
MS. PRETTER [smiling]: Well, I hope you get better soon; we can’t have you all
flustered for the ball tomorrow.
MR. BROADBURN: I’m sorry, the ball?
MS. PRETTER: The Hartmore Annual Ball. You best be feeling ship-shape then;
I hear the governor’s daughter is attending. [Winks suggestively.]
MR. BROADBURN: I’m sorry, but how am I expected to dance? I have no legs!
MS. PRETTER: Legs? Now that’s a new phrase. What’s a legs?
MR. BROADBURN [flustered]: Dammit! Not you, too! Legs! What I’m missing here! [Points to his stumps.] What you have there! [Points to Ms. Pretter’s legs]
MS. PRETTER [offended]: Why, Mr. Broadburn, I can’t believe you’d make such
crude suggestions! I am not going to legs with you if that’s what you’re asking!
MR. BROADBURN: That’s not what I mean! Ms. Pretter, walk to the door!
MS. PRETTER: I’m not going to model—
MR. BROADBURN: Just do it!
[Ms. Pretter takes a few confused steps towards the door.]
MR. BROADBURN: See! You’re walking!
MS. PRETTER: Of course I’m walking!
MR. BROADBURN: But what are you walking on?
MS. PRETTER: [Glances down at her legs, confused.] Well, what do you mean? I’m
walking.
The Russell Creek Review 35
MR. BROADBURN: [shouting loudly] You walk with your legs!
MS. PRETTER: No need to shout! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I find
this legs nonsense to be disturbing. I’m leaving before you force me to consider
early retirement. [Angry] Good day, Mr. Broadburn!
[Ms. Pretter forces open the door and almost runs into Butler, but Butler steps to the side and
Ms. Pretter storms past. Butler is carrying a glass of water.]
BUTLER: You seem to have upset her, Mr. Broadburn.
MR. BROADBURN: What did I do? All I did was ask her about my legs!
BUTLER: There you go again, sir, about those legs of yours. I honestly haven’t
the slightest clue as to what you are referring. [Butler walks to the bed.] Here, drink
this, sir. You are likely just dehydrated.
MR. BROADBURN: [Takes the cup of water and drinks it.] Thank you.
BUTLER: My pleasure, sir. Now I recommend taking a nap. Hopefully your
condition will pass, and you can make it to the ball tomorrow! Just imagine, sir,
dancing with the governor’s daughter!
MR. BROADBURN: [groans]
36 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