Muses
Volume 1 Issue 1
Sénsus
Ben Clark
I hear the chirping of birds, I hear
the buzzing of an alarm clock.
The cilia in my ears aren‟t waltzing
to your slow, controlled breathing.
You must be gone by now.
I don't want to blink my eyes
because that will allow light
to enter my pupils.
the rods and cones will respond
to all of this, sending electronic signals
that my brain will interpret
and I will see that you are no longer here.
I don't want to touch the sheets beside me
because when I do touch the sheets
I will sense cold but cold is a meaningless
word, cold is actually just the absence of heat.
in this case that would be body heat that I‟m
not feeling because you aren't here and
haven't been for quite some time.
I can't ignore the olfactory receptor neurons in my nose.
they do not detect the presence of your perfume
or the shampoo you use and my
deductive reasoning skills lead me to the inference
that you were not here last night.
The microvilli on my tongue substantiate that I didn‟t
put my tongue on any part of your body last night.
My tongue tastes like the gin we didn‟t share.
My lips don‟t taste of your tongue,
but too much mustard gas and not enough roses.
I don't want to implore my hippocampus about
last night because when I do I will be forced
to acknowledge that the memories I have
of last night are overwhelmingly filled with
your absence. you aren't here and you never were.
You aren’t here and you never were.
Unlimited Patience
Heather Owens
They are sponges sometimes rocks.
High energy loving irritating.
Sleeping the best—awake as active as radio waves.
Refusing to do as asked giving endurance unlimited patients.
Needing your attention—love is all they are after.
_______________________________________________________
Heather Owens is a 32 years old student at Middle Georgia College.
She has been married to her husband for 12 years. She has a 8 year
old son, Royce, and a 4 year old daughter, Belle. She is pursuing a
degree in Education (Math).
Jackie
Britton Tuck
I could hear her coughing up her lungs all the way from my bedroom in the back of the house. I was afraid
she was going to die while preparing her famous tuna salad for our sandwiches. I hope she lives through tonight. I
don’t want to be left alone in this big house. Living here by herself must be scary.
I crept into the hallway and peered around the doorframe to watch her shuffle in her pink slippers. Whew!
She’s still breathing! The ice in her glass of sherry clacked as she moved across the faux brick linoleum. Schick,
schick, schick, the slippers spoke.
The window projected a Turner Classic Movie backwards in the panes. She would always watch her “oldie”
movies in the glass while she cooked. Her nightgown swayed as she whisked in a cup of mayonnaise and relish into
the bowl. She staggered into her living room, doubling over as she began coughing again. She is going to turn
herself inside out. I could hear the bubbling of mucus in her lungs. I remembered the demonstrations they had done
the week before at school: pictures of blackened lungs and old men with missing teeth and gums. I bet her lungs are
black too.
Her coughing had subsided now. She tapped her cigarette in the diamond shaped ash tray and lifted it to her
lips again. After all that hacking, another drag?! She held the cigarette gracefully between her fingers. After taking
in another long draw and holding it in, she lifted her chin in the air, always to the left, and exhaled slowly. Smoke
drifted out of her mouth—a white, smoggy serpent. The smoke dispersed but clung to the air, drifting down to me. I
breathed in her death.
I opened the wooden armoire in her bathroom Squeeeaak, chirp!! As quietly as I could I confiscated her
boxes of cigarettes. I’m saving you, grandmother.
Leroy
James Holland
After completing a long career with the New York City police department, Adolphus P. Abernathy retired
and returned to the small town in Middle Georgia where he grew up. He had seen so many homeless people living
out their lives at the bottom of the pile, with no hope of crawling out. He made up his mind; I will become friends
with all God’s creatures when I don’t have to work anymore. He had seen a sign on the side of a country store as he
traveled the back roads with his father. Before frigidaires became standard furnishings of every southern home, his
father delivered ice to the iceboxes on his route in a good part of that rural county.
The sign on the side of the store, I’ll build me a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man. He
remembered all the talks he had with the down and out in the city that never sleeps. He became friends with more
than a few, and discovered that many of them, in addition to what else they had been, were philosophers of some
sorts too. They were eager to share their opinions, but never their real names. He listened patiently to whatever they
said; for in his best judgment, he was a philosopher as well. He formulated theories about every contemplation, and
shared them with all who would listen. He shared them, some times, when no one could tell. When chided by his
wife, Adolph, hush your senile rambling, they don’t understand, he would smile and say, but that’s what old men do
all day.
He built him a house with a glassed in room facing a path where many of God‟s creatures trod. He waved his
hand, and made no rule, until they all knew, he was friend for sure. Adolph went to his room each morning, to see
who came by today. He invited them to sit at his table, but their answer was always the same, we are not dressed for
the inside of a place like yours. Understanding their feelings, he built their place near his back door. Where they
could feel welcome, in whatever they wore, while he visited through the window of his glassed in room. He
regularly prepared food he thought they would like, and not one complained, not even Luke. When the day was
over, and time for them to go, he would smile and say, y’all come back some time, you are welcome at my place on
any day.
One came each morning to the table Adolphus P. Abernathy had affectionately made, and no one knew his
name. Thinking he might have something to hide, Adolph did not press him to tell. He seemed to like his visits, as
demonstrated by his trust, but whence he came and where he went, not one of us knew. I’ll give him a name that is
easy to know, and from that day forth, it was „Leroy‟ who came to call. They discussed, through the window, politics
and literature, finance and war, and philosophy a good bit too.
Many years passed, while they talked through the window of the glassed in room in the house Adolph had
built by the side of the road. When asked by his wife to decide on an issue, he would answer this way; I’ll talk to
Leroy tomorrow, and see what he has to say. Adolph was pleased that Leroy listened to his opinions without
challenge, while nodding his head to concur. There was never any debate over who was right on an issue, or any
global problem on which they would confer. They agreed in unison together, there needs to be more tolerance for
birds of a different feather. As Adolph grew feeble, Leroy seemed to know, and sat closer to the window, in a place
easier for Adolph to go.
Through the window one morning, Leroy was not there to see. Adolph thought little about it, must be some
young thing he likes better than me. Days passed, Leroy did not come at all, and Adolph worried and wondered, did
I hurt his feelings one day. Adolph, himself, had feelings, that my good friend would do me this way. The neighbor
came to visit, and Adolph finally knew, Leroy had not left in madness, but was the main ingredient in the neighbor‟s
squirrel stew.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
James was born on September 28, 1933, in the middle of The Great Depression. He made an attempt at college fifty years
ago, but didn’t do very well. After retirement, He decided to take advantage of the goodness of the State of Georgia, and
Middle Georgia College and give it another try. He took three courses last semester and did fairly well and had learned that
the human mind might be kept alive with meaningful mental exercise. He thinks that might ward off Alzheimer's by a few
years, hopefully. He is acutely aware that the old mind doesn’t learn as it used to, but as he walks across the campus, he
feels young when fellow students don’t call him mister.
Valley Girl
Samantha Stephens
Under what circumstances would someone kiss a credit card? Well, I suppose if they‟d paid off a bill and
had more credit to spare—boring; if they‟d used it to pay rent to keep a roof over their head—whatever; if they got
to a checkout with a handful of Kotex, tampons, and Monistat™ only to realize they had NO cash and checks were
not accepted—most definitely would kiss that plastic! This, people, is true love. My Visa™ is my best friend. We
“yuppie kiss” on a daily basis. She‟s the epitome of a girl—quite the little b**** at times, though. She‟s always
there for you, sharing the fun and retail indulgences—always up for anything, anywhere—until she‟s had enough.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, she rejects you, leaving you alone, helpless, and often embarrassed until you kiss
and makeup, agreeing to do things solely on her terms.
Oh, we‟ve had our moments. The shopping in Beverly Hills, my first piece of couture jewelry, the genuine
silver Tiffany & Co.™ link bracelet with the original engraved toggle heart charm, just like the one Elle Woods
wore in Legally Blonde (oh my gosh, her hair was soooo now in that movie…), that amazing pair of BCBG™
sunglasses at their boutique in Georgetown—the best! Fred Segal™, Ferragamo™, Manolo Blahnik™, shut up I
have to fan myself…
Of course, every now and again she does get a bit lonely. What!?!?—I can‟t be with her all the time, even if
she does claim she‟s “everywhere I want to be!” Girls will lie you know—backstabbing trash can‟t be trusted!
Besides, her “limit” isn‟t that great anyway. Still, we kiss and makeup in times of trouble, knowing that when she
hits her limit, the vicious cycle will begin again. That‟s okay. We‟re still cool—just don‟t let her get wind of my
Mastercard™.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Dodge County born and bred, Sam is striving for her dream, and close to accomplishing it-music is in her future. The
recently turned 20 year old remembers dreams as a young girl of having a brownstone in New York, performing on
Broadway at least 6 shows a week and a matinee on Sundays, and having a Golden Retriever. And she is close to
achieving that dream.
July 1958
Brittany Turner
The only light that entered the room was from the decorated windows that displayed a beautiful picture of Jesus
and his disciples. The stain glass windows melted into the room like a dripping paintbrush lying in the sun, but the
inside of the building of sanctity was humid and hot. Dust particles scattered around the entire room. Light flooded
into the room like a spotlight on a dark stage onto Leah‟s light-skin face.
Vanessa sat with her mom and sister as she imagined herself licking a Popsicle that could soothe her anxiety. I
want to get out of here! Her mom sat with a peaceful look on her face, as if she was enjoying herself. What is wrong
with me? Sweat started to glisten from her dark skin. I wonder why Leah aint‟ sweating, maybe cuz she aint‟ as
black as me.
“The Lord is my Salvation…” The whole congregation stood with there eyes closed and their heads bowed as
the minister said the final prayer. “A-man.”
Vanessa was happy as a rabbit as she stood behind her mom. She was ready to leave. Leah stood in front,
getting acknowledgments about her beautiful sunflower yellow dress. Vanessa had a tendency of standing behind
her mother.
“Now how are you doing, Miss Vanessa?” one of the older ladies in the church asked.
“I‟m Fine. Mrs. Ellison.”
“How old are you now?”
“I am fourteen now”
“Fourteen! My, aren‟t you getting big!”
Vanessa stood at about 5‟8; she was very tall to be her age. She hated that. Her schoolmates called her giraffe
girl. She was taller than most of the boys in her class. She always dreamed to be short and dainty, like the girls at
school. Instead she developed long legs from her father‟s side of the family. She wanted to be pretty like her sister.
She wanted to be light-skinned.
“Well girls, let‟s head to the door.”
“YES!” Vanessa thought. She was ready to take off the itchy stockings that her mother made her wear. How
come Leah didn‟t have to wear none?
As they were getting ready to leave another lady stopped them at the door. “Well I hope you all enjoyed
yourselves.”
“Yes, it was a nice service.”
“Good, y‟all need to come back again ya know.”
Vanessa felt her body running away from herself for a moment. She had never been this impatient before.
Vanessa despised the dress that she wore. The green hues from the dress began to consume her soul as she
stood back in her mothers shadow and watched her sister charm the older lady with her beautiful smile.
“You are a very gorgeous young lady. Have you ever considered being a model?” Every kind word that came
from the woman burned Vanessa‟s ears with poison that only she could feel.
“Yeah, I told her she needed to do something with her looks,” their mom chimed in on the comments directed
to Leah.
“And, who is this behind you?”
“Oh, this is Vanessa.
“Did you enjoy the service also, young lady?‟
“Yes ma‟am.”
“Well, that‟s good.”
“Alright, I guess we‟ll see you all next Sunday. The woman walked away smiling at Leah.
“Alright then,” they all said in harmony.
Vanessa felt the sun beat down on her dark skin as she exited the church. She was frightened from the idea of
getting “blacker” in the sunlight.
June 2005
“As black as the night, as light as day. Beauty comes in all shades. I couldn‟t see it then. I see it now. I
especially see it now.”
______________________________________
Brittney Turner is a student at Middle Georgia College
A Counter-Culture Georgian Finds Difficulties Hitch Hiking in Northern New Mexico
Brian Boutwell
In 2002 I moved to Taos, after my flamboyantly liberal cousin Jill, on Thanksgiving said, "You should
move out. We‟ll lend you the van. But you can hitch hike easily as well. We do it all the time."
I accepted her offer.
A few months later, acclimated to the environment, I decided to visit a Buddhist shrine down Rim Road. From
their earth-ship I walked to the intersection of Rim Road and Two Peaks Road and seamlessly got a ride from a guy
with a mohawk and a pierced nose. He had an open top Suzuki Samurai. We wash-boarded three miles then stopped
by a road with Tibetan prayer flags auspiciously folding in the wind. He said, "I‟d take you on up, but my
girlfriend‟s waiting, you know..."
"Na, that‟s cool man. Hey, thanks for the ride." I got out and anxiously walked on.
After sitting half-lotus for an hour in front of an elaborate stupa chanting mantras with sandalwood prayer
beads laced between my fingers, I got up and checked out the entire compound built within two acres of land.
Satisfied, I ambled back to the entrance with the prayer flags and then about two more miles down Rim Road. I
managed to get picked up again by a couple of nappy fellows with long matted hair and beards, reeking of numerous
soap-less-days, folks we called mesa-rats. I climbed in the back of their hatch back and sat in a carpet of dog hair
beside the shedding mutt and wash-boarded down the rest of the road as they discussed the war. I got dropped off at
the intersection; they were heading East. Seemed I was back on my feet.
Now, ponder on not having second nature transportation and giving a lot of thought about the welfare of feet on
asphalt/earth walking, standing with a thumb raised like an SOS distress signal.
I now lived in my cousin‟s school bus, but we‟d had disagreements about my attitude and productiveness,
none-the-less I felt I needed to jet, settle in on my own. I had a bag packed with clothes and personal effects and
walked to the intersection— put my thumb into the air. I watched as a half-dozen other hitchers acquired rides and
headed off East. I was heading West; no one else it seemed was. Two hours past standing with a Viagra-stiff-thumb
as Jill and her husband Stuart rolled up sixties' style in their peace-blue-micro-bus, stopped beside me and inquired,
"You trying to get to work?"
I replied, "Yyyeah."
Her husband smiled, nodded his head and said, "Good luck then," turning the Grateful Dead back up and
puttering off into the dust. I gave them the bird— „damn pseudo-hippies‟. So, I didn‟t make it to work on time, but
did get a ride, after I called my boss, which she sent transportation via one of the diner-girls. All in all over three
hours were wasted as well as my temperament and health in the dry summer heat.
But let‟s backtrack, back before the dissension. My most extensive hitch hiking ordeal. Imagine: fire swelling
in dehydrated thighs and loins, blisters rubbed raw into heels and big toes, lips cracked like the death-valley’s
surface, and eyes wild and burning with exertion and stimulants— a few things I gained on this trip.
I drove my cousin‟s family van everywhere I went, but they‟d decided one day to take the Chrysler-junk to
Sante-Fe on a day I‟d decided to go nature-hiking into the Ski-Valley. Their other vehicles had straight shifts. They
said, "We‟ll drop you off at the „old blinking light‟. You‟ll have no problem getting a ride from there."
They dropped me off and I pushed the walk button on the pole, waited for the traffic to thin and the whitelighted-man-walking to appear. On the other side standing on the concrete curb facing the route to the valley,
universal-pick-me-up-thumb raised I immediately had a GrandPrix with a California tag pull over. I got in with a
couple younger guys touring the Southwest. They took me up past Arroyo Seco, dropped me off at the corner of the
road that continued into the Valley. They were taking a left into an area I‟d yet to travel. From here I stood by a lone
adobe art gallery with a plastered lion head and front legs erupting from the building above the door for around an
hour with about three or four vehicles passing by.
„No good luck like that first quick snag,‟ I thought.
I started walking past the gallery and headed down a steep hill. Half way down a red truck rumbled by; they
just looked and continued on. Most of the vehicles I‟d seen so far had Texas tags and other Mid-Western state tags,
even saw one from Florida; tourists from areas not accustomed to picking up odd looking characters off the side of
the road.
I continued walking for a few hours with pain cutting into the heels of my feet. I wore Tiva hiking sandals, but
they were showing definite design flaws. I found an spot by the river that ran along the winding road where I could
make my way down and soak my feet in the cold mountain water and rest. Slightly relieved I made my way back up
and continue on. I guess I‟d walked a good eight miles when a grey compact car rode by and turned off onto the
embankment. My pace quickened and as I made my way up I noticed yet again another California tag. I started to
believe then that Cali. must not be too bad. I related to her my troubles up to now as she gave her equivalent of the
Southern phrase, „well bless your heart,‟ but with genuine concern. She drove an eternity of only two miles. She
apologized for having came so late, not able to have given me much help. We exchanged a laugh and parked. I got
out and thanked her.
The Ski-Valley felt deserted; it was summer I suppose and walked into the Dutch replicated town-scape and
went inside a pizza joint to see if I could get some first-aid for my feet. Inside, a stoner-frat-boy looking guy came
out of the kitchen. He asked what he could do for me.
I said, "No pizza man, just wondering if you got some Band-Aids, gauze, Ducktape, and Neosporin?"
He pulled out a box with the variants of each item. I took what I needed, went outside and sat on the front stoop
and took care of my feet. I returned the box thanking him and asked if he knew the location of the Bull of the Woods
trail. He directed me, off I went, temporarily relieved.
Three miles up the arduous trail I collapsed; my legs felt like a polio patients‟ and my loins felt like I‟d taken a
bullet in „Nam, lost in an unknown mountainous jungle. I lay there thinking about the stupidity of my notion to go
hiking; I intended for it to be pleasant and enjoyable, like the other hikes I‟d taken, but I‟d already walked around
eight miles on asphalt under prepared, out of shape, and seriously pissed I‟d not been able to have the van. I realized
then that I should have just taken it easy at the pizza joint. I lay on the grass in a small opening in the evergreens off
the trail, napping. Awake and alert again I stretched, feeling like I‟d walked all day and just slept on the same
surface my feet had been on.
I half stumbled down the trail ready to get an early start on panhandling for a ride back to the bus— a good
twenty plus miles away. Back at the empty pizzeria I introduced myself officially to the cook/cashier guy. I spoke
vaguely about the trip; he offered to give me a ride back down the valley to the „old blinking light‟. Relieved to have
someone easily offer a ride I started idle conversation. He asked if I didn‟t mind making a beer run to the
convenience store on the other side of the resort—"Within easy walking distance."
Mindful of how great a beer would be at that point I took the guy‟s money and left. I returned and handed him a
six pack of Coors‟ Lite and his change. He pulled one out and handed it to me along with a slice of pizza and said,
"I‟ll have to close the store out, but it won‟t be late since it‟s Sunday."
"That‟s fine man, I don‟t mind chilling out for awhile waiting. „Least I know I got a ride."
Enter montage of present tense time passage. [It‟s early evening. I‟m watching television. Two underage guys,
who work at the place, show up to goof off. I ride with the two guys for more beer. Everyone in the kitchen is
drinking; one guys pulls out a joint; we pass the joint around. Another guy shows up with more weed; tells me he‟s
from New Zealand and was an extra in the second Lord Of The Rings movie— drinking and smoking continue.
Three German foreign exchange girls who know the pizza-making-crew wander in. Drinking and smoking halts as
customers walk in: a yuppie family— husband, wife, and daughter. Miraculously their order is taken and their food
is sufficiently cooked. They get the drift and take it to go.The sun is now setting into the mountains. The two
underage guys are hitting gravel rocks off into the town-scape— aiming for a stain glass window or anything that
might cost money. Near dusk— everyone has cancelled excitement for either realization of parental domination or
excessive school work and return home.] Exit montage of present tense time passage.
With the restaurant closed but not clean we left and were finally blazing away from the Taos Ski-Valley Resort.
We came to Arroyo Seco and past the Gypsy 360 café and by Momentitos de la Vidas‟ and finally to the red traffic
light of the „old blinking light‟. Groggy but thankful to at least be here I got out and told the guy we should smoke
out again. Standing alone I realized it did not seem like a good idea to hang around the intersection with myself
inebriated and it being pitch dark. I pushed the walk buttons at each section and darted across like Frogger. I figured
I‟d walk on up and stand off the pavement on sixty-four west and try to get a ride; people turning in would already
be at a decreased speed and there was plenty of space to pull over. In the swirl of sound and lights I stood uneasy
with the prospect of what I intended to do. „It‟s night,‟ I thought.
I decided to start walking again.
"Damn this hitchhiking," I said, about to fall over seeing car lights approaching, unsure if I had too much of my
body in the road, trying to force someone to see me. One after another cars/trucks/motorcycles careened by me. „No
one‟s stopped so far, no ones probably gonna stop at all,‟ I thought.
I topped a hill and saw the Taos Regional Air Port; then it clicked; I remembered Stuart worked at the airport.
Jill— I‟d forgot about my cousin. I opened my cell phone and pushed the contacts button, scrolled down until I
found their number and called. Surprised that Jill actually answered the phone, I said, "Hey, I‟m just before the
airport on the side of the road. Come pick me up. I‟m half dead."
Shocked that I‟d waited so long to call, she replied in amusement,"Ok, give me a minute to get myself together
and I‟ll be there, just don‟t ride off with someone else."
"If I could have gotten a ride I wouldn‟t have called," I said as an autobahn-speed-sedan roared by me...
Again, ponder on not having second nature transportation and giving a lot of thought about the welfare of feet
on asphalt/earth walking, standing with a thumb raised like an SOS distress signal. Be it day or night I found hitch
hiking to be too romanticized a notion of travel— be prepared to walk more than ride most time. Have sufficient
foot wear, water and food even if the distance isn‟t necessarily far. Things go wrong, like having no one stop or
having to spend four or five hours partying. Be aware that sometimes strange people are more inclined to pick up
strays off the road, unless their hard-core locals or they‟re from California.