“Whispers of the Wind”
by Blaine Wilkey
T
he rain had subsided for the first time in days,
leaving the ground soaked through and the air
full of the smell damp decay. Water dripped from the
thatch roof of the smith, catching in puddles formed
on the muddy road. Shrouding the little village
of Thornstead was a thick mist, the ancient pines
emerging from it like giants, standing guard, eternally
vigilant, their gaze never leaving those who passed
through the forest roads of the Far North. Mountains
grew from the sea of pines and haze, reaching into the
steel-grey sky, their peaks lost to the heavens.
Thornstead itself was an unimposing place, quiet even
when the weather was decent, which was not often.
Sometimes a trading caravan would come through, sell
some wares, and head down the forest roads again, but
those times were far between. On days like that day,
most of villagers stayed indoors, many drinking at the
inn, and warming themselves at the hearth. Children
played in the mud, the scornful looks of their mothers
watching them as they scrubbed away the muddy
footprints left behind. Inside his forge, the blacksmith,
Harek, was hard at work.
(”Whispers of the Wind” continued on page 12)
“Vibrancy”
by Shaina Sawyer
When colors glide and engage,
And inspiration illuminates the page,
The artist is made.
Here, in this moment,
Created with particular dexterity
Carefully crafted components
Lain in perfectly timed transparency.
A bird, colored in vibrancy
Ecstatically captured for
Unfaltering brilliancy!
“Vibrancy” with drawing by Alyx Meece
“The Cardinal”
by Shaina Sawyer
T
he day began just as ordinarily as any other. Taking flight, I felt the morning breeze tickle my bright
crimson feathers, the mysterious touch of tender understanding so that I may properly guide my way
delicately through the sky. Life as a Cardinal was nothing short of simplistic. I had no worries to burden me. No
politics to decipher, no psychology to be diagnosed, no more despair in my day to day life. Unlike, the humans.
Such contradictory creatures. Claiming to seek understanding while casting judgment. Insisting that inner peace
can only be achieved by the destruction of the opposition. And yet, despite their best efforts they struggle to
defeat the worst inner monstrosity they will ever face; themselves.
The wind picked up as my natural instincts told me to flutter my wings. Once. Twice. I lowered the direction
of my beak as my body followed gracefully. Ah, the feeling of weightlessness escalated by the unprecedented
gift of flying. I require no coal, no electricity, no nuclear power to generate my daily travels. Although, I can
only wish the same for the humans. My beady eyes observe the continuous living that these beings conducted.
They drive their vehicles, spewing dangerous fumes that pollute the air. They fill their homes with expensive
technologies that continuously add to their electric bill. And they make threats to cause further harm to each
other with their possession of nuclear warfare.
(”The Cardinal” continued on page 14)
-2-
“If I was Real”
by Kaylene Humphreys
Those children would laugh with me,
Instead of at me, especially when they jump off me…
“Here” by Marlys Cervantes
I would fly through the trees,
Like those little things that look like me.
I don’t know what I am,
Or what they are,
I only know what those children say.
The thing above me is the sky,
And it’s blue I think.
They don’t know what I am either,
A chipmunk, or a squirrel?
But I think I’m the first,
With my big white strip,
But if I was real
I would not be stuck here,
I would be free to be me,
Not just a ride,
An accessory at a park.
I would be cute and be fed,
Like those rats with wings,
Or are they pigeons?
I want to be free.
“Catherine” by Derek McGrath
“Story is a search for community.” ~ Christiana Baldwin
C
hristiana Baldwin makes a valid point. Our Creator created us to fellowship and become members of
a larger community. Sort of a, “No man is an island.” Sort of Idea is presented here. I also agree that
within our own stories, is the essence of our true selves, and that in turn helps us to associate with those who are
much like us.
The Bible is told primarily through individual stories. Even the teachings of Jesus were in large part, taught
with the assistance of stories and parables. Stories help us to understand, remember, and retain spiritual concepts
and our histories because they give us mental images that help us latch onto and retain that knowledge.
-3-
(”Catherine” continued on page 15)
“Escape”
by Rita Ann Windle
The music pounding in my head,
taking me away from here.
Let it take me to a place
where there is no fear.
That one place where I belong,
where words can be spoken free.
The place inside my heart,
that is made just for me.
A place to rest my head
and my soul can speak.
Letting my guards down
because nothing seems bleak.
My Faust Legend
By Nubia Brice
ife was funny sometimes, but not in a
“haha” sort of way. It was funny in more
of a morbid way. It was cruel and unfair and filled
with tons of people who were always trying to ruin
your good time. At least that was the way Greg saw
it. God, his parents could such prudes sometimes.
That one place where I belong,
L
where words can be spoken free.
The place inside my heart,
that is made just for me.
I can feel no pain
He’d just caught the game winning pass in a
state championship football game against their
biggest rivals and his parents expected him not to
go to what was going to be the biggest party this
school had seen in years?
because everything feels so right
The fear, the hate, the worry
are nowhere in my sight.
Right, he’d gladly stab himself in the face with
his muddy cleats before he did that.
That one place where I belong,
“There’d probably be drinking,” his father said,
“And kids are stupid and irresponsible.”
The place inside my heart,
(”My Faust Legend” continued on page 17)
where words can be spoken free.
-4-
that is made just for me.
“The Dotted Line”
by Patrick Barnes
arrive at my downtown office around eight o’clock in the morning. The taxi I took was proficient and
relatively quick, so I find it in my heart to tip the Arab gentleman well over fifteen percent. As I walk
away, under my breath I mutter, “Sorry I don’t have any riyals.” Before I make it in the building itself, I’m
repulsed at the sight of a bum stationed a few yards away from the front entrance. This urges me to reach into
my coat pocket, grab whatever change may be in there, and throw it down the busy Wall Street sidewalk. I
nearly laugh my ass off at this poor sap runs into strangers for what felt like a mere eighty-two cents. I proceed
to go inside and sign in, nodding at the two security guards whom I see on a daily basis. I believe them to be
homosexuals. I enter the furthest elevator down on the left hand side of the lobby. I do this to avoid any face to
face confrontations with colleagues. A man about ten years my senior races for the elevator doors just as they
close. I spot this and do my best imitation of a shocked patron fuddling for the open door button inside the lift
box. It takes only thirty seconds to make it to the sixty-sixth floor.
I
My new secretary, Hannah I think, meets me as the elevator doors open and talks me through my morning as
we both walk toward my office. “You have a conference call at nine then a squash match with Mr. Simpson at
the country club at eleven followed by an herb facial and massage at eleven forty-five.
“Cancel the facial,” I say. “And move the squash match to tomorrow. Oh, and be a doll and grab me a copy
of the Times, thanks.” The grin I hold on my face hurts my mouth. I can’t help but grind my teeth wishing death
upon this poor excuse for a woman.
“Sure thing, is there anything else I can do?” She boldly wonders.
“Please die…” I whisper.
“What was that, I didn’t hear you?”
“I said, shut my door and hold my calls, thanks. Oh, one last thing Hannah.” I say with a game show host
expression.
“Yes sir?” She asks.
“You’re doing a great job,”
“Thank you.”
“Okay, no problem. Run along now.”
Thank god that’s over. I place my face in my hands, hoping that’s the last time I must remain in character
today. Once I regain composure, I look up and nearly soil myself at the shock I receive. An older man dressed
particular well in a matching grey wool suit, is sitting in the chair opposite mine. He looks slightly familiar.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I bark.
“Obviously waiting for you.” He smartly retorts.
-5-
(”The Dotted Line” continued on page 21
“THIS IS IT!”
by Kaylene Humphreys
“You”
by Emily Barnes
I think…. I like you but I’m not entirely sure.
Maybe the idea of you is pleasing but whenever I see you, I get butterflies
And whenever you smile at me, my face burns like a thousand summers
And my legs become unstable and, Awe, I now know.
Maybe I do like you.
But I begin to think about it more…
There are so many things I like about you but, what’s there to like about…me?
I’m ordinary, pudgy, and at times, a little awkward.
To even begin to wonder if I like you, I have to like me first.
-6-
Can you hear it?
The whispers are shouting!
Can you feel it?
The fire is freezing!
But no!
But yes!
This is a day we regret,
Invites burned,
No lessons learned.
The sun eclipsed,
The moon unearthed.
The stars burn orange,
The sky deep red.
Storms never yearned,
Rising of the dead.
A cough fills the void,
A scream fills my head.
A cat in the window,
A dog on the bed.
Where are you now?
Because this is it.
Windows are breaking,
Doors busted in.
This is it!
The END
“Maggie & Me”
“My Sweet Lullaby”
by Kara Vanderpool
he last bell for the day had finally rung.
Wow! I made it through middle school.
Only one thing left to do, and that was my
promotion ceremony. I was trying to weave in
and out of my fellow classmates as they were all
rushing around, saying their goodbyes, so that they
could start their summer breaks.
by Rita Ann Windle
T
Holding me in his arms
Kissing me on the cheek
Pulling me closer as I fall asleep
Drifting off
Closing my eyes
Listening to the lyrics
of my sweet lullaby.
Breathing in deep
Sick of everything
Wanting to cry
When you stop singing
My sweet lullaby
Not wanting to care
Leaving me behind
Letting all love go
That existed in the lyrics
Of my sweet lullaby
Hurting inside
Crying so long
Needing to hear
The sound of your voice
Singing my sweet lullaby
I heard people yelling out, “See you later,
Trip.” That’s what everybody called me. They
called me that because I am Mexican, Italian,
and African-American. Maggie, my mother, had
started it right after I was born and it just kind
of stuck. My real name is Kasam. I was named
after Maggie’s mom, Katy, and her grandmother,
Samantha. Nobody ever called me by my given
name.
I waved to the people that I knew, trying to
make it to the door. I had a number of things to
get done. I had to get home to get ready for the
ceremony, and be back at the school by six, so
that I could be lined up. Busy, busy, busy. The
day was beautiful. The sun was shining, and the
temperature was perfect, not too hot, not too cold.
It would be a nice day to go to the park and read a
book, but I had no time for that. I had to get home
so that I could get everything done. Maggie had
promised to come, and I was excited that she was
going to be there.
Maggie had been sober for five months and two days. She hadn’t stayed sober that long since, well, I can’t
remember her ever being sober that long. This was a new beginning for us. I was starting high school in three
months, and Maggie was getting her life together. It was going to be great. I wasn’t just excited about the
promotion, but the whole new life that my mother and I were about to embark on.
As I was walking home I couldn’t help but think about Maggie and how hard she was working to stay sober.
She had quit her job at the club, where she had been bartending since we came to Oklahoma City. I was about
five years old. She had been drunk or high on something ever since. There were those brief moments in time
that she stayed sober and those were the moments that I held onto when she wasn’t.
Maggie was a lot of fun when she wasn’t polluted out of her mind. She could sing better than anybody that
I knew. She loved country music. She could belt it out there like all the greats: Reba, Lorrie Morgan, Wynona
Judd, and I should probably include Loretta Lynn and Tammy Wynette, but I don’t care too much to listen to
them. She wrote and sang all of her own music. She was headed to the top, until she met Blake.
(”Maggie & Me” continued on page 22
-7-
Cannibal Cop Found Guilty
by Terry Calabrese
J
ulius held on to the street lamp feeling an illness take over him. The brisk air chilled his damp hands, as
he held them under the light. Although, he had washed his hands, dark, blackened, blood remained in the
crevices of his fingernails. The realization of Amy’s death gnawed at his soul. His torment was more than he
could ever describe. The sound that slipped from her lips as she drew her last breath was something that, would
never escape his mind. Nowhere on earth, could he ever run that would be far enough to escape this nightmare.
She was gone.
He sucked the air into his lungs, trying to swallow down the lump that pained in his neck. He looked down
the street. He was relieved that there were not any reporters in the direction of his car.
As he made his way to his car, He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. “Is it done?” Julius asked.
“Yes, I am headed to the location now” a gruff voice answered.
“Good. The money is at the location. After you finish the job, text me and I will tell you where to find the
money.” Julius ended the call then shoved the phone in his pocket.
-8-
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued on next page)
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued from page 8)
His legs felt heavy as he crawled into his car. “Don’t worry baby,” he said to the emptiness of his car. “Tom
Carter is going to pay.”
As he turned the key to start the car, Dylan Danes the local news anchor for WGN, had emerged around the
corner armed with camera crew. Danes quicken his pace, when he realized Julius was in the car. Julius could
hear him calling to him as he pulled out of the parking lot and drove away.
He flipped the visor down and peered in to the mirror. His coal black hair that was usually well groomed
hung across one piercing blue eye. His face was swollen and bruised. The vision of Tom Carters truck running
him over replayed in his head. “Why couldn’t I have died,” he thought. The pain in his ribs was like a knife
with each breath, yet it did not compare with the aching pain of Amy’s death. The image of finding her lying
half-naked, in a pool of her own blood in their bedroom floor would haunt him the rest of his living days. He
shook his head to try to clear the unwanted memory. Slapping the visor shut, and continued driving out of town.
The ringing of his phone startles him. He looks at the number displayed. “Great it’s Pez. If I don’t answer,
he’ll never let up.” Taking a deep breath, he answers. “Hello.”
“Julius? Is that you?”
“Who else would it be?” He thinks. “Yes Pez, it’s me.”
“They said you walked out of the hospital.”
“I am fine Pez.”
“Come over here and stay. You can have the guest bedroom. I have already talked to Karen.”
Julius can hear Karen says something inaudible to Pez. “Thanks for the offer, but I am going to the lake
house. I’ll call ya when I get there.”
“I understand. By the way, Hobbs, said they ran the tags and they came back registered to Tom Carter.
They’re headed to his house right now to pick him up.”
Julius said nothing.
“Julius?” Pez waited for a moment then adds, “We’re going to get this bastard,”
“I’ll be at the lake house. Call me when they pick him up.”
“Okay, but promise me you’ll call if you need anything.”
“I will,” Julius said.
The scene became dark as his car retreated from the city lights. He had about an hour before he would get to
the lake house. A flash of memory comes to him of Amy and his last night together. She had greeted him at the
door with a gift bag in hand.
“What is this?” Julius asked.
“It’s a surprise. Open it!”
He opened the bag and looked inside. “A book?”
“Not just a book,” she said. “Read the title”
“Dad’s Pregnant Too?”
She waited in anticipation with a smile that covered her face. Her eyes sparkled in delight as she waited for
him to say something. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the happiness she displayed. That was
just two nights ago and yet it seemed like a lifetime ago. Last night they were going to share the news with his
partner, Pez and his wife Karen. They were finally expecting their first child. This was something Amy had
wanted for a long time. She would have been a great mother.
-9-
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued on next page)
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued from page 9)
A lump swelled within his throat. Tears he had yet to shed began to spill from his eyes. He did not want
feel this way. More than anything, he wanted, for this to be a dream. This all felt so unreal. “Was this real?” he
thought. “God, please make this not real. I will do anything God. Anything.”
He grew still. It was as if he thought that somewhere in this universe, a superior being capable of granting
his wish, would have mercy on his wounded soul.
“I’m gonna kill that bastard,” he screamed. “I am going to rip his head off his shoulders. I am going to
make him suffer. Do you hear me! Suffer!”
A sudden flicker of guilt shortly set. He knew this was real. He also knew that what he was getting ready to
do, was the one thing that would verify just how true this all really was.
He turned his car in to the drive. Last month Amy and he had come to the lake for a few days. More than
likely, that was when their unborn baby had been conceived. What once seem like heaven on earth now seemed
dark and spent. His gaze fixed on the cabin, where he knew Tom Carter would be.
He let out a sigh as he climbed out of the car. “This is a good place for me to wake up,” he thought. He
reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. He leaned against the car lit the cigarette and
took in a long drag. He held the smoke in his lungs. After a couple more drags, he pushed himself off the car
and headed to the door. His heart rate was going up.
He opened the door and entered the cabin. Amy’s and his German Shepard Lazarus greeted him. “Hey
there boy,” Julius said as he rubbed the dog’s head.
He could smell the spiced, cinnamon candles Amy liked so much. He looked around the living room. The
blanket she had started to knit sat in a wicker basket in front of her favorite chair. Julius removed his scarf. He
heard Tom Carter groan in the other room. Julius walked around the corner where Tom sat at a large solid wood
table. He is facing away from Julius. His body bound to a chair with something type of wire. The same wire
also ties his hands, which stretched behind him; his ankles were bound to the chair legs. Duct tape wrapped
around Tom Carter’s head several times. A rope loops through the duct tape and stretches to the back of the
chair. It pulls his up head back and causes it to tilt upward. The sight of it makes Julius’s heart race.
“I see you could make it for dinner,” Julius said as he came to face Carter. “I hope I didn’t keep you
waiting too long. I was a little held up at the hospital.”
He looked at Lazarus. “Did you take care of our guest while he waited?” Lazarus cocked his head to the
side as if he was thinking about what Julius had said.
Tom Carter’s eyes were wide, revealing his fear. He watched Julius walk across the room and turn on the
oven. “I think it’s best to always preheat. Don’t you?”
Tom said nothing. His eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head as he watched Julius come back
to the table. He watched Julius remove his coat and then rolled up his sleeves. Julius walked to the sink and
washed his hands. He watched as the blood etched along his finger nails disappeared. He picked up a towel to
dry his hands and walked back to the table.
“I like to cook,” Julius said. “How about you Tom, do you like to cook?” Julius glanced at Tom. He pulled
his eyes away then looked around the room. Everything reminded him of Amy. He pulled his attention back to
the potatoes on the table. He picked up the paring knife.
Tom watched as Julius peeled the potatoes. He waited for Julius to speak. Ten minutes passed before Julius
said, “I am sure you’re wondering why I invited you to dinner tonight.”
Julius cocked his head and gave Tom a look that said it was his time to talk. “I uh. I uh asked the guy who
brought me here.”
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued on next page)
- 10 -
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued from page 10)
“Really? And what did he say?”
“He uh. He said he reckoned you aimed to kill me.”
“Is that so?” Julius said. “Well, Tom, I reckon I do.”
Julius placed the peeled potatoes in the baking pan. He picked up the towel beside the baking pan and
wiped his hands. He walked across the room to the fireplace and picked up the log iron. He pushed the log and
rolled it over, before adding another log. “Is it warm enough for you ya?” He asked as he pushes on the fresh
log. He held the iron in the fire as he waited for Tom Carter to reply. When Tom said nothing, Julius looked
back at the fire. He looked up and above him was a smiling photograph of Amy. Her smile was beaming. He
looked around the room. This is where they said they would come to live when the kids had grown. This is
where they were going to have their last breath. Julius swung his head back around and looked back at Tom.
He stood up, rushed over to Tom, and pushed the hot iron against his face. The smell of burnt flesh filled the
room as Tom Carter howled in pain.
“I uh, I’m sorry.”
“What? What did you say?”
“I’m sorry.”
Julius stood there his hand trembling with fury. His pulse was quick. His breathing was rapid.
“Well,” Julius said. “I’m.” He swung the iron to the left hitting Toms head. “Sorry.” He swung the iron to the
right smashing Toms head. “Too!” He swung the iron to the left and smashed Toms head one last time.
He watched as Tom moaned in pain. “Say it again,” Julius said
Tom only moaned.
“I said say it again.”
Tom opened his eyes and moaned, “I am uh I’m ssssssorry.”
Julius reached across the table, snatching the paring knife. He jerked open Tom Carter’s mouth, grabbed
his tongue and severed it off, with one swift move. Blood sprayed from Tom’s mouth. Julius picked up the
baking pan with the peeled potatoes. He placed it on the table, under Toms bleeding mouth. Blood continued
to pour from Tom’s mouth as he made gaging noises. Julius grabbed Tom’s right ear, and pulls it out, leaving a
gap, where he places the sharpened blade under Tom’s ear. In one swift movement, he pulls the blade upward.
Tom’s ear barely remains attached. Julius reaches out grasping hold of Tom’s ear and pulls off the rest.
Lazarus is barking madly as Julius tosses the bloody strip of ear down. “There you go boy. There’s more
where that came from.” He watched as Lazarus snatched up the ear and quickly devoured it. Quickly he is
finished, and stands eager for more.
Tom is panting and moaning. The blood drains to the back of his throat and causes him to make choking
sound. Julius mind flows back to Amy lying on the floor gurgling and choking on her blood. He jerks his eyes
back to Carter and reaches for his other ear. This time he dismembers it, the first time. Lazarus barks with
excitement. Julius carelessly, flicks it into Lazarus’s eager mouth.
Julius walks to the kitchen and retrieves a large butcher knife. He steps behind Carter. He grabs his hair
and intertwines his fingers in his hair. He forcefully yanks Carter’s head back. He places the blade under Tom
Carter’s chin. “Ahhhh,” he screams as he attempts to sever the head off Tom Carter’s body. He does not know
for how long, but he blacks out. When Julius comes to, he looks down and sees that Tom Carter’s hair remains
wrapped around his fingers. The headless body, that once was tense, and struggling, is now limp, and lifeless.
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued on next page)
- 11 -
(”Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” continued from page 10)
Blood drains from where a head, that was once attached to Tom Carter’s body. Julius slips in the blood as he
steps to the table. He places Tom Carter’s head in the middle of the baking dish. He walks to the oven and
places the baking dish inside. Before he shuts the door, he looks into the devils eyes one last time.
He crosses the puddles of blood and sits at the table. He reaches in his pocket. He lights the cigarette. With
his free hand, he pulls his phone out and places a call.
“911 what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Julius Parker. I just killed a man. I am located at Lakeside number fifty-seven.”
“Excuse me could you repeat yourself,”
Julius pushed the end button on his phone. “Come on boy,” he called to Lazarus. “Let’s wait outside.”
“Whispers of the Wind”
by Blaine Wilkey (continued from page 1)
Harek pulled the glowing steel sword out of the forge and placed it on the anvil next to the worn stone circle
that housed his flame of creation. Sparks flew as he hammered the semi-molten steel, shaping its blade. He had
been a blacksmith for nearly ten years, but he had lived in the village for nearly all of his thirty-six. He had met
his wife there, a slender, comely woman named Ysolda, and had two daughters from her. His mind drifted to
memories, good and bad, as he worked, paying the new arrivals to Thornstead no mind.
The riders were a handsome band, dressed in plate armor and mail, cloaked in crimson and white cloth with
an emblem of the sun embroidered in the center. The muddy children in the street watched in awe as they rode
in, emerging from the mists like knights of legends past. They came to a stop outside of Harek’s smithy, but
only one dismounted.
“You there, smith,” called the slender, tan-skinned man with grey hair and sharp features, “A word, if
you will.” His cloak was much more ostentatious than his companions, everything down to the embroidered sun
being trimmed in gold thread. He spoke with the accent of Graecia, the self-proclaimed Empire to the south,
across the narrow sea and the vast plains.
“A word, surely I’ll have with you,” Harek replied, not looking up from his work.
The Graecian seemed surprised. “You speak the Common well for a Northman.”
“Aye, I speak your tongue as well, Graecian,” Harek remarked, in the language of the Empire, “Handy for
merchants and such passing through.” He plunged the newly shaped blade into a trough of water with a hiss.
A smaller, fair haired, freckled youth, still mounted, seemed to take offense at Harek’s words. “Insolent
peasant, do you not know whom it is you speak to?” he asked, the arrogance in his voice unmistakable, “You
speak to a Lord Templar of the Order of Light, so some respect, a man of such title shall be addressed as such.”
“My apologies, but the Men of the North are free and hold no titles of grandeur, young plainsman.” Harek
grinned at the youth as the shock turned into anger, and a shade of red Harek did not think possible. Spinning
his grindstone, he began sharpening the cooled steel sword. His doing such angered the young plainsman even
more.
- 12 -
(”Whispers of the Wind” continued on the next page)
(”Whispers of the Wind” continued from page 12)
“You insolent barbarian,” he said, his voice wavering with fury, “I’ll teach you some respect.” He fingered
the hilt of his sword, only to be met with the raised hand of his superior officer.
“My apologies, Young Eric is fiercely loyal but forgets his place,” the Graecian said, shooting a hard look
at the plainsman, “Speaking of forgetting my place, where are my manners, I am Sir Crexus, a Lord Templar of
the Order of Light, as my young companion has readily pointed out.”
Harek set the blade down and took the Lord Templar’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, I am Harek Thorenson,
whatever you need, do not hesitate to ask.”
“Well, master smith, we have traveled many miles, across the sweeping plains and the narrow sea, in
search of man. A warrior of great renown, people has grown fond of calling him ‘Stormcaller.’ It’s said that he
annihilated an entire Imperial phalanx with the powers of the sky, lightning and wind. We had heard that he had
lived in this, Thornstead, I believe you call it. Mayhaps you have heard of this man?”
“Aye, I’ve heard of such a man.”
“Do you know where to locate this man?”
“That I do, but I do not think he’ll be of any service to you.”
“A reason, might I ask?”
“May I ask what need you have of him?”
“Mayhaps you have heard of the goings-on east of here?”
“I’ve heard rumors of a dragon.”
“Yes, but much worse. This dragon has allied itself with a man, a man who has delved into the forbidden
magic of necromancy. We thought that mayhaps this Stormcaller would ride with us, he being said to know this
land better than anyone else.”
“I do not think he would be much help to you, sir.” Harek said, part of him wanting to tell the Lord Templar
the truth, the whispers of the wind urging him, reminding him of his inherited longing for adventure. “He is a
simple man, trying to live out the rest of his life in peace.”
Realization crept into Crexus’s eyes. “I see. Well then, give Stormcaller my regards.” He walked back to his
mount and climbed up into the saddle. “If he should change his mind, we’ll be at the inn for the night.”
The young plainsman, Eric, spoke out, “Now this is complete shit,” he said, a vindictive smile playing on his
face.”The Lord Templar asked you to tell him the location of this Northman hero, and you turn him away like
a dirty beggar. It really is beyond me how a band of you barbarians ever defeated the entire Northern Legion
during the war. This one looks like he couldn’t polish a shield, let alone use one in battle.”
Young Eric was not finished there, drawing on the snickers of his fellow riders. “And have you seen their
women? Tell me Northman, how did you teach a sheep to speak?”
Laughter erupted from the ranks of the riders, many of the doubled over, clutching their stomach, others
slapped their mailed hands against their armored leggings. One fat rider in the back looked as his he were about
to keel over due to lack of air. It went silent as quickly as the laughter had started, when Young Eric pitched
backwards and landed with a thud in a soggy pile of mud and horse manure. The hammer had hit him squarely
in the face, breaking his nose, busting his lips, and knocking out his front teeth.
Harek grinned, “Never insult a man’s wife, lad.”
- 13 -
(”Whispers of the Wind” continued on the next page)
(”Whispers of the Wind” continued from page 13)
The riders roared with laughter, even louder than the jest Young Eric had made. Even Lord Templar Crexus
was chuckling. Young Eric, however, did not see it as humorous. He rose to his feet, shakily, blood gushing
from his face onto his once white cloak. He drew his sword, a look of pure hatred across his mangled face.
“You son of a whore,” he said, his voice muffled from his broken nose, “I’ll make you pay for that.” He
raised his sword to a high guard.
“Eric, stand down, damn you!” Crexus commanded.
Young Eric was deafened by fury, blinded by rage. He charged at Harek, swinging his sword downward.
As if by instinct, Harek spun out of the way, and with almost unnatural speed, swiped a small hatchet from his
workbench and buried its blade into Young Eric’s back. The plainsman’s momentum carried him a few more
steps before he crashed to the cobblestone floor of the forge. The riders were dead silent, more from the shock
of seeing a mortal man move with such quickness than anything else.
Calmly, Harek pulled the hatchet from the dead youth’s back with a faint crack. He turned to the riders and
looked the Lord Templar directly in the eye, a glimmer of fear passed through them.
“Looks like you’re a man short, Lord Templar. Honor demands me to take his place. You wanted
Stormcaller, you have him. Now then, where are we off to?”
“The Cardinal”
by Shania Sawyer (continued from page 2)
But this is not what I am seeking on this warm, spring morning. I am seeking the usual park I soar over
every morning. Inside this park are trees lined around cement bike trails, flowers, playgrounds and my favorite
of all; benches. I concluded my flight momentarily, and beseeched my companion, a furry squirrel to enjoy this
moment with me. He did, after he returned to his hovel from his morning acorn. Our routine would commence
just like this. Perched on our tree limb watching the fascinating human implore on their daily outgoings. It was
extraordinarily serene today. Life was quiet.
Or at least it was, until the sound of an imagination come to life, filled the air. Three humans, younger and
short in stature rushed onto the playground in front of us. They made screeching, slamming and booming noises
as a woman, already bedraggled with sweat and trepidation, came running towards them. One of the young
humans called over to her, requesting her to watch as he jumped off the slide and landed on his feet. She smiled
and turned to find a bench a few feet away. Sitting down in a huff, the woman leaned her head against the
shoulder of the bench and looked up at the sky. She hadn’t seemed to have aged well in this light, as strands of
hair slipped from her messy bun and curved her face. Her makeup seemed…faded as she closed her tired eyes
and rested her hands on her cotton shirt still moist from her interrupted shower.
My attention was diverted over to another woman walking in the same direction as the humans before her.
Her eyes were focused on the small device in her hand. Her heels clicked gently as the breeze blew past her
business attire, ruffling the collar at her neck. She absentmindedly brushed it downwards while continuing to
walk over to the bench. She maintained an appropriate space between the woman before her before placing her
phone down on her lap. She sighed contently as sun reflected against her face. Bright eyes squinted against the
glare as her manicured hand lifted to block the sun’s rays from blinding her.
(”The Cardinal” continued on the next page)
- 14 -
(”The Cardinal” continued from page 14)
The previous woman opened her eyes only to do the same with her opposite hand. Thus gazing into the
direction of the businesswoman beside her. Then suddenly a moment passed when the effort to ignore the sun,
became a chance to acknowledge each other. Staring intently into each other’s eyes, the women seemed to have
inquired as to the same thought. ‘Was this the life I was meant to lead? Should things have been different? ’
The moment of time lapsed back into reality as one of the young humans became too excited and vomited
at the ground suddenly. The sounds alerted the mother, as she rushed over in frustration and despair. Meanwhile
the other two children watched, making wild gesticulations and even more exclamations.
The businesswoman still sat on the bench, watching the scene in front of her. She shook her head and smiled
before her phone rang. She soon stood up and walked back into the direction she’d arrived while answering it.
Having sat still for a while, I fluttered my wings and chirped at my friend. He had long returned back to
his hovel for his attention span had never been all that great. I chirped again, only to receive a response from
one of my tan colored friends. She had landed on the branch above me as she cocked her head in my direction.
A split second would pass before she took flight, myself only being mere inches behind her. The wind would
pick up again as we would soar into the morning sun, living simply like our kind does…Our life was made
unobtrusively and unabashedly. Perhaps, that is a lesson that the humans should learn…
“Catherine”
by Derek McGrath (continued from page 3)
I am currently reading, Too Close To The Sun, by Sara Wheeler – The Audacious Life and Times of Denys
Finch Hatton. Finch-Hatton, an Englishman, lived at the beginning of the twentieth century in British East
Africa in what is known today as Kenya. He, the literary muse of Karen Blixen, was a colonial pioneer of
Africa. He championed the very first laws protecting the hunting of African animals from a vehicle and was
responsible for the legislation creating the largest game reserve in Kenya and one of the largest in all of Africa.
Created from the Serengeti National Park, at over five thousand square miles, Tsavo National Game Preserve is
today a fitting memorial for Finch-Hatton.
I’ve no idea why I’m attracted to the stories of these people who colonialized East Africa. Berkeley Cole, an
Irishman who helped to settle Kenya, was a friend of Finch-Hatton’s. Much of Cole’s personal correspondence
is available today within the public record in Belfast, Northern-Ireland; I am reading his various writings also.
Why do I love their writings? Within the last month, I have discovered my great-grandparents on my
father’s side immigrated from Ardcath, County Meath which is located directly north of Dublin. Their records
have been obscured for decades because their records and the ship’s records they sailed upon were recorded
with ships that sailed seven years previously to when they sailed. They sailed for America - for Philadelphia
onboard the SS William Penn in March of 1851 with four children. Perhaps it is because these people
(Blixen, Cole, and Finch-Hatton) came from the same parts of the old-world (England, Ireland, Scotland,
and Denmark) as my great-grandparents, on both sides of my family, that I am drawn deeply to their stories.
Perhaps additionally, it is because they were of the same generation as my father (he fought in WW1) that I
am interested in learning about their lives. On some level, as Christiana Baldwin states, they are part of my
community. A community that I feel a connection to because of shared genealogical and country backgrounds.
Without a formal college education, I have been attracted to the apparent ease with which these individuals
were able to write. Now, with a couple of writing courses under my belt, I find myself looking beneath the
surface words of their writings, and trying to understand the structure or framework with which they created and
formulated their sentences.
- 15 -
(”Catherine” continued on the next page)
(”Catherine” continued from page 15)
These people are all long dead, and yet today with the help of type-setting we can continue to hear their
voices. Their words on paper are reflections of their thoughts about their lives. It is awesome to be able to hear
another’s thoughts, if only by reflection. Is this literary interest of mine a practice of grief? Perhaps it is, in a
small way, a way of dealing with death. Is it a way to keep both strangers and family alive? I do not know. I
have found, if we do not openly explore our feelings about those who have passed, those feelings will demand
to be explored at some future point in our lives. Even if it is decades after the event, unresolved issues with
those deaths will demand to be acknowledged. Baldwin states that through the stories of others, “We find the
people with whom we really belong.” I think that I agree with her.
What does that say? That I belong with a bunch of long dead people? I believe it implies if I were able
to travel back to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, I could have easily been friends with these
individuals. Through their written words, thoughts, and ideas, I sense that we would have understood each other.
How can I possibly say this? My grandparents, who were only a few years younger than these individuals,
were people who were not only my relatives, they were my friends. If I was able to become friends with my
grandparents, then I do not find it too much of a leap to consider that I would have easily been friends with my
great-grandparents and others who would have lived during the same historical period. Indeed they remain alive
today through their stories and writings, and from that, their spirits remain with us too. My history and my
community can be summed up in a statement my great-grandmother, Catherine, made long before I was born
- when she was seventy-nine years old. She, a Kansas pioneer living in north-eastern Kansas stated, “I have
fourteen children, three of whom are still living.” One of those living children, Richard, was my grandfather.
That is my community – my story – my grief. That is my great-Grandmother, who immigrated from Ardcath,
Ireland, telling me over thirteen decades later that I am a part of her Irish community. When my greatgrandfather, Nicholas, passed away, Catherine erected his grave marker. It was carved with seven lines of her
written verse on the back.
Today, those lines of verse have been rubbed (paper held against the stone words and over-rubbed with
charcoal, chalk, or Crayola to produce an impression upon the paper) so many times by visitors and relatives
that they are almost entirely worn away, they are nearly illegible. Someday, I may write about what she, part
of my community, wrote. Her words to her husband, a husband with which she left her homeland and family in
1851 to start a new life in America, still ring out clear-as-a-bell today. That Irish couple are today an integral
part of my story.
- 16 -
“My Faust Legend”
by Nubia Brice (continued from page 4)
Greg had just laughed. Like he’d never gotten a little drunk before? Like they hadn’t been drunk once or
twice when they were in high school? He’d heard the stories. This was nothing new and if they really thought he
was about to go home and ‘have ice cream with the family to celebrate’, his dad was crazy. He’d be lucky if he
even came home tonight. His plans were to pass out on a couch at the party. The kid’s parents were out of town
for the weekend anyway. So what if he got grounded for it? It would be totally worth it.
His father frowned as Greg stood in the parking lot after the game with a look of determination on his face.
He didn’t want Greg to go, but at the same time he didn’t want to stop him. He had played sports once, he
understood. He just wished his son could celebrate somewhere else, somewhere safer.
“Gregory…” his mother whined, nothing left to say.
His father shook his head. Greg was a good kid; he deserved to have a good time with his friends. He wasn’t
stupid enough to get caught up in all the mess of high school. “Look son, just be careful. I don’t want anything
to happen to you. You know I leave for my company trip tonight. I don’t want to get a phone call on the way to
the airport about you lying in a ditch somewhere. ”
The young football player rolled his eyes, “Dad I’ll be fine…and if it’ll make you guys feel better, I promise
not drive if I get too wasted.” He flashed a charming smile. His mother’s jaw dropped and his father glared,
ready to grab his son by the arm and drag him home right then. After a few suspenseful seconds, Greg laughed,
“Relax. It was a joke. I don’t drink and I wouldn’t drive even if I was a little wasted.”
Both of those statements, Greg knew, were total lies. It seemed that every idiot who had ever had more
than a few drinks and gotten hit on by more than a few girls on a good night always seemed to think they were
invincible. At this point, Greg was way past invincible. He was God. It was three in the morning, he was still
drunk, and he was the most popular guy here. He hadn’t even thrown up. As far as he was concerned, he was
having the best night of his life and nothing was going to ruin it…except for the hosts parents coming home
and shutting everything down. Apparently, the neighbors had called and complained about a party said parents
hadn’t even known was going to happen.
Every teenager stumbled out into the cold dark streets, including Greg. He found his car and slipped inside,
turning on the heat. Laying his head on the steering wheel, he sighed. Logically, he knew he was too drunk
for this. He knew that. Plus he’d kind of promised his parents that he wouldn’t drive. However…Greg wasn’t
thinking logically right now. He was thinking like a drunken high school senior who’d just had the greatest
night of his life. If he could catch the game winning pass with no time on the clock and defense all over him, he
could surely make the twenty minute drive home at three in the morning.
He started the car and pulled out of the neighborhood. As he drove down the street, he chuckled to himself.
So far, so good. This wasn’t that hard. He focused on the street and even managed to merge onto the highway
successfully too. What couldn’t he manage to do tonight? He might’ve been able to come up with an idea to
cure world hunger if somebody would’ve asked…at least that’s what he was thinking when his hand suddenly
slipped, jerking the wheel to the right.
Greg panicked, pressing down on the gas when he meant to press on the break. He reached for the wheel,
but that only made things worse. Suddenly his car was careening into the occupied right lane and tumbling off
the side of the road into a small ditch taking two more cars with him.
(“My Faust Legend” continued on the next page)
- 17 -
(“My Faust Legend” continued from page 17)
It all seemed to happen so slow, but in reality it hadn’t taken more than a minute. In one minute, Greg’s car
was totaled and he was probably going to go to jail…if he didn’t die first. Slowly he opened his eyes, amazed to
even be alive. His head was pounding and his sight was fogged by a distinctive shade of red. He was still in his
car, strapped into the driver’s seat, but his body was on fire. His legs hurt. His chest and head hurt and there was
a ridiculously sharp pain in his abdomen. Coughing and aching, he forced himself to look down seeing remnants
of what appeared to be his shattered windshield sticking out of his stomach. It was bleeding profusely and every
time he coughed he could taste the thick copper liquid filling his mouth.
Blood in your mouth was never a good sign. That’s the conclusion he’d come to after seeing countless action
movies and TV shows. This was it. He was probably going to die. Why hadn’t he just gotten ice cream with his
parents?
Because he was too busy being God to go. Right. Good job. Well living like God sure hadn’t saved him from
driving off the side of the road.
Every passing second only made the pain worse. He couldn’t even move to attempt to pull the glass from
his abdomen or maybe he try to crawl out of the car. This was it. He was going to die here when he could’ve
been at home sleeping of a Rocky Road coma in his bed, alive. Slowly Greg laid his head back, accepting his
fate.
He accepted the fact that he was most likely going to bleed to death right here in his car. He accepted the
fact that when the medics finally showed up they’d realize how drunk he was. He’d be on the news in the
morning, “Local High School Football Star Dies in Tragic Drunk Driving Accident”. Nobody would feel bad
for him though, because even in the dark, he could see at least one other car just as totaled as his a little ways
away. The driver was probably dead and everyone would blame him…not that it wasn’t his fault. In a matter of
minutes he’d ruined not only his life, but the legacy he was going to leave behind with it. Great. If God had any
mercy, he’d blow Greg’s car up and put him out of his misery.
Instead something else happened. Suddenly a man was in Greg’s window, pulling open his car door. He
reached over pulling the teen out even despite his shrieks of sheer pain and lay him down in the dirt a few feet
away from the car.
“Are you okay?” the man asked. He wasn’t anyone Greg knew. It was just guy in a suit, most likely the guy
from the other car. He was ruffed up and he had a bleeding gash on his head.
Greg narrowed his eyes. It was the most he could do. He was too in pain to move. “Wh-ho-” he stuttered
trying to think of what he wanted to ask. He wanted to make this count. “I-is anyone hurt? Did I-did I kill
anybody?”
The man shook his head, leaning down towards Greg, “No. There’s another man over there. His leg is
broken but he’s fine. I was driving the car over here, but I’m fine. Greg, you however, are dying.”
The news was relieving. At least everyone else was fine. At least his stupid decisions hadn’t killed anybody,
well other than himself. He closed his eyes and laid back before realizing-“How do you…how do you know my
name?”
The man in the suit smiled, “I know everything about you Greg. I know your birthdate, your hobbies, your
secrets. I knew you caught the game winning pass tonight and I know right about now, you’re wishing you
weren’t lying on the side of the road slowly bleeding to death.”
If his head hadn’t been so clouded, Greg would’ve registered the fact that this just didn’t feel right. “Who
are…you?”
(“My Faust Legend” continued on the next page)
- 18 -
(“My Faust Legend” continued from page 18)
“Does that really matter? Just know that I’m no stranger. In fact, you know me quite well. Not as well as I
know you, but well enough. You could call me Lucifer I guess, if you really needed a name to go by, but God, I
am just not really a fan of that old fashioned moniker.”
He must’ve been hallucinating or something. Maybe it was like a side effect of severe head trauma? Did this
happen to everybody before they died?
“You’re not hallucinating Greg. This is really happening. I’m here. You’re here, wishing you’d listened to
your father and just gone home instead of bleeding out in the dirt. You know what Greg? I might be willing to
do something for you. I might be able to save your life. I couldn’t stop the accident, but I could at least assure
you that you wouldn’t die…not tonight. You could go home, see your family again, and apologize for being so
defiant.”
Greg’s eyes widened. He could go home. He could see his parents again? He could even see his annoying
sister or his smelly Great Aunt Agnus again? He wouldn’t die? Of course that’s what he wanted. He wanted
to tell his parents he was sorry. He wanted to see his dad when he came home next week. He wanted another
chance…but Greg knew this was too good to be true. He knew from church and his parents, the devil was no
one to play with. He could hear his cradle catholic father now. “The devil never did something for nothing,” he
would say, “And even then, he couldn’t be trusted.”
Greg took a deep breath, feeling weaker by the second, and coughed, “What do you want?”
The man in the suit laughed, “Why do you assume that I want something?”
The teen wasn’t amused, “What do you want?”
He rolled his eyes and shot Greg a blank stare, “You’re right. I want something. If I let you live now, I want
your soul. You finish your life now, but you come to me later.”
His soul? He had to give up his soul…
“Come on Greg. I’m a busy man. I don’t have time. People will be here any second. There will be medics,
police and if you say no, you’ll be dead before they get here.”
Greg closed his eyes and thought hard. If he said yes, he wouldn’t be doing it for himself. It would be for
his family. He couldn’t do this to them. He couldn’t disobey them and die. They’d feel guilty for the rest of their
lives and it wasn’t even their fault. “F-fine! Take my soul, have it! I just don’t want to die.”
The man in the suit smiled. “Smart choice Greg. You were much too young and talented to die anyway.”
The teen winced as the man before him placed his hand on the glass shard in his stomach, slipping it out.
Almost instantly the wound seemed to close up as if it had never happened. “Congratulations. Medics will
come, you’ll be fine, everyone wins.”
Greg couldn’t believe it. It had worked. He was going to live. Oddly enough, even after making a deal with
the devil, he still felt relieved. Seconds later, the familiar sirens of help could be heard pulling up and he could
see the red and blue lights flashing.
He’d been strapped to a gurney and briefly questioned by police as the medics lead him towards the
ambulance. Just before they wheeled him in, he could hear his mother running towards him and screaming his
name. “Gregory! Gregory! Are you okay?”
- 19 -
(“My Faust Legend” continued on the next page)
(“My Faust Legend” continued from page 19)
She ran beside him, hysterical. “Mom! Mom, c-calm down. I’m fine. Everything is going to be fine,” he
choked out watching her. Beside her was his younger sister, crying just as hard. But why? He was okay.
“Gregory...y-your…your-” She was trying to say something but she was struggling between sobs.
“M-mom what?” he prodded, leaning forward.
“Your father! Gregory your father is dead.”
“What?” he coughed, causing his body to jerk in severe pain.
“He was driving to the airport when a car ran him off the road. A-a piece of the-of the windshield stabbed
him in his…in…his abdomen…”
She tried to compose her thoughts as Greg sat there staring in disbelief. His father was stabbed by his
shattered windshield in the exact same spot as he had been? There was no way. No.
“M-mom, no. You’re lying…he’s not...he’s-” Greg started, unsure of how to even process this information.
This wasn’t fair. The man in the suit had…he had said that he would be fine, but then he’d taken his dad? That
wasn’t fair. That wasn’t what they agreed. He’d gotten Greg’s soul!
Tears flooded his eyes as he looked at his family, what was left of it. He couldn’t stomach to look at them,
so he looked past them and how he wished that he hadn’t. There in the distance he could see a body lying on
a gurney, covered in a sheet. The medic flipped the edge of the sheet back and Greg could see the face…his
father’s face. The third car in the accident had been his. The third man, the one that was fine, was suddenly
dead. Greg had killed his own father. He had sold his soul to kill his own dad.
“I don’t want to get a phone call on the way to the airport about you lying in a ditch somewhere,” his father
had said and oh, the irony of the statement now.
If only he had just listened…If only he had just went home… if he hadn’t drunk…if he had just said no to
the man in the suit…
But he hadn’t, and now all he could here was his dad’s words in his head.
“The devil never did something for nothing, and even then, he still couldn’t be trusted”
…but Greg had trusted him and look where it had gotten him…nowhere. It had gotten him nowhere.
Sometimes life was just funny like that.
- 20 -
“The Dotted Line”
by Patrick Barnes (continued from page 5)
“Well, sorry but you’re going to have to make an appointment if you want to talk to me.” I reach over
and press the button for the intercom to notify Heather, or whatever her name is, to call security. Zap. However,
I’m greeted with an outrageous shock that burns my finger. I try again, ZAP. This time the shock nearly sizzles
my flesh until bone is seen. I kind of like it.
The mystery man speaks, “Would you like to try for a third time?”
Fed up, I ask the man, “Okay, who are you and what the hell do you want?” He doesn’t speak, but rather
points at me, or more appropriately, through me. I stand up, displeased by his rude gesture and offer a finger
of my own to do my talking. It’s at this moment that my knees begin to feel weak, and my breath quickens. I
huddle over and place my palms firmly on my desk top.
“Do you want to live, sir?” This man asks me.
I’m taken back by such an outlandish query. “What? What kind of question is that… doesn’t everyone?”
“I don’t know, do they? A better question would be for me to ask you again, so I repeat, do you want to
live?”
Becoming increasingly infuriated by the crazy notions put forth I take a step towards the man with the
intention of throwing him out of my office myself. I get no more than five feet when a devastating ringing goes
off in my head and cripples my movement.
“Answer, dammit!” He shouts.
“Yes, you crazy fuck, yes…Jesus. What’s happening?”
“Oh you feel that, it’s good to see you finally feel something for once in your life.” The man reaches into
his briefcase and pulls out a single document. “Do you see that? That’s your signature, signed on this date
twelve years ago. I remember that day vividly. You were fresh out of law school looking to stick your nose up
any orifice as long as it would get you ahead in life. That’s when you met me. I offered it all to you, and you
accepted. Now I’m here to collect. You must surely remember.”
I can’t, for the life of me, remember signing anything this man speaks of. “You can’t be serious. I’ve never
seen you in my entire life mister.” I scream out in pain and the shrieking in my brain worsens.
Smiling now at my every groan the man states, “Ah, you are correct. You wouldn’t have ever seen me like
this, but know that I take the form of many.”
Confused and enraged by what I’m hearing, I offer the man an out. “How much? How much do you want to
make the pain stop?”
“Money can’t save you. I’m the reason you made anything, don’t you see? Without me, you’re nothing.
Now that you’ve stopped living, it’s time for you to come with me.”
His last sentence resonates with me. A desire to live enters my realm. All that I’ve done up to now means
nothing. I’ve continued to live in my world, and little has come from it. I make my way to both feet and smile.
“Live, huh? You want me to do something with my life? I need nothing in life. I don’t need friends or a job,
nothing! I can show you how a real person lives.”
- 21 -
(”The Dotted Line” continued on the next page)
(”The Dotted Line” continued on page 21
The man looks intrigued with a puzzled look in his eye. He offers a response, “Oh, and what might that
look like?” I take both arms and put them straight out to my side and begin flapping them. I turn around, and
with a giant step forward and a lunge, I break through my glass skyline and begin to frantically fall. I can’t
help but laugh as I now see the consequence of my decision to want to live. My eyes look around taking in the
last precious moments of my life. The sun is blocked by surrounding buildings, but this doesn’t stop me from
feeling its gentle warmth on my skin. The people below look like ants, all scurrying working for their queen. I
try to time my demise perfectly. I begin counting out loud, “Three—Two—One”…darkness ensues.
It’s weird how alive you feel when you’re dead. My eyes are able to open. I retreat my hands from face and
place them back on my desk. I quickly turn around and notice no broken glass. I scan my office and not a soul is
found.
My door opens. It’s my secretary, “Sorry sir, but you’re mother just called, it seemed important.”
Still in awe I answer, “Oh…okay, thank you. Actually, you know what… you’ve been working hard. Why
don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“What, really… are you serious?” She wonders with excitement.
“Yeah, I think I am. Now go, get out of here.” She nearly pulls a muscle she leaves so fast. In astonishment
at what I’ve just done I take a second to reflect. I lean back and put my feet on the tip of my desk and look
out at the beautiful view I’m blessed with seeing every day. It’s about a half hour later when I turn back to my
desk and finally feel prepared to do some real work. Then I see it. In the chair, across from mine, is a briefcase.
Unafraid, I stand up and make my way over and open it. All that’s inside is a single white document, next to a
pen. I pick up the paper and pen, return to my desk, and without even reading it, I tear my existence up.
“Maggie & Me”
by Kara Vanderpool (continued from page 7)
Recently divorced from her ex-husband, working on her career, kids raised, and BOOM, she met the doom
donor. That’s how I refer to Blake. Doom because everything he touches seems to head into this downward
spiral of destruction, well, except for business; I hear he is a good business man. He owns a couple of clubs
and they haven’t gone belly up, so I guess that constitutes a good business man. Anyway, he is a disaster with
women. I put the donor on there because the doom donor sounds so much funnier than sperm donor. Maggie
hates it when I talk about him like that, but I always laugh. She tries to semi defend him. I think she worried
that I am violating the commandment of “honor thy father and thy mother.” She tries to keep me on the right
path, when she is. We always end up laughing about it because there really is no defense for a man that has had
absolutely nothing to do with his only child. Of course, it doesn’t come up that often because I think it still hurts
her to think about him.
I start thinking about all the dysfunction in my family, and I almost walked past the entrance to the trailer
park. It was an old run down trailer park, with only three trailers left. Slim lived in the first trailer. He was
an old man, and is slim just like his name. Then in the second trailer we had Mrs. Beaty, her name was Betty
Hawkins, but I called her Beaty because she had these eyes that looked like beats and it was funny. She always
got a grin on her face when I did it. She was the sweetest person that I have ever met. She even helped me get
my waitress job down at the grill. Then there was the third trailer, it was Maggie’s. It was a two bedroom trailer
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(”Maggie & Me” continued on the next page)
(”Maggie & Me” continued from page 22)
that was held together by the seams and it looked as if they could snap apart at any given moment. Nonetheless,
it was what we had to call home.
Walking through the door, I yelled out to Maggie, as I headed to my room to drop off my bag. There was the
dress that I had bought for my promotion. It was navy blue, fitted at the bust, but then blossomed out with this
light cloth that seemed to swoosh when I walked in it. I felt so pretty when I had it on. I had never had a brand
new formal dress before now. Most of my clothes I bought at the thrift store because there was really no money
to spend on fancy clothes. I liked to call my style vintage, but in reality it is just a fancy name for broke. I had
saved for six months for this dress. That wasn’t easy because most of my money had to go to help pay bills
and put food on the table. Since Maggie had quit the club and was unemployed, things were even tighter than
normal. She was sober and trying. What more could I ask for.
“Maggie,” I yelled out again. “I have to jump in the shower. You better get up and ready, we will have to be
going here before too long.” I know that she is home. I had seen her door cracked when I came in. She always
closes her door when she leaves. She is probably taking a little nap. I will get her up after I get ready to go. She
doesn’t have to be there as early as I do, so she will have plenty of time to get up and around.
When Maggie first started cleaning up, she slept all the time. The doctor said that was normal. Her body
had been on overdrive while she was doing all those drugs, and it needed to learn how to function without all
the junk in her. I know that she is lonely here. Her two best friends and her other kids were all in Dallas. That
was where Maggie grew up. She moved here to get away from all of the negativity. The truth being that she
was tired of listening to her other children complaining about me and her drug use. She has a son named Eric.
He is the Chief of Police now. Yes, we are so proud. He is married to Sylvia. She is nice. Eric and Sylvia would
have to be my favorites, if I had to choose a favorite. Then there is Mags. That is her oldest daughter and her
namesake. She looks just like Maggie and me. My Aunt Agnes, that’s Maggie’s sister, says it’s like seeing
Maggie at three different stages in her life. Mags’ is married to Nate. He is grumpy most of the time, but then I
would be too, if I had to live with Mags. Then there is Dink. She looks nothing like the rest of them. She is the
palest out of all of them, and she bleaches her hair, so no one is really sure if it is still growing out brown or not.
She is single still. She is in the fashion business, so she does a lot of traveling. Then there is Bird. She is the
youngest of that bunch. She has been dating Ben for quite some time but they have never tied the knot. They do
live together, however. None of them have kids yet. Thank God!!
I haven’t decided how to do my hair. I was going to twist it up in the back. I had made a headband that
matched my dress perfectly. My hair was really curly, but it is what they call “good hair.” I got that from doom
donor, but almost everything else I got from Maggie, the hourglass frame and all. I have to admit for being on
all those drugs and doing them for so long, Maggie still looked great for being forty-eight years old. Hair is
done. Headband is on. Now for the best part of all it, I was going to get into my dress.
“Maggie” I yelled out again.
I am ready to go. A little bit of perfume, necklace, bracelet, my one ring, and we are off.
“Maggie, Come on. I have to go”
Walking towards her door, she was starting to get on my nerves. “Maggie” I said I touched the door to enter
her room.” Come on, get up! It doesn’t always have to be about you. Sometimes it has to be about the people
around you. Today is my day.” I grumbled on.
Then I saw it. I stood there motionless. I was afraid to walk over and touch her. I could feel the tears rolling
down my face. It’s like I knew before I knew. I force myself to walk over to the bed slowly. My feet felt like
they weighed a ton a piece. I reluctantly forced my hand out to touch her. The minute that my fingers touched
her cold body, I fell to my knees beside the bed. All of my senses immediately went out for a moment. Then I
heard it, the screaming and it startled me, where was it coming from. Then I realized it was me.
- 23 -
Journal Index
About our Contributors:
Poetry Selections
Emily Barnes
With a focus on poetry, Emily is a student at Cowley
College.
“Vibrancy” by Shaina Sawyer - page 2
“If I Was Real” by Kaylene Humphreys - page 3
“Escape” by Rita Ann Windle - page 4
“You” by Emily Barnes - Page 6
“This is it” by Kaylene Humphreys - page 6
“My Sweet Lullaby” by Rita Ann Windle - page 7
Non-Fiction Selections
“Catherine” by Derek McGrath - page 3
Fiction Selections
“Whispers of the Wind” by Blaine Wilkey – page 1
“The Cardinal” by Shaina Sawyer - page 2
“My Faust Legend” by Nubia Jade Brice – page 4
“The Dotted Line” by Patrick Barnes – page 5
“Maggie and Me” by Kara Vanderpool – page 7
“Cannibal Cop Found Guilty” by Terry Calabrese - page 8
Photography Selections:
“Peel” by Ryan Doom – cover & page
“Here” by Marlys Cervantes –page 3
“Sabetha Grain” by Ryan Doom – page 4
“Sunset” by Robyn Hill – page 6
“Flight Bound” by Ann Edwards – page 8
Mile Marker Review Staff
Staff Advisor: Ryan Doom;
Editor Team: Shannon Mahon, Kyle Guthery, and
Marlys Cervantes
Readers: Shannon Mahon, Marlys Cervantes, Ryan
Doom, Zane May, Ann Fell, and Robyn Hill
Cover Photo: Ryan Doom
Designer: Diana Dicken
Patrick Barnes
Patrick is a student at Cowley College.
Nubia Jade Brice
Nubia is a second-year, online student at Cowley
College. She is a creative writing major.
Terry Calabrese
Terry is a student at Cowley College.
Marlys Cervantes
Cervantes is the Humanities Department Chair
at Cowley College. She teaches creative writing,
literature and Composition II courses. She has a
passion for photography.
Ryan Doom
Doom teaches composition and fiction writing
at Cowley College. He is the advisor for the Mile
Marker Review.
Ann Edwards
Ann is a graphic design major at Cowley College.
Robyn Hill
Hill is an adjunct instructor for Cowley College.
Kaylene Humphreys
Kaylene is a creative writing major at Cowley
College.
Derek McGrath.
Derek is a sophomore at Cowley College majoring in
creative writing.
Shaina Sawyer
Shaina is a student at Cowley College.
Blaine Wilkey
Blaine is a student at Cowley College; he will pursue
his degree in Education at WSU next year.
Rita Ann Windle
Rita is a student at Cowley College.
Kara Vanderpool
Kara is a student at Cowley College.