ORACLE XIV
ORACLE
FINE ARTS R EVIEW
University of South Alabama
2016 | Volume XIV
COVER ART
UNTITLED
Joshua Parker
Page 135
ORACLE 2016 STAFF
EDITOR IN CHIEF
ART DIRECTOR & ART CURATOR
ARYN BRADLEY
LOUISE KING
ASSISTANT TO ART CURATOR
RACHEL GREEN
FICTION EDITOR
JOSHUA JONES
NONFICTION EDITOR
POETRY EDITOR
KARIE FUGETT
MICAELA WALLEY
BOARDS
FICTION
NONFICTION
Thomas Carlton
Jennifer Clark-Grainger
Natalie Franklin
Rachael Fowler
Alex Moylan
Nicholas Leblanc
Richard Narramore
Michael Win Ritchie
ART
Isaiah Alston
POETRY
Meagan Apperson
Brittany Clay
Ashley Fiveash
James Craig
Leah Fox
Jordan Knox
Danielle Fryer
Megan McDowell
Katelyn Huff
Grace Mitchell
John Klosterman
Anna Van Derwood
Christine LaGrassa
Mark Reynolds
Amy Wilkins
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SPECIAL THANKS
This year, Oracle staff members sifted through record-number
submissions, which gave us a collection of excellent art and writing.
The Oracle staff would like to thank our advisors, Ellen Harrington
and diane gibbs, for their support and guidance in the production
of this issue. We would also like to extend a sincere thanks to the
previous editor in chief, Karie Fugett, for her foresight in ameliorating
some organizational headaches in addition to her general advice and
support. Last, but most certainly not least, the staff must recognize
Louise King for her dedication and generosity. Her ideas, combined
with her incredible work ethic, are what made this process a seamless
one. Without these women, this issue would not have come together.
Additionally, the staff would like to remember an important figure
in the Oracle community. Bobby Holmes was a poet, writer, and
student at the University of South Alabama. In honor of his memory,
his friends and family, including Dr. Larry Holmes, Bobby’s father
and history professor emeritus at USA, generously established the
Bobby Holmes Scholarship. Each year, this scholarship is awarded
to the editor in chief of Oracle Fine Arts Review.
Other thanks:
USA Student Government Association (SGA)
USA College of Arts and Sciences
Andrzej Wierzbicki, Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
Steven Trout, Chair, English Department
Jason Guynes, Chair, Visual Arts Department
Ellen Burton Harrington, Faculty Advisor, English Department
diane gibbs, Faculty Advisor, Visual Arts Department
Mira Rosenthal, Director of Creative Writing
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EDITOR’S NOTE
This year’s issue of Oracle considers the structures and
spaces (both abstract and literal) that humans create
for themselves, identify themselves by, and push each
other into. Luckily, one place we are not as limited by is
the creative outlet present in journals such as this one.
The themed work in this issue, those pieces specifically
connected with structures and spaces, is meant to enrich
reader experience with the piece; to highlight just how
frequently people are changing and adapting to new
environments and situations, whatever they may be.
Themed work features the symbol found at the bottom of
this note. The design of this issue and theme symbol were
inspired by the artwork of Piet Mondrian, an artist who
challenged traditional notions of space and liminality.
Enjoy the read, and enjoy the ride. I know I did.
Best,
Aryn Sojung Bradley
Editor in Chief
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CONTENTS
CONTENTS
FINE ART
Isolated ............................................ 15
Brittany Carney
The Edge ........................................ 19
Brittany Carney
Seahorse ...................................... 28
Tammy Reese
Lantern ............................................ 46
Katelyn Huff
Duality ........................................... 50
Jamal Dortch
Backbone ....................................... 58
Karrie Ellis
Pink Flower .................................... 62
Adorable Monique
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FICTION
Valley of Angels ............................ 69
Mauricio Garay
The Bermuda Triangle................. 29
William R. Hincy
Lemon ............................................. 70
Ashley Fiveash
Transcendental Paladin .............. 36
Susan Duke
Pirate ................................................ 74
Paige Garcia
The Chosen People...................... 91
Leslie Selbst
Under Your Skin ............................ 75
Adorable Monique
Door to Door ................................ 106
Wiley Scott
The Face was His .......................... 76
W. Jack Savage
Flowers in the Spring .................. 117
Thomas Elson
Mystical Trance .............................. 77
Mauricio Garay
Any Last Words? .......................... 132
Matthew Poirier
Motion .............................................. 78
Karrie Ellis
Last Dance for Uncle Sam ......... 146
Jim Plath
Girl .................................................... 79
Katelyn Huff
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June’s Sunflower ......................... 80
Christine LaGrassa
Shell Fungus .................................. 81
PJ Pugh
Voices at Night ............................. 82
Adorable Monique
Pescado Y Flores ......................... 83
Jennifer Clark-Grainger
And the Water Rose .................... 84
W. Jack Savage
Origin ............................................. 85
Anna Wheeler
Map ................................................. 86
Jamal Dortch
Edificio ........................................... 87
Jennifer Clark-Grainger
La Muerte ...................................... 88
Emily Carlin
Courage ......................................... 89
PJ Pugh
Dauphin Island with
Paw Paw ........................................ 90
Leah Fox
Religion .......................................... 96
Thomas Myers
Conflict .......................................... 99
Thomas Myers
Port ................................................ 101
Jamal Dortch
Etymology of
David Lee Utley .......................... 105
Keith Castelin
Be There Before Dark ................ 113
W. Jack Savage
Decaying Machine ...................... 115
Katie Carwie
The Hidden Truth ........................ 116
Adorable Monique
Español Rosa y Bicho ................ 123
Jennifer Clark-Grainger
A Calm Veterinarian .................. 125
Amy Wilkins
Detached .................................... 126
Brittany Carney
Butter ........................................... 130
Ashley Fiveash
Untitled ........................................ 135
Joshua Parker
Mantel ........................................... 137
April Livingston
Tribal Circle ................................. 145
Katelyn Huff
Free Spirit .................................... 153
Terri Wallace
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CONTENTS
CONTENTS
POETRY
The Architect’s Drawing
Board ............................................... 14
James Tierney
Why I’m Not a Parent .................. 25
Marie Lecrivain
Death’s Cantata #1 ....................... 26
Deborah Adero Ferguson
NONFICTION
The Trial .......................................... 16
Laura King Edwards
Intentions ...................................... 47
Melissa Grunow
Beauty Scars ................................ 56
Alan Samry
The Saralee Recordings ............. 63
Julia Halprin-Jackson
Raging Against
Alzheimer’s Night ....................... 138
Lynn Veach Sadler
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Emeralds ........................................ 34
Brennan DeFrisco
Licking the Knife .......................... 52
Tobi Alfier
Albino Fawn .................................. 54
Richard King Perkins II
Signing ................................. 102
Janet Cannon
Roadkill Sutra ...................... 103
Robert Annis
On the Wall .......................... 104
Shittu Fowora
April and My Plastic
Flowers ................................. 114
Sonnet Mondal
Molassacre .......................... 124
Arika Elizenberry
Outlaw Saints ..................... 128
Anne Babson
The Shells of Pink Bodies .......... 59
Michele Tracy Berger
Carbon-Dated
Anthropocene Vignette ..... 131
Richard Hillyer
An Open Window ........................ 68
Kevin Casey
A Tribute to Sue Walker .... 136
Ava Tindol Long
Ripe ................................................. 71
Karie Fugett
Putting My Name on It ...... 144
Alan D. Harris
Portmahomack Summer ........... 100
J.C. Alfier
After Paris ............................ 152
Cynthia Strauff Schaub
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PAINTING
POETRY
THE ARCHITECT’S DRAWING BOARD
JAMES TIERNEY
Before he could go forward
Like an artist sitting
In front of an easel
What troubled him
Was getting started
Back and forth
Between a bin
Full of empty ideas
In his struggle
For technical expression
He failed to understand
How he could like that
If he didn’t like this
He had to go back
Before he could go forward
To rediscover the things
He once knew
Objects of desire which
In their design and shape
Created a new kind of order
In what he saw
A feeling for objects
In which there is a space
Big enough to make a difference
Like the space in a church
That drops you to your knees
He had to go back
ISOLATED
James Tierney was born in Northumberland, United Kingdom, and
now lives and works in Italy. Working at the University of Milan, he
specializes in business administration. His publications
in both the UK and the USA have appeared in Pendle War Poetry,
Horrified Press, Pyrokinection, and others. The writer is also actively
involved with public readings given at the British Council, Milan, as
part of its cultural liaison program.
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BRITTANY CARNEY
acrylic
Brittany Carney is from northern Illinois
and is a freshman at the University of
South Alabama. She is majoring in marine
biology, but she spends her free time as
an artist. Brittany mainly paints with acrylic
and watercolor paints, but she also has
experience in oils, pencils, and charcoal.
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NONFICTION
LAURA KING EDWARDS
After my sister was sleeping, Mom and Dad pulled my husband,
John, and me aside in the kitchenette of our Portland hotel suite.
“There’s something you should know,” Mom said.
I looked up from my mug of instant coffee and waited.
“One of the kids died.”
My stomach lurched. Goosebumps prickled my skin.
“She was number two in the trial, and she was a lot sicker than
Taylor. They said it was Batten disease that killed her. It wasn’t the cells.”
Batten disease always kills, I thought to myself.
“So what now?” I said, my voice cracking.
“Nothing. We forge ahead.” She took a deep breath and fingered
the wristband on her left wrist, a small length of rubber that she
wore as a daily reminder to “Be Joyful in All Things.” Dad took a
gulp of his coffee and looked at the floor. “They had to tell us,” Mom
added quickly. “But since the disease — not the surgery — was to
blame, the trial goes on.”
When my brother, Stephen, arrived from the East Coast around
lunchtime on Sunday, we drove towards the town of Hood River
after picking him up from the airport rather than heading back
into Portland. Taylor had a full battery of pre-op appointments
scheduled for Monday, and while no one ever acknowledged it,
we didn’t want to be anywhere near the hospital on our last day
of freedom. We didn’t want to talk about anything related to the
surgery, either — including the girl who had died. So instead we
talked about my brother’s new semester at N.C. State and whether
his Wolfpack or my Tar Heels would make a better run in the latter
half of the college basketball season.
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Unlike the highways near our hometown, concrete jungles fringed
with billboards and rest stops, the road to Hood River wound
through a national forest, flanked by towering cliffs dotted with oldgrowth trees to the south and the Columbia River and Washington
state to the north. Thirty minutes outside of the city, Dad pulled into
the parking lot at Multnomah Falls, a cascade of icy water more
than six hundred feet tall. A footpath wound its way up the steep
cliffs, but it was a cold, wet day, and we couldn’t risk Taylor getting
sick or hurt by climbing a strenuous trail so close to the surgery. So
we settled for looking — all except for my sister, who couldn’t see
the falls but said they were “loud.” Later, after we reached Hood
River, we floated in and out of warm antique shops and ate pastries.
And we waited.
Tuesday came at once too suddenly and not quickly enough. An
alarm clock rang somewhere in our dark hotel suite. I found my
phone on the nightstand in the smaller of the two bedrooms and
glanced at the screen: 4:30 a.m. For a moment, I thought I was
dreaming. Then, I looked at the screen a second time and saw the
date: January 15. We’d had this date circled on the calendar since
Stem Cells Inc. called the second time. And now it was real.
We didn’t have time for breakfast or even instant coffee. But I could
barely pull on my socks over my cold feet; for what could have been
minutes or only a few seconds I sat frozen on the edge of the bed
in our room, lit by the glow of a single, small lamp, as my mind raced
with thoughts about the trial.
Batten disease always kills.
THE TRIAL
In the eighteen months since the diagnosis I’d become considerably
adept at grasping the science of Batten disease despite my
preference for humanities classes in college, and I ran through
what I remembered of the nuts and bolts of my sister’s surgery. In
a few hours, a pediatric neurosurgeon would inject nearly a billion
purified fetal neural stem cells into my sister’s brain via eight holes
drilled into her skull. Taylor would be given immunosuppression
therapy to prevent her body from recognizing the new cells as a
threat and attacking them. If the cells survived, the hope was that
they’d engraft in her brain and begin producing the enzyme Batten
disease had stolen from her, and that would, in theory, protect her
remaining brain cells. The stem cells, if they worked, would be like
a pause button. Taylor wouldn’t ever be the old Taylor again, but she
might have a real chance at survival.
But to have a shot, she had to get to the hospital. And Taylor
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NONFICTION
PAINTING
refused to do anything my parents asked her to do that morning. I
remembered Dad, for once taking an active role, explaining the
surgery to her as he tucked her in bed with her stuffed animals the
previous night.
“When we go to the hospital tomorrow, we’ll meet more doctors,”
Dad had said. “They’ll give you something to help you go to sleep.
When you wake up, your hair will be gone and your head and
tummy might hurt. But your hair will grow back before you know
it, and you’ll feel better soon.” Taylor didn’t respond, instead staring
blindly at the ceiling in the dim room as she twirled a lock of hair
around one slender finger, but I knew she understood this was it;
that surgery wasn’t the same as a simple blood draw or even an
MRI. I think my little sister, the bravest person I’ve ever known, was
scared stiff.
And now, she sat stone still at the desk in the common area
listening to a Disney movie on her portable DVD player, her
knees tucked under her chin and her jaw set, while the rest of us
scrambled to pull ourselves together. Each time Mom walked by
the desk, she’d plead with my sister to get dressed. But by 5:30,
Taylor hadn’t moved, and my parents’ nerves were rattled. Getting
a kid dressed seems like such a small thing, but Mom and Dad
were ready to crumble. They’d signed their daughter up for an
experimental surgery that was both super risky and her best chance
on the planet, but it wasn’t happening unless they got her out the door.
That’s when John walked over to Taylor and put a hand on her
shoulder. “Sweetie, can you get dressed?” He spoke so softly, I
almost didn’t hear him; but I watched with disbelief as my sister
switched off the DVD player, slid out of the desk chair, and walked
into my parents’ bedroom, where Mom had laid out her gray fleece
hoodie and warm-up pants. Three minutes later, Taylor was dressed
and we were walking towards the lobby where a hired Town Car,
and the unknown, awaited us.
THE EDGE
BRITTANY CARNEY
watercolor
Brittany Carney is from
northern Illinois and is a
freshman at the University
of South Alabama. She is
majoring in marine biology,
but she spends her free
time as an artist. Brittany
mainly paints with acrylic
and watercolor paints, but
she also has experience in
oils, pencils, and charcoal.
I sat frozen on the edge of the bed in our room...
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as my mind raced with thoughts about the trial.
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NONFICTION
The lobby of Doernbecher Children’s Hospital at Oregon Health
and Science University was bright and happy, with lots of windows
and colorful bird sculptures suspended from the ceiling. I worked to
convince myself that this could only be so bad, that God had some
great plan for Taylor, that this trial was bigger, even, than fixing
Batten disease and that my sister was the key to moving the science
forward for millions of people suffering from many diseases. An orderly brought Taylor a wheelchair when we arrived, and even
though my sister was perfectly capable of walking; John pushed her
around the lobby, popping wheelies and taking corners, and she
laughed hysterically. I pictured a
long-ago night in an underground
mall in Toronto with a clear-eyed,
fearless toddler in a stroller;
she laughed much like the blind
girl in the wheelchair, and for a
split second, I smiled. But then,
I remembered where we were.
We were in Oregon, not Canada, and as much as I’d prayed for my
sister’s acceptance into the trial with every fiber in my body, now that
we were here—on the verge of taking what I’d always known deep
down was a tremendous leap of faith—I was petrified. I wasn’t the only one who was scared.
I’d prayed for my
sister’s acceptance
into the trial with
every fiber in
my body…
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Mom said, shaking her head. We were
in pre-op, just out of earshot of the bay where a team of nurses
and nurse anesthetists was hooking my sister up to machines and
checking her vitals. Mom was talking to Sarah, a research associate
at OHSU and the study coordinator.
“Yes you can,” I said. “She can,” I said to Sarah, a little more firmly.
Then, I turned back to my mother. “Remember what you said in
the coffee shop? The day she was diagnosed?” Mom didn’t answer,
though it was plain from her face that she remembered. “You said
you wouldn’t let this disease call the shots,” I said. “You promised
you’d fight. This might not be the kind of fighting you bargained for,
but right now it’s the best shot we’ve got. “
“We’ll take good care of her,” Sarah added. Her eyes were kind
behind her thick glasses, and her voice sounded like that of a good
friend, not a hospital employee we barely knew.
Mom closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. “I’m
ready,” she said.
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Back at my sister’s bedside, I watched her go to sleep. Her now
short blonde hair, soon to be shaved clean, spread out on the thin
pillow beneath her head. The tips of her eyelashes almost touched
her cheeks.
Moments later, they took her away, and suddenly I wanted more
time; I wanted to tell my sister I loved her; I wanted to hold her in
my arms and I wanted her to look me in the eye and tell me she’d
be okay, but I knew she couldn’t do that. Instead, I fell in step beside
my mother as we moved to the hospital’s family waiting room for
pediatric surgical patients, the rest of our family not far behind. I
closed my eyes, and I said a silent prayer.
Oregon Health & Science University is built on top of Marquam
Hill, also known as “Pill Hill” because it’s home to three hospitals,
on the edge of downtown Portland. While it’s a pain in the neck to
navigate, it has one hell of a view at the top. I gazed out a wall of
windows, watching wispy clouds form over the mountains in the
distance and trying not to look at the clock.
Not long after we arrived in the waiting area, we saw my sister one last
time when a herd of scrubs strode down the adjoining hallway, rolling
Taylor’s stretcher. Lying on her back with her still-thick, golden hair
framing her face, I thought she looked like a sleeping angel.
A hazy winter sun hung low in the winter sky when we saw Sarah
again. She approached us, kneeled down, and placed a sealed
Ziploc bag containing Taylor’s shorn hair in my mother’s hands.
If ever there was a time when I thought Mom might lose her
composure, it was now. But instead, she just nodded a silent thank
you and clutched the bag to her chest.
Normally I’d dread the thought of spending five hours in a hospital
waiting room, but I had no concept of time in Portland. Seconds
and minutes, hours and days — they all felt the same. So when
the lead surgeon, Dr. Selden, came out in his scrubs to report that
they’d gotten more proficient with the injections and expected to
finish early, and that Taylor was doing well, I was surprised that
they’d made so much progress. And when Sarah returned later to
tell us we’d be able to see my sister shortly, I experienced a strange,
out-of-body sensation, as if the morning had never happened at all. It was
as if I was a powerless audience, watching someone else live my life.
They wouldn’t let me into the recovery area, because I wasn’t a
parent. I went out of my mind sitting in the family waiting room
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NONFICTION
with John and Stephen after Sarah took Mom and Dad to visit
Taylor following the surgery. It wasn’t until they’d moved her to her
patient room upstairs that they allowed us to see her.
If I’d ever doubted for a moment that my sister was sick, I was
sure of it the first time I saw her after the surgery in Portland.
She had dark circles beneath her eyes, her scalp shone beneath
the harsh fluorescent lighting, and the eight surgical sites where
they’d injected the stem cells were angry and red. Her slender arms
formed a makeshift halo over her head on the thin hospital pillow;
her hands were wrapped in a thick layer of yellow and blue tape to
keep her from pulling at her IV lines and monitor wires, and the
tip of one finger glowed hot pink from the oxygen sensor.
With an obvious lack of better options and a full understanding of
Batten’s outcome if we did nothing, Portland had become, in a lot
of ways, our Promised Land. Reading about the trial for the past
year and even seeing G-rated photos of some of the other kids postsurgery had almost
made the whole thing
seem like a fairy tale,
partially because we
b el i ev e d i n i t a n d
partially because we
needed to believe in
it. But the image of
my sister lying in that
hospital bed, fresh
wounds glistening on
her scalp, was real,
and my mind suddenly
raced with questions.
She had dark circles
beneath her eyes, her
scalp shone beneath the
harsh fluorescent lighting,
and the eight surgical
sites where they’d
injected the stem cells
were angry and red.
From my spot in the shadows of the cramped hospital room, I
cracked a smile for the first time that day. Taylor had just been
through one hell of a surgery. But the sister I knew and loved was
still in there.
Laura King Edwards is a writer, non-profit leader, and communications professional.
A graduate of UNC-Chapel Hill with a BA in English, Laura minored in creative writing.
She blogs at writethehappyending.com about finding beauty in the wake of a tragedy.
Laura’s younger sister was diagnosed with a rare, fatal disorder called Batten disease
in 2006. Refusing to accept the status quo, Laura became a passionate activist,
co-founding a non-profit organization, Taylor’s Tale, at age twenty-four. Laura has a
successful career at Wray Ward, a top marketing communications agency. FasterCures
and Global Genes, patient advocacy organizations, have recognized her blog.
How quickly would the scars heal? What would her hair look like
when it grew back? Would her friends still love and accept her when
she returned to school in February? Would we be able to keep her
from stomach bugs and the common cold — normal stuff that could
make her really sick? And of course, the question that weighed on
me most of all: would the surgery save her?
I stood in the doorway and watched as Taylor, still groggy from the
anesthesia, regained consciousness. When she came to, the first
thing she did was reach up and touch the back of her head. She
gingerly felt different areas of her scalp, looking for hair and not
finding any. She was still too groggy to speak, but the annoyed
expression on her face said, “Those sons of bitches; they really did it.”
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POETRY
WHY I’M NOT A PARENT
MARIE LECRIVAIN
No bird soars too
high if he soars with
his own wings.
…I told you so…
— William Blake
“No bird soars too high if he
soars with his own wings.”
— William Blake
This was the fundamental problem
between Icarus and Daedalus, and although
the former tried his best to walk the line,
he knew enlightenment was not a heritage.
Can you imagine the words, I told you so,
dying on Daedalus’ lips as he watched Icarus
plummet like a comet into the sea,
broken wings askew and breath
sucked away by the west wind? Do you see
the clever life jacket Daedalus designed
— specifically for this occasion —
left behind in a corner of his workshop
because time and tide wait for no man?
Can you sense the momentary pride
that swelled in his breast as he
watched Icarus ascend to heights
no one dared to go,
his heart caught in his throat,
and eyes wide open in wonder?
Marie Lecrivain is the editor of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los
Angeles, a photographer, and writer-in-residence at her apartment.
Her work has been published in various journals, including A New
Ulster, Los Angeles Review, and Poetry Salzburg Review. She’s the
author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing
House 2014), and the forthcoming Grimm Conversations (Sybaritic
Press 2015).
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POETRY
DEATH’S CANTATA # 1
(Musings on a Son’s Suicide)
DEBORAH ADERO FERGUSON
Death’s inky membrane
is organized with office efficiency:
categorized and stacked
in fleshy boxes.
The pain of your memory
is found in the attic
of my brain.
Bloodied, muddied labels
vividly proclaim
the contents.
But they have soured and mildewed
from the flood of desire
that craves your laughter.
So, cerebral management
procured a new storage space.
An intricate web
of veins and arteries
that allows for remembrance —
but constant handling causes
blockage and cardiac arrest
splintering cogitation.
Now, the organ of thought
rearranges the attic office.
The important files,
your life and death,
have muscular preservation
in my body’s limbs lubricated
daily with physical exertion.
The joy of remembrance
and an acceptance of death’s
reality is encased in sinewy
storage tissue, closed and locked
with a caution sign:
Only to be opened
when my heart
can stand the pain.
Deborah Adero Ferguson has studied traditional dance, storytelling
and music in Africa and has performed throughout the United States.
An award-winning writer and playwright with three decades of experience, Ferguson has worked with students nationally and internationally. She holds a BA in Interdisciplinary Studies and a MA in English:
Creative Writing from the University of South Alabama. She is currently
an adjunct English professor at the University of South Alabama and
lives in Foley, Alabama with her husband.
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FICTION
THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE
WILLIAM R. HINCY
“It would be darling to be a poet. Yes, that’s what strikes my fancy at
the moment — I want to describe the bulb of a woman’s belly when
she first shows as the mound in the sand of a betrayed pirate.”
“That’s an unsettling image. Don’t you poets write pretty things, like
sonnets and ballads?”
“Rubbish, Charles. American education is so crass. Poets make
interesting images, not pretty ones.”
“I see, but who would bury a betrayed pirate?”
SEAHORSE
TAMMY REESE
casted glass with
glass powder print
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Tammy Reese started at the University of South
Alabama as a marine biology major with a life
long love and appreciation for art. After taking
her first class in glassblowing, she knew she had
found her place. She changed her degree path
to a BFA with a concentration in glassblowing.
Tammy has always loved working with her hands
and can now make the animals of the sea that
she has adored so much, along with other forms,
in glass.
She looked into his eyes. “I would. I’d bury him right there on the
Bermuda beach so he could still smell the sea.”
“Have you been to Bermuda?”
“No, I’ve never been. But I saw a picture in an encyclopedia once,
when I was a schoolgirl, and I imagined playing on the beaches
and the way the sand would cling to my skin. Bermuda is the child
of a shipwreck, you know? Pilgrims on their way to the New World
shipwrecked there and didn’t have any way off, so they just stayed.
It’s as good a place as any to start a colony, I imagine.”
“That’s romantic, if an accident can ever be romantic. That’s how all
colonies should be started — with a shipwreck.”
“Accidents are far more romantic than anything that’s ever planned.”
She kissed his chest. “Ah, it feels divine to bury my head in your chest
and make hurricanes with your hair again. And the smell of your
eternity, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. No matter how long its been.”
“I like the way the silk of your hair feels against my skin.”
“Hogwash! — this mop? It’s so unmanageable and frizzy; I really
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“Yes. Be the Bible, be Shakespeare —
should do it for you more. It must certainly feel more like snakes
than silk.”
“Silk snakes, then. And you do it for me enough.”
“No, I should do it for you more.”
“You should.”
She nestled closer, wrapping her leg around his belly. “I’ve always
believed that whole philosophy of The One was rubbish—complete
hogwash. But as far as chests go, yours is definitely The One.”
“I can see the Irish in your face when you’re witty — your nostrils
redden and flare.” With a finger she flicked the tip of his nose. “Tell
me, do you talk to your wife this way?”
“Yes.”
“Does she lay her head on your chest?”
“Yes, this way.”
“As she should. It’s a perfectly brilliant chest for laying your head
upon. Terrance’s has always been too hard and angular for my taste.”
“Only your accent could make the word hogwash sound poetic.”
“Please, I just want to forget about him.”
“It feels good to hear someone responding to my voice again. For
months now Terrance has only been home long enough to sleep. It’s
impossible for a wife to compete when her husband’s mistress is
himself, when the only thing that ignites his passion is his drive for
self-assertion.”
“You men. Such weak bellies and fragile egos. I don’t mind thinking
of you and your wife at all. In fact, I’m fascinated by it. The thought
of you lying together so intimately, yet you with so many shadows.
So much of you I know that she doesn’t. I like being the mistress in
that way. The wife is such a dreary, predictable role.”
“Amelia, there’s nothing predictable about you. No, no, don’t move. I
was just adjusting my arm. It was beginning to fall asleep. Can you
hear that? I think it’s raining.”
“The best thing you can do if you want to ignore someone is marry
them.”
“Oh, he was ignoring me long before we were married.”
“He’s a scoundrel. I could never marry you.”
“We’re all scoundrels, my darling. He just knows how to fulfill
himself with a completeness that I will never be able to. Why should
I want to leave the needs of someone I love unfulfilled?”
“You don’t love him.”
“Why? Because I can stay away from him? Because I don’t cry or
bleed for him? Maybe that is love.”
“Don’t talk about him. I can’t bear it.”
“So interesting the things we can and can’t bear. There never seems
to be any sense to any of it, yet, somehow, it all makes perfect sense.”
“My American education couldn’t understand that.”
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tell me everything and nothing at all.”
“The best thing you can do
if you want to ignore someone is marry them.”
FICTION
She paced her fingers up his forearm. “I wonder — what would our
baby look like?”
“Frizzy hair and soft chest, I’d bet.”
“Ha! You always did make me laugh. Do — you do make me laugh.”
He tightened his grip around her. “Amelia, we could — you know?”
“Let’s not talk about such trifling matters. Not now.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. Be the Bible, be Shakespeare — tell me everything and nothing at all.”
“To be or not to be, thou shalt not!”
“Yankee education is an abomination. I pity the children born here.”
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FICTION
With his free hand, he stroked her from shoulder to elbow. “I like
the way your skin feels pressed against mine, so soft and new, as if
you’ve never been touched before.”
“My skin? It’s so dry. I really should moisturize more often.” She
examined her left hand against the backdrop of his chest. “Do you
think you’ll ever tell her about us?”
“I’d lose everything if I did.”
“You’d be nothing without her, and I’d still want you. Your wife only
cares about her marriage, nothing about you.”
“I’m not sure I’d love you if I were nothing.”
Terrance’s can give you such a knot in the neck.”
“Don’t talk of him. I like to imagine that it’s just you and me
when we’re together. Like there’s no one else. Just our skin and
heartbeats.”
“But it’s not just you and me and our heartbeats.”
He looked up into the darkness. “I know. That’s what scares me the
most.”
“Rubbish. It’s only then that you could love me at all.”
“Kiss me, Amelia. I know I love your lips.”
“Mmm. Your lips aren’t bad either.” She pressed her face against his
ribs and traced them with her cheek. “I wonder what it would feel
like to have a little foot kick me in the ribs.”
“I can kick you in the ribs now if you want to find out.”
“Not funny, Charles.”
“I’m kidding. I could never hurt you.”
“How did you do it with the other women? How did you remain so
strong and impassive when they came crying to you? When their
hearts were slit for you?”
“I explained that it was a
stage of grief and once they
were past the deal-making
phase they’d be able to move
on. And I never grieved.”
“You know I never expected
this to happen. I took my
wedding vows quite seriously
when I was making them.
But a man with a chest like
“We could, Amelia — I would?”
“I think I will be a poet.” She laid her hand on her belly and caressed
it. “I do so like the image of the soft white lump of a pirate buried in
a shallow grave. I think I’ll always remember it, even if I do decide I
want to forget.”
“Hush, my darling, nothing. It’s only a stage of grief.”
William R. Hincy was born in Morgantown, West Virginia. His fiction has
appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary journals, including Ancient
Paths, the Rockford Review, Ellipsis, and Passages North. His story “Best If
Used By” was a finalist for the 2013 Short Story America prize in fiction. His
first novel, The Hoards of Torment, is a fictional account of his painful journey
to self-awareness and time as a single father. He currently lives in Glendora,
California with his wife and four kids.
“I explained that it
was a stage of grief
and once they were
past the deal-making
phase they’d be able
to move on. And I
never grieved.”
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31
POETRY
EMERALDS
BRENNAN DEFRISCO
I am at our favorite place
the one under the stairs
you are somewhere crying
spilling your red wine
filling your glass with tears that will never ripen
I am here
trying to write you a vineyard
that only grows your favorite varietal
trying to make wine worthy
of your lips
I am at our favorite place
the one under the stars
you are among the constellations
making them jealous
for the night sky holds nothing as bright
as your emerald eyes
even when comets
are falling down your cheek
Brennan ‘B Deep’ DeFrisco likes words and the way they move. He is an
MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles in the creative writing
program with an emphasis on poetry. He is an organizer and performer at
the Berkeley Poetry Slam and his team took third place overall at the 2015
National Poetry Slam. He is co-founder of Lucky Bastard Press and author of
A Heart With No Scars, Highku: 4 & 20 Poems About Marijuana, and Dumb
Luck, co-authored with Tim Toaster Henderson. His work can be found or is
forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal, and
Yellow Chair Review.
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33
FICTION
TRANSCENDENTAL PALADIN
SUSAN DUKE
Winter blows hard in the Midwest. Sleet, snow, and ice test man
and beast. One frigid night, my basset hound began occupying the
empty side of my bed. I didn’t have the heart to forbid it. He missed
Lucian, too.
After Lucian returned from Vietnam, I had retooled my thinking.
Perhaps life would proceed in positive and productive directions.
Reality of world events crept in once again as a fanatic shot our
pope. I even pinned my hopes on a beautiful princess who strove to
protect children from land mines. Unscrupulous paparazzi chased
her to death. Lucian and I treasured our lives. We thought personal
catastrophe had skipped us as we sailed into retirement. I gave up
on heroes as pancreatic cancer stole him.
My third spring without my husband fluttered through, vacillating
between windy, cool dampness and glorious warm days begging for
open windows. Monday dawned temperate and inviting.
I eyed the pile of papers on my desk, invitations to my upcoming
high school reunion peeking out at me. I didn’t care about class reunions, reliving old times and all that went with it. Lucian had been
the popular half of this high school sweetheart pair.
“C’mon, Andy. Let’s walk.”
34
as I scoped out a fallow landscape. Hopefully, the wet spring had
only delayed the planting.
Andy’s large black nose plowed through uncut grass on the field’s edge,
his fan-shaped ears sweeping up a myriad of odors for my animal to
categorize and store in his tremendous olfactory memory. Raccoons
in the night searching for forgotten cobs, rabbits seeking clover, other
dogs that frequented this stretch of turf — all registered with my intrepid scent hound.
I sighed and brushed a
tear from my face. My
husband was gone.
“All in a morning’s work,
huh, Andy.”
He wagged his tail and
we continued our stroll.
Vibrant red, deep
purple and glorious yellow tulips and daffodils bent to me in the
breeze. I sighed and brushed a tear from my face. My husband was
gone. Superman misplaced his cape. But I had a lot to be grateful
for. This day, the blue sky and much more.
“Morning.”
I smiled. “Hi, Mr. Muller.” I looked at the well-groomed and obedient
miniature collie standing by his master’s side.
“Hi, Barney. Stop it, Andy. You’re scaring him.”
The older gentleman chuckled and shortened his leash. “Barney
loves Andy. He’s just a little skittish.”
Brown eyebrows on a black and white face bunched as he rose and
regarded my sunny disposition. I bent to scratch behind his velvety
ears. “It’s Spring already. Get your leash while I tie my sneakers.”
Four freckled, stubby legs carried his three-foot long tri-colored
body to the back door. He grabbed his leash and halter from a low
hook (Lucian’s idea) and met me in the kitchen. I hooked my thumb over my shoulder. “You think he’ll get crops in
this year? It’s getting kind of late.”
Looking left, right and left again, we scurried across the street. Our
cozy subdivision lay bordered on one side by a five acre field — an
oasis in urban development. Corn and soy beans were rotated annually. Last year’s drought had devastated the farmers, and I frowned
I shaded my eyes. “Oh yeah. I see.”
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Sunlight danced off his bifocals as he nodded his silver head. “Oh,
he’s got plenty of time. If you walk down further, you’ll see he’s
started.”
Andy woofed deep in his throat as Mr. Muller and the collie began
heading back up the street to turn right into our neighborhood.
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FICTION
My heart beat faster as initials
on each side of the setting materialized.
“Have a nice day.”
“You, too. Bye, Barney.”
Andy watched them go and then looked at me.
“Let’s finish our walk. As much as I don’t want to, I need to get started on that class reunion stuff. Don’t want to look like a slacker at the
committee meeting next week.”
Andy’s nose pushed something shiny in my direction.
“What is it, baby?”
I reached down and picked up the muddy object. As I turned it over
in my hand, I realized the plow must have dislodged it from the
earth.
“It’s a ring, Andy, all clogged up with dirt. Hmmm.” I dropped it into my
hoodie pocket and focused on the dog. “Let’s head back. C’mon, boy.”
Two hours of sorting names, addresses, phone numbers — and after
fifty years — obituaries, produced a crick in my neck. I searched for
Andy to tell him I would be heading out to run errands. Deep snores
led me to the den. He had taken possession of Lucian’s recliner. No
matter. I rarely sat in it.
I reached into my hoodie pocket for my car keys and encountered a
strange lump. The ring.
“Oh, ick,” I muttered and turned the pocket inside-out over the trash
can as dried mud crumbled out.
“Hmmm.” I used an old toothbrush from my junk drawer to brush
decades of soil from the ring. A gold dragon set on a ruby red stone
glared at me.
“For heaven’s sake! A class ring from my high school.” Harder
scrubbing left a mess in my sink but revealed more information.
Class of ’63. My class. I wonder who. My heart beat faster as initials
on each side of the setting materialized.
I leaned on the counter to examine my treasure. ‘T.R.’ Probably a
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men’s ring by the size of it. Was it fate all my yearbooks and contact
data littered my desk? I shook my head. No way.
The desire to escape forgotten, I held my breath while flipping
pages of my senior classmates. Look at those hair-dos. Jane Rachett.
What a tramp. John Rangland. I hope not. Here! Tony Rosetti? He was
so cute, but I think he moved to New Jersey or someplace like that.
In five minutes, I had scribbled down five possible ‘T.R.’ names, their
numbers, called them, and left five somewhat bizarre messages.
Sensing some kind of excitement, Andy padded into the room. A
large head soon rested on my thigh. Friendly drool dotted my jeans.
“That’s about all I can do, buddy. It’s up to them now.”
That evening at ten-fifteen I jumped as the phone rang. The furry
lump in my bed groaned and shifted. I muted the television as a
novel I had been reading slid to the floor with a thump.
“Carla? Carla Johnson?” The unfamiliar deep voice didn’t sound
threatening but he knew my name.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Tom Robbins. You left a message today.”
“Hmmm.”
“About the ring.”
Relieved, I exhaled loudly. “The ring. Yes. You’re the only one who’s
returned my call.” I paused to sip from the water glass by my bedside. “Can you describe it to me?”
He sighed. “Let’s see. It was gold with a red stone and that gold
dragon on it. My initials and ’63 are on the sides.”
“Yes.”
Andy’s wet nose nudged my elbow, nearly knocking the phone from
my grasp.
“Andy, stop it, I’m. . .”
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FICTION
“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I just got in. Your message
intrigued me.”
I laughed. “It’s just my dog.” Vague impressions of a gangly, tall boy
with unruly dark hair flashed through my mind as we chatted.
“Okay, I’ll let you go until tomorrow.”
“See you then, Tom.”
I flew from my bed to the disordered pile on my desk.
“Where is that yearbook?” I gasped. I’d just agreed to meet someone
I hadn’t seen in half a century. Tom Robbins. I’d adored him our
freshman and sophomore years. After meeting Lucian, everyone
else had evaporated. But here was Tom.
By eleven-thirty the following morning, Andy sensed something
differed from our usual routine. He sneezed as I sprayed lavender
body mist and applied mascara.
“Good grief, Carla. You’re sixty-eight years old. Get a grip and go
already.” I bent to scratch behind his ears. “I’m just going to return a
class ring to somebody. I’ll bring you back a doggy bag. Be good.”
The lunch crowd at Chuck’s kept the staff hopping. I’d eaten here
often and ordered my favorite salad. I occupied a window booth and
casually glanced around and hummed to a well-known oldie piped
in somewhere. Pleasant, I thought.
An elderly couple outside caught my attention. Sitting in a wheelchair, the man grew increasingly frustrated as his wife struggled
to propel the device over the curb. In a flash, the manager; a tall,
muscular man with white hair calmed the twosome and helped
them into the restaurant. He caught my eye and strode directly over
to the booth.
“Carla? How are you?”
My mind raced. I knew so few men. “Tom?”
As he sat across from me, he craned his neck. “Let me know when
someone goes to that green Chevy, will you? I want to see who
parked in that handicapped space.”
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I must have stared with my mouth open. This powerfully built, handsome man was indeed Tom Robbins. I’d seen him in here several
times but had never recognized him. A waitress hurried over.
“What would you like, Carla?”
“I’ve already ordered,” I sputtered.
He grinned at the girl. “The usual for me, Linda. Thanks.”
She nodded and said, “Bucky’s at the counter, Tom.”
Gray-green eyes swept the room. “Give him bacon and eggs, toast,
the works.” He turned and gave me his full attention, folding large
hands on the table. “So, how’ve you been, Carla? You look great.
You can’t possibly be as old as I am.”
Perhaps it was the casual banter, the music, or wonderful aromas
surrounding me, but soon I felt tranquil. As we reminisced about
high school, various staff members approached the table from time
to time, apologized for interrupting, and asked questions. Tom handled every crisis with ease.
“What’s the deal with Bucky?” I gazed at the figure hunched over a
plate of steaming food.
“Oh, Bucky and I were in ‘Nam together. The economic downturn hit
him hard.”
“Is this your place?”
He shrugged.
“Who’s Chuck?”
He grinned, a look I was beginning to eagerly anticipate.
“Remember Chuck Palanza? His dad owned that pizza place.
Remember? I think fate stepped in because when all his brothers
and sisters wanted to sell, I was looking for something and so was
Chuck. He’s back in the kitchen doing most of the work. I just sit out
here and eat.” He laughed and patted his stomach.
I started to reply I’d heard the Palanza family had filed bankruptcy
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FICTION
after old Elmer’s death. Was this another favor Tom did for someone in need?
“Excuse me, Tom. Chuck wants to know where all the mission stuff is.”
“It’s bagged up in the back room, Bill. Are they here?”
“Yeah. Got it.”
I waited a few seconds. “Does that old man work for you?”
“Huh? Oh, Bill’s okay. He and his wife were regulars here for quite
some time. After she died, he hung around looking for stuff to do.
We feed him and let him do small things. He’s got pride and he
wants to earn his way.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“The South Side Mission people come twice weekly to take leftovers.
Wasting food is a sin. I can’t stand that.”
He stood quickly and hurried outside. I watched
him deal with an angry
woman near the green
Chevy. She soon nodded
and drove off.
“For gosh sakes! This
thing has been lost for
fifty years. Where did
you find it?”
I glanced at my watch. Two hours! As Tom returned, I fished the
ring out of my pocket. “You were nice to that lady.”
He shrugged again. “I didn’t want to saddle her with a ticket.”
I pushed empty plates aside and said, “Hold out your hand.” I
dropped the ring into his open palm.
Tom’s eyes widened. “For gosh sakes! This thing has been lost for
fifty years. Where did you find it?”
“Well, where did you lose it?”
He squinted and cocked his head. “Remember Becky Walker?”
I sighed. “Yes, the beautiful blonde who captured your heart. All us
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girls were jealous.”
His eyes regarded me in a strange way for a minute. “You were
hooked up with Lucian Johnson. Married him, didn’t you?”
I smiled. “Forty-two years before he passed.”
He nodded. “Well, graduation night Becky and I had a difference of
opinion, you might say.”
“Tell me.”
“We’d been at a party at Terry what’s-his name’s house. When the
booze started flowing, I insisted we leave. On the way to her house,
Becky let me know what a boring, dull jerk I was. I felt responsible
for her and kept driving. The next thing I knew, she rolled down the
window and threw my ring out.”
“No!”
He shook his head. “I was doing fifty, fifty-five. The next day, I
searched and searched. Nothing. What a learning experience. I
guess that area has been developed into subdivisions for some time.”
“I live there.”
Over coffee, I explained about the farmer disking up the field and
Andy finding the ring.
“I love your dog. I think the ring shrunk, though.” We laughed. He
eased my life with Lucian out of me, listening but not offering
advice.
“So you didn’t marry Becky.”
His laugh was so loud people stared. “I went to school out east and
met a nice girl. Paulette wanted the fast life. I was supposed to earn
a degree and work in her father’s company. She changed her mind
and didn’t want children.” He gulped his iced tea. “I hung on for
twenty years, Carla, but I’m not a white-collar kind of guy.”
We waved as Bucky shuffled out.
“See, Vietnam changed a lot of guys. Goals shifted. I really wanted to
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41
FICTION
come home and be by myself. I actually did that.”
“What?”
“I had a tree farm outside of Metamora. Something about having my
hands in the earth…”
He paused and looked out the window at two young women pacing
around a little blue car. One appeared to be crying.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
As I watched Tom call a tow truck and reassure the women, an old
Bob Dylan song tickled the edges of my memory. Bob was right all
along. A hero is someone who understands the responsibility of his
freedom and acts. Tom didn’t have a cape, just a good heart.
He met me at the cash register. “Your money is no good here, Carla.
But come often.”
He walked me to my car. An awkward silence stretched between us
until he pulled the ring out of his pocket. Suddenly, we hugged like
two old friends.
“Carla, want to go steady?”
We both laughed. I fished my keys out of my purse.
“Seriously, thanks for this. I really enjoyed seeing you.”
When I didn’t reply, my sixty-eight year old hero said, “Can I call you
now that I know you live nearby? Are you in the book? We could go
to dinner some place where I don’t have to. . .”
Was I ever going to be ready to spend an enjoyable evening with
another man? Tom Robbins felt perfect. Maybe it was just the glow
of seeing him again after all these years. I decided to be cautious. I
needed to talk it over with Andy.
“Are you going to our fiftieth reunion, Tom?”
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. I’m not really into that sort of thing. I haven’t
received anything about it anyway.”
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“You will.”
“I never have before.”
I smiled and looked up into his eyes shining green in the afternoon sun.
“I’m on the committee this time and I’m mailing the invitations.
Becky just might not get one. It’s next month, Tom. See you there.”
Susan Duke has stories published in Timber Creek Review, Straylight,
and The Griffin. Retired from teaching children with special needs, Duke
enjoys reading, writing, morning walks, and treasures time spent with her
husband, three adult children, and two grandsons.
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43
MIXED MEDIA
NONFICTION
INTENTIONS
You approached me
on the street, in the dark.
MELISSA GRUNOW
You approached me on the street, in the dark. “Do you have a light?”
you asked. The tall buildings on either side of us created shadows
on your face. On your head, you wore a hat. On your shoulder, you
wore a bag.
In your hands, you held nothing, most notably, not a cigarette. My
key already in the lock, my body paused with my held breath. I
couldn’t pretend that I hadn’t arrived at the apartment building in
Lisbon where I was just a few nights into my two-week visit. I peered
through the window into the vestibule of the building, a sanctuary of
fake marble tiles on the other side of the heavy green metal door. A
cold and dark space, and yet at once it appeared so inviting.
I couldn’t turn and walk the other way without fighting the key
from the lock, obviously announcing to you that I was nervous, and
that you were in control. I couldn’t ignore you and unlock the door,
either, because the key needed adjusting, wriggling, a process that
required my concentration, and I couldn’t concentrate on the lock
while keeping an eye on you.
I asked you to repeat your question while shaking my head that I
couldn’t help you, regardless. I don’t smoke, I wanted to say, but
maybe you asked me something else, your gentle accented voice
difficult to hear over the adrenaline banging against my eardrums.
Maybe you had a different question or other intentions. Maybe I
didn’t hear you because I hadn’t wanted to.
LANTERN
KATELYN HUFF
mixed media
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Katelyn Huff is a senior at the University
of South Alabama pursuing her BFA in
Graphic Design. Katelyn was born and
raised in Mobile, Alabama and loves
living on the Gulf Coast. When she is not
designing, Katelyn enjoys painting with
oils. She likes to focus her work around
nature and structures.
Maybe you saw me fidget, my eyes dancing from you to the lock, you
to the lock, and you put your hands up in front of you and said, “I’m
not a bad boy,” and you smiled, and there was a moment between
us for me to consider your declaration. “I’m from Greece,” you said,
nodding sheepishly. Your country was facing some trouble, and
maybe that was why you had to emphasize that you weren’t there at
that moment to cause me any trouble. Maybe all you really wanted
was to borrow a lighter.
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45
NONFICTION
You asked me where I’m from as I went back to fumbling with the
key. You moved past me and were no longer within the space I
occupied in front of the door, no longer a perceived threat.
“Mich — United States,” I mumbled. I almost couldn’t speak, couldn’t
say the words that I had said to strangers every day, claiming the
land of my home place.
“Ah,” you said, all-knowingly. “America.” You started to turn away,
but swung halfway back toward me before leaving. “Goodnight,”
you said, and then you were gone, and I was quickly inside the
building’s entry, the door latching heavily behind me, the sound of a
prison cell closing.
I thought of you later that week as I felt the eyes of the three
construction workers on me while I held my place on the sidewalk;
they were seated on either side of cobbled limestone walkway, in
the shade, taking a break. I saw your face, animated in empathy,
when one of them called, “Hello!” then proceeded to follow me after
I ignored him.
I was lost in Bairro Alto, far from my heavy front door and even
farther from the St. George Castle that I had planned to tour that
afternoon. I squinted my eyes behind my sunglasses as I heard the
swoosh-swoosh of the man’s jeans gain on me, and I couldn’t decide
if I should turn and face him or run. Even under the relentless sun
on a Sunday afternoon, I felt trapped, simultaneously isolated and
exposed. To my right all I saw were tall, tall flights of concrete steps
leading to another unknown street, and to my left were shops and
restaurants closed down until Monday morning.
I remembered the space you gave me on the street; the more
alarmed I felt, the more you backed away, your interaction prompted
by a simple, innocent request. Behind me, the man continued
calling, “Hello, hello, lady, hello,” and I heard his companions
laughing in the distance I created between us. I wanted to get away,
but I didn’t walk faster and I didn’t run, just like I didn’t run from
you when I really had nowhere else to go.
When he finally stopped following me, he didn’t say good-bye, he
wasn’t polite like you or dismissive like the man who approached
Corey and I on the street during our last night in Lisbon, his hand
open, a small bag of hash or a large bag of marijuana cradled in
his palm. That man said nothing, just offered up an opportunity
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to experience the city in a new way. Corey turned to me, her eyebrows
raised, a did-you-see-that? smile on her tanned and freckled face, and
then the man was gone, the moment was gone before either of us could
waive a hand to decline.
At 4:30 in the morning, I confronted three men outside the Baixa/Chiado
Metro stop who tried to talk to us, Corey and me, but we were drunk, it
was late, and we weren’t interested, so we kept walking. One spoke to me
directly, his voice lilting with a Portuguese accent. I turned to answer him,
and his hand was unbuttoning his jeans, his other hand on the zipper, and
I saw the face of a demon when he smiled, his friends laughing.
We were not laughing.
Corey nudged my elbow, her face toward the dark corner that we needed
to turn to go home. I barely heard her mumble, “Let’s go,” her voice
buried by my screaming every American curse words I had in my lexicon.
She could slink away at that moment, just like I had wanted to do when
you spoke to me outside my apartment, but I was ignited and ready to
fight, as though I had to account for myself being in the space in which
they belonged.
Would you have laughed if it was your friend on the street in the middle
of the night in the middle of Lisbon in the middle of the Metro entryway
who made an assaulting gesture at two American women? I want to
believe by now that a man concerned with my reaction to him wouldn’t
be the same man who would start to pull his dick out and only laugh
more at the anger and rage he provoked.
In the minutes that followed after you approached me on the street, I
wondered if I did the right thing by responding to your requests with
suspicion, by answering your questions with hesitation. I wondered if
I overreacted, and I felt a little guilty that you had to declare your good
intentions. Often, in the aftermath of anything, we regret what we did
and what we didn’t do. How rare it is that we hit the mark exactly.
Melissa Grunow is an award-winning author whose writing has appeared
in Creative Nonfiction, River Teeth, and New Plains Review, among others.
She is also a live storyteller, featured in the Moth StorySLAM. Melissa has an
MFA in Creative Nonfiction from National University and is a full-time English
faculty at a small arts college in Michigan.
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PHOTOGRAPHY
DUALITY
JAMAL DORTCH
photography
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Jamal Dortch is an electrical engineering
major at the University of South Alabama. A
few years ago, he decided to take a studio art
class for fun. That turned into a minor in studio
art. He enjoys the process of building, making,
and designing piece by piece.
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POETRY
LICKING THE KNIFE
TOBI ALFIER
Momma always said ya gotta be careful.
Don’t run your life like a train running
down tracks with no engineer to read
the signs, and you best slow down.
She was a smart woman who made
sad choices, itching to get away
from one home, no clue where
another one might ever be.
She said I know what’s best for you.
Lookit what I done did and run the other
way. Men, they better be much more’n
sweet talk, wait ‘till they go off to pee,
She done taught me good.
I got a Cadillac, a manicure,
and my own dough. Ain’t no man
gonna own me no how,
then make sure they got more’n
a twenty in their pants before
they take you out drinkin’.
Don’ be stupid and don’ be shy.
and no kids till I want ‘em.
I’ll have a dirty gin martini,
a bloody rare steak, and that
don’t buy you any more’n
And a steak dinner?
That ain’t no cause for you to
do anything you don’ wanna, cause
that’s just meat, not your destiny.
my conversation, got that?
If that don’t work for you,
get off the train. Ain’t no dining
car here for you, ain’t no free ride.
She called it “Licking the Knife.”
Not thinking two seconds more
than you should, before you do
something you shouldn’t.
Tobi Alfier is a five-time Pushcart nominee and
a “Best of the Net” nominee. Her most current
chapbooks are The Coincidence of Castles from
Glass Lyre Press, and Romance and Rust from
Blue Horse Press. Her collaborative full-length
collection, The Color of Forgiveness is available
from Mojave River Press. She is the co-editor of
San Pedro River Review.
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POETRY
ALBINO FAWN
RICHARD KING PERKINS II
She is always the hardest to write about.
Maybe it’s best to start with her body and work backward.
Flesh, the softest tone between ochre and cream;
the small window where her upper thighs wouldn’t close —
an invitation to all.
European men bit knuckles as she passed.
The wrestling coach tried to fuck her during our senior year.
It was dead wrong but at the same time
maybe an hour with her was worth ten years locked away
and the loss of every significant thing in your life.
I’d say she preferred sex with women over men
but she liked the challenge that men presented far more.
We’d only known each other a few months and were still busy
showing off to each other,
sometimes having sex twenty times a day until we bled
and still we laughed and fucked on unstoppably.
The only thing that ended our laughter
was when the morning sickness began.
For two months she bought baby clothes and considered names.
Then, in a doubtful swaddling blanket of surreality,
we found ourselves on a misted highway going to a clinic in Peoria.
The albino fawn we passed in the field
said nothing
but we should have listened anyway.
Being with her was like swimming above a red ocean,
where every whim was indulged —
the gel of revelation and exultant touch
in a lightless, muted playground.
She always wanted to be an actress but wasn’t very good;
she reminded me of Joyce Randolph in the Honeymooners:
you sort of cringed whenever Trixie had a scene.
But she eventually made it out to L.A.,
adopted a stage name
and made a few low budget movies for the LGBT community.
She does mostly voiceover work now which I think is a good thing.
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term
care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage.
He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a “Best of the Net” nominee whose
work has appeared in more than a thousand publications. His poems have
appeared in The Louisiana Review, Bluestem, and Emrys Journal, among others.
He was a recent finalist in The Rash Awards, Sharkpack Alchemy, Writer’s Digest,
and Bacopa Literary Review poetry contests.
But none of this is why she’s the most difficult to write about.
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NONFICTION
BEAUTY SCARS
ALAN SAMRY
1.
Standing beside the black table
her nude form, back, buttocks, and legs
reflect in the mirror.
The image is cut in half by the black iron trim
that sections the mirror.
Her body floats
above me as if submerged in water
skin glistening in my imagined wetness.
There is weightlessness in her image
and she is bigger than herself, somehow.
She teases and tantalizes on bended ankle
Her skin, so cool smooth to the touch, I wanted
it for my own.
Her outstretched Achilles whispers to me.
The pain in my clouded heart stops
at the moment of her deliberate mercy.
I shined in the sun, a moment
of sweetness within a darkened star,
until she feels my hand with her forehead.
Touching the stubble on her shin makes me
shiver.
I forget who I am and spill my
fingertips over her thigh and a jaunty dusting
of pleasure captures all my senses
destroying my anger and closing the distance
between our still, silent, forms.
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2.
The tiny scar on the back of her thigh
glows white
I resist touching it. I want to touch it.
To feel the fault line between slicing pain and healed flesh
It seems a dream
this slice of
hers
A sandscaped crest of a P-Town dune above
Damp gray fog, slowly lifting, or burning off.
The breach of the white whale in a sea of blue
Stump skin is purple cold in the morning.
Emerges white
hot upon evening socket escape.
Unshapely, desolate, hairless, jagged scar tissue
Bony
protuberances, or ugly
undulations
bound by asymmetrical stitches.
A slab of fatback bulges behind my knee.
Distal end is a toothless blacken-blued Great White.
The crisscross stitches jump
the hole left behind
After my so-called toes were
“osteotomized.”
At the sight of an un-whole man with a hole, she recoils her
scar
Quickly gathers scattered clothes and scurries out the door.
I float in an unfulfilled sea yearning for her intimate flaw
Swimming in a drowning desire to know the infinite beauty
of loss.
Alan Samry moved to Fairhope ten years ago from Cape Cod,
Massachusetts and decided to get schooled in the South. Alan is
an alumni of the University of South Alabama and holds an MFA
in Creative Writing from Spalding University. He writes poetry and
creative nonfiction and believes the lines between the two are
blurry. His website, Stump the Librarian, is a writing space where
he combines who he is, a below-the-knee amputee, with what he
does, which is to assist patrons at the Fairhope Public Library.
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PAINTING
POETRY
her nude form, back, buttocks, and legs
reflect in the mirror.
THE SHELLS OF PINK BODIES
MICHELE TRACY BERGER
a girl sits in a fine restaurant
her mother across from her, martini in hand.
the girl knows that being there is a luxury.
what awaits them in the tiny hotel room
the chair, the stained bedspread, no fridge
but a hotplate.
small cartons of milk pilfered from school
placed outside on the window sill,
to keep them cool, and
tiny boxes of Coco Puffs and Fruit Loops
decorate the TV stand.
their lives away from the stepfather
not with him
but not yet
somewhere else.
years later, the daughter will still loathe small cartons of milk, and the cheery, sugary cereals
that everyone else loved, and describe their time in
that room
as hand to almost mouth living.
And so a restaurant,
every now and then, makes the mother forget.
while the daughter practices
what it will be like
when things are different
in a barely imagined future.
BACKBONE
KARRIE ELLIS
mixed media
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Karrie Ellis is a senior majoring in
graphic design at the University of
South Alabama. She also enjoys
painting, drawing, photography,
and printmaking. She hopes start
a career in the marketing industry
upon graduation.
the daughter wrings the napkin in her lap, eager
she takes her mother’s suggestion and orders what
she wants
the most exotic thing on the menu.
Shrimp!
she has seen their small, pink muscular bodies
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POETRY
lying on ice-filled platters
in late night commercials,
wedged
between the Johnny Carson show
and B movie reruns.
the waiter smiles at her,
she beams.
“Another martini, please.
Yes the same as before, extra dry,
straight up, with two olives.”
the daughter’s platter arrives
and she eats and eats and eats.
the chewing though takes longer than she imagined.
the waiter looks at the daughter with a hint of surprise and just
as he is about to speak, the daughter glimpses a calculation
“Don’t do anything,
in a restaurant,
without asking me.”
“You weren’t supposed to eat them with the shells on.”
the mother’s martini laugh, sharp and almost playful
rings in the girl’s ears.
her focus narrows
to the missing platter’s
indentation in the tablecloth.
“You always wait
and watch
and ask if you are unsure.”
“Next time, you’ll know.”
in her mother’s eyes,
the waiter sees it, too, hesitating.
a message, the daughter wonders
the waiter shrinks back.
the bill is paid and they begin their journey back.
those perfectly pink bodies, those shells,
stay with her,
scratch inside.
the pink bodies finally surrender to the daughter’s jaws working,
chewing and snapping.
her mother is paying, so she must eat another and another
all that awaits back at the hotel is the dry crunch of cereal.
years later they remind her
The waiter returns, rising on the balls of his feet, worried now
hovering, until the mother shoos him away.
pink bodies float in the melting ice, disintegrating.
the daughter’s throat is raw and she asks for another Coke.
her mother is quiet, drinking the next martini.
the waiter takes the completely empty platter away.
“You didn’t ask, did you? You just took,” her mother finally says.
58
the girl sees a meanness coming, shooting out from her mother’s eyes,
she checks the placement of forks, napkins.
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of the ability to endure.
the caring, but quiet waiter.
she waits to know,
for sure,
what is expected of her.
a different future
than imagined.
Michele Tracy Berger is a professor and writer. Her creative writing
has appeared in The Chapel Hill News, Glint, Flying South, and
various zines. She is currently at work on a short-story collection of
speculative fiction.
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MIXED MEDIA
NONFICTION
THE SARALEE RECORDINGS
JULIA HALPRIN-JACKSON
The first time I listened to my grandmother’s recordings, it was
drizzling in the staff parking lot. The October sky was malevolent
and my mood, worse. I walked out among the Mazdas and Priuses
and scanned my phone for voice memos. We had recorded four
tracks over the previous six months; two in the months leading up
to my wedding, and two directly following. They weren’t interviews.
They were our conversations on her couch, while KXJZ, Santa Monica’s classical station, hummed in the background. Two tracks were
short, between three and five minutes, and two were longer, one at
fifteen minutes and one at thirty. I checked my watch. I only had five
minutes. I selected the one marked “Saralee Halprin, April 5, 2014,”
and put my phone to my ear:
S: I happen to be particularly fond of Schubert. I adore him.
There’s a quintet that he wrote that has two cellos, or maybe say
celli, I don’t know. It is so heaven-sent that you can’t believe the
beauty of it.
PINK FLOWER
ADORABLE MONIQUE
illustration marker and
acrylic on paper
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Adorable Monique is a ​U.S. based artist​. ​​​She
received art instruction ​abroad and is currently
pursuing her MA​. She has received merit awards
and has had the opportunity to exhibit​in various
venues. She was also fortunate enough to be
mentored by a renowned Central American
artist, who helped enrich her artistic vision.
I paced the parking lot. That voice. At 91 she logged more than 85
years studying and performing the piano. She grew up in Depression-era Cleveland, the second youngest of 10 children in a Jewish
household. She earned a spot as pianist for the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra and performed with renowned conductors Erich
Leinsdorf, George Szell, and Fritz Reiner. She earned scholarships
to the Longy School of Music in Boston and the Juilliard School in
New York. Amah had a full-throttle love affair with the piano. I saw
it in her face when I was a young child, when I’d lie on the shag
rug under her Steinway with my brother and cousin and watch the
hammers pound upside down while she played above us. I walked
to the fence abutting the freeway, pausing the recording only once,
when I heard her say this:
S: One of my favorite experiences was when I played with
the Cleveland Orchestra. The piano isn’t, wasn’t, written into
symphonies as an orchestral instrument until the ‘20s. And I was
playing Stravinsky’s ‘Petrushka.’ That has a very important piano
part. And the first night that I played it, it was just terrific. And the
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NONFICTION
This was the first time in 30 years that I had visited her
and not seen her play the piano.
conductor was Fritz Reiner…Everybody was scared of him. He
was a guest conductor. I wasn’t scared of him. When he saw me
and realized it was this youngster — I was allergic to lipstick and
I looked like I was about ten — was gonna play this important
part, he was horrified. But he talked to me about the music and
apparently I learned something from the discussion because during
the performance, he threw me a kiss. That’s my greatest…greatest
accolade. I’ve never forgotten it.
I watched the cars passing and wondered if she’d still be there
when my husband and I went to visit. When I returned to my office,
I didn’t say a word for the rest of the afternoon.
I went to visit Amah that April, three months before our wedding,
in part because it was clear that she wouldn’t be able to attend.
We later learned that she was suffering from pancreatic cancer. I
left after work on a Friday and pulled into her driveway just after
midnight. She had left a note on my pillow that read, “Sleep well,
darling Julia.”
The next day she did not leave her couch. It spooked me to see her
there, lying opposite her Steinway, which was painfully out of reach.
This was the first time in thirty years that I had visited her and not
seen her play the piano. I took it all in: the quiet, her frustration,
the sound of an untouched instrument. This was really happening.
I was going to lose my grandmother. I asked if I could record our
conversation on my phone. “Sure, honey,” she shrugged.
We talked about my wedding; the decorations, the dresses, the
flowers, the venue. I cringe when I listen to this, because I’m doing
most of the talking. I talk so loud and so fast about things that will
never matter again.
She is quiet on tape. At one point I interrupt myself to say, “Can you
please try eating this?” You can hear her chewing.
Though she could not attend our June wedding, I walked down the
aisle to a recording of her playing the wedding processional. My
cousin Jeff filmed the ceremony, and when I returned to visit her
in July, we watched it together. I recorded her describing her 1948
wedding to my grandfather Leahn:
S: We’d known each other for two weeks or three weeks. That’s
how long I knew him.
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J: How’d he propose?
S: He asked me to marry him almost right away. I can’t imagine…it
was very fast. And on the way back from Las Vegas, he taught me
how to drive, so I drove home.
In contrast, I knew my husband ten years before we got married,
five of which we were a couple. We were engaged eighteen months.
I read books to help me plan our wedding; there were multiple
Excel spreadsheets involved.
After a year at Juilliard, Amah traveled to Los Angeles in 1946 to
visit her family and didn’t have the money for the return trip. Two
years later, she won the Hollywood Bowl Auditions of the Air, a
national yearlong radio competition, for which she was awarded a
performance with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. That was the year
she and my grandfather eloped.
J: Tell me more about when you were in Las Vegas.
S: Well, Leahn didn’t believe in gambling. I said, just give me 20
cents. So he gave me 20 cents and I hit the jackpot, which was 20
dollars. 20 dollars then was like 100, at least. It paid for the whole
weekend.
J: Smart lady.
S: [laughs] I didn’t have any clothes and I borrowed a dress from my
girlfriend. And then I was told to open a charge account at one of the
big department stores there. So I came into the office and the lady said,
“Well what does your husband do?” I said, “I don’t know what the hell
he does.” And I called his father and said, “Dad, what does Leahn do?”
“Well, he’s the vice president of Pacific Coast Textile.” She looked at me
like I’m a real nut. I’m saying this as opposed to all the preparations for
your wonderful wedding.
I got into a habit of listening to these recordings on stressful days.
When I turned the volume up, I could feel the muscles in my face relax.
I sat up taller. She survived the Depression. She lived with eleven people in a house with one bathroom. I could handle a few hours of paperwork. Sometimes I’d listen in the middle of the parking lot, surrounded
by construction. Silicon Valley zoomed on and all I could think about
was lying under my grandmother’s piano, watching her play.
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NONFICTION
Amah performed in a trio with Martine Verhoeven and Donald Howarth for many years, hosting concerts where she’d lecture between
performances, explaining the historical time period in which a piece
was written, the social, cultural and economic forces at work in the
lives of Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, Brahms,
and, of course, her Schubert. She’d describe a composer first by
her love for his music, then detail the ways in which their music
was under-appreciated, the lengths to which they struggled for their
craft, and the sometimes horrible ways they died. As if somehow it
was critical to link the way they created art and the way they lived
their lives — tragic, happy, or otherwise.
Once, in a conversation I wish I had recorded, she told me that she
had discovered a Spanish composer, Enrique Granados. I wrote the
following in my journal:
“I loved his danzas españolas,” she said. “You know, he survived the
First World War? He came to New York to perform one of his greatest works and on his way back to Spain, his boat was torpedoed and
he died. He was 49. Then there was Schubert. You know, he was
only 31 when he died? Of gonorrhea? But man, was he a genius. So
was Beethoven. But you know Beethoven became deaf? Stone deaf — because he had syphilis.”
For many years, I thought her sense of comic timing was unintentional; that her humor was ingrained, a form of cultural inheritance.
But now I see it differently. There was a rhythm and pace to the
way she spoke. It was just
irregular enough that you
couldn’t set a metronome
to it. She always claimed
that both her greatest talent
and biggest challenge was
playing with too much ferocity.
For Amah, the serious, the
absurd, the important, and
the wonderful were often
presented together. And why not? If you listen to one of her favorite
pieces, Schubert’s String Quintet in C Major, you can hear that
same range — the sonority, yes, and the grandiosity of the strings,
but also an innate sadness, a nostalgic reverie, and this precocious
intelligence, as if the composer was unaware of how brilliant his
instruments could sound.
The last time I saw her was just a few weeks shy of her 92nd birthday. By that time the piano room had become her bedroom. The
hospice nurses were kind and thorough. I asked if she wanted to
listen to KXJZ but nothing sounded right. My husband and I found
the photos of her performing in the Hollywood Bowl in 1948. She
looked like a Jewish Judy Garland: black hair wavy and beautiful; a
wide, slightly nervous smile. We took the photo album to her cot.
“Oh, Juya,” she said. A thousand sighs in the way she said that word —
Oh. She never did pronounce the “l” in my name, and I loved her for it.
After that final visit, I found it hard to return to the recordings. I
don’t remember the last thing she said to me, but I’ll never forget
the way she sat at her piano, fingers at the ready, her face level with
the sheet music, as if daring the notes to fly off the page.
Julia Halprin-Jackson is a California writer, a recent graduate of UC Davis’
MA in Creative Writing program, a professional editor by day and an
obsessive writer and doodler by night. Julia is also the co-founder and cocurator of Play On Words, a literary performance series based in San Jose.
Her work has appeared in Oracle Fine Arts Review, West Branch Wired,
Fourteen Hills, as well as selected anthologies.
She always claimed
that both her greatest
talent and biggest
challenge was playing
with too much ferocity.
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PAINTING
POETRY
AN OPEN WINDOW
KEVIN CASEY
ART
In her windowless room, she would doze
in a shapeless dress during our Sunday
nursing home visits. One of a dozen
great-grandchildren, my name was often lost
among the stacks of large print magazines
and the cloying smell of disinfectant and lilies.
A decade after her death, I was startled
by a photo of her in her late twenties ­—
angular, a hand on one hip, a black and white
polka dot frock with a young mother’s look of
exhaustion and concern, and my grandfather
hooked around her knee like a sepia charm.
Contemporaries in a trick of silver salts
and sympathy, I wished that I could sooth her
with half-truths, assure us both that it might end
instead with an open window, full of light and shade,
with only a nameless breeze to call upon you.
VALLEY OF ANGELS
Kevin Casey is a graduate of the University of
Massachusetts, Amherst, and the University of
Connecticut. His recent works have been accepted
by Green Hills Literary Lantern, Kentucky Review,
Rust + Moth, and other publications. Casey’s new
chapbook, The wind considers everything, was
recently published by Flutter Press, and another from
Red Dashboard is due out later this year.
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MAURICIO GARAY
oil
Mauricio Garay was born in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. At
an early age, Mauricio received artistic guidance from
his uncle Carlos Garay, an internationally renowned
artist. Mauricio became a self-taught impressionist and
figurative painter dedicated entirely to the realization of
his art, which is his passion. His work highlights alleys,
markets, landscapes, and figures with a colorful palette
that encompasses vast color schemes and a masterful
use of the spatula.
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ILLUSTRATION
POETRY
RIPE
KARIE FUGETT
to my famished lips and bite.
The juice drips sticky down my chin.
LEMON
Ashley Fiveash is a senior graphic design
student at the University of South Alabama.
She has a secondary focus in painting,
which she uses to enhance her digital
painting skills.
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ASHLEY FIVEASH
digital illustration
I stand under the arms
of a pear tree
looking up at the biggest
piece of golden
fruit. The grass, curved
with morning dew,
reaches above my ankles,
the fruit swelling
with ripeness above.
I notice the light
reflecting from the faces
of the tree’s clattering
leaves, illuminating
each blade of grass below
as sun-fingers take turns
flicking me through the branches.
I reach up.
Grasp the bulbous fruit.
Pull.
Pull again, pressing
it into my stomach,
the branch straining — the fruit
hard and fierce.
I feel the fibers
break, the pear twisting
from its bough
until, finally, it snaps,
the leaves catching
my black hair as they release
toward the sky.
I hold the prize
to my cheek,
savoring the cool
of its smooth skin.
I put its flesh
to my famished lips
and bite. The juice
drips sticky down my chin.
Karie Fugett is the nonfiction editor for Oracle and is a co-founder
and managing editor of Random
Sample Review. Her work can be
found in Cosmonauts Avenue, Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal,
and Deep South Magazine.
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ART INTRODUCTION
Art is both logical and emotional. Logically, artists
consider the handling of medium, subject matter, color,
and use of light and perspective. Emotionally, artists
draw on a great complexity of feelings in the creation
process in order for it to show through their work. In
the pages following, each spread features two pieces
that share similarities in their composition, subject
matter, or structure. However, each piece of art is paired
with another work because they challenge each other’s
emotional effect.
I hope you enjoy this duality when viewing the art in this
next section.
Best,
Louise King
Art Director
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PRINTMAKING
PAINTING
PIRATE
Paige Garcia is a graphic design student at the
University of South Alabama. Her style is a cross
between realistic and illustrative. Paige is inspired
by works of animation, and loves to study animated movies and shows.
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PAIGE GARCIA
relief print
UNDER YOUR SKIN
ADORABLE MONIQUE
acrylic on canvas
Adorable Monique is a ​U.S. based artist​. ​​​She
received art instruction ​abroad and is currently
pursuing her MA​. She has received merit awards
and has had the opportunity to exhibit​in various
venues. She was also fortunate enough to be mentored by a renowned Central American artist, who
helped enrich her artistic vision.
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PAINTING
PAINTING
THE FACE WAS HIS
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of seven books including
Imagination: The Art of W. Jack Savage. To date,
more than fifty of Jack’s short stories and over
four-hundred of his paintings and drawings have
been published worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy
live in Monrovia, California.
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W. JACK SAVAGE
oil
MYSTICAL TRANCE
MAURICIO GARAY
oil
Mauricio Garay was born in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. At
an early age, Mauricio received artistic guidance from
his uncle Carlos Garay, an internationally renowned
artist. Mauricio became a self-taught impressionist and
figurative painter dedicated entirely to the realization of
his art, which is his passion. His work highlights alleys,
markets, landscapes, and figures with a colorful palette
that encompasses vast color schemes and a masterful
use of the spatula.
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PAINTING
DRAWING
MOTION
Karrie Ellis is a senior majoring in graphic design.
She also enjoys painting, drawing, photography,
and printmaking. She hopes to land a career in
the marketing industry upon graduation.
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KARRIE ELLIS
pastel
GIRL
KATELYN HUFF
oil
Katelyn Huff is a senior at the University of South Alabama
pursuing her BFA in Graphic Design. Katelyn was born and raised
in Mobile, Alabama and loves living on the Gulf Coast. When she is
not designing, Katelyn enjoys painting with oils. She likes to focus
her work around nature and structures.
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GLASS
GLASS
JUNE’S SUNFLOWER
Christine LaGrassa is a Midwestern girl who
did a fair amount of traveling throughout the
U.S. before settling in Mobile to finish her BFA
at the University of South Alabama. Her major
concentration is in graphic design with a minor
in interdisciplinary studies. “June’s Sunflower”
is an exploration of structure, texture, and color.
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CHRISTINE LAGRASSA
glass
SHELL FUNGUS
PJ PUGH
glass
PJ Pugh is a senior pursuing a BFA in Printmaking
at the University of South Alabama. He was born in
Georgia but has lived many places due to being a
military child. His art often incorporates comic book
themes, such as the color and linework present in
manga art.
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PHOTOGRAPHY
PAINTING
Adorable Monique is a ​U.S. based artist​. ​​​She
received art instruction ​abroad and is currently
pursuing her MA​. She has received merit awards and
has had the opportunity to exhibit​in various venues.
She was also fortunate enough to be mentored by
a renowned Central American artist, who helped
enrich her artistic vision.
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VOICES AT NIGHT
PESCADO Y FLORES
ADORABLE MONIQUE
JENNIFER CLARK-GRAINGER
acrylic on canvas
fuji emulsion lift
Jennifer Clark-Grainger is a senior at the University of South Alabama and an aspiring visual
anthropologist. This photo was inspired by her
recent study abroad in Spain, which took place
in the summer of 2015. This will be the third
edition of Oracle which features her work.
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GLASS
PAINTING
AND THE WATER ROSE
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and
educator. He is the author of seven books
including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack
Savage. To date, more than fifty of Jack’s
short stories and over four-hundred of his
paintings and drawings have been published
worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy live in
Monrovia, California.
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W. JACK SAVAGE
oil
ORIGIN
ANNA WHEELER
glass
Anna Wheeler is a student at the University
of South Alabama.
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GLASS
PHOTOGRAPHY
MAP
Jamal Dortch is an electrical engineering
major at the University of South Alabama. A
few years ago, he decided to take a studio art
class for fun. That turned into a minor in studio
art. He enjoys the process of building, making,
and designing piece by piece.
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JAMAL DORTCH
glass
EDIFICIO
JENNIFER CLARK-GRAINGER
fuji emulstion lift
Jennifer Clark-Grainger is a senior at the University of South Alabama and an aspiring visual
anthropologist. This photo was inspired by her
recent study abroad in Spain, which took place in
the summer of 2015. This will be the third edition
of Oracle which features her work.
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CERAMICS
GLASS
LA MUERTE
Emily Carlin is a junior enrolled in the University of South
Alabama’s graphic design program. She loves the challenge
of trying out new forms of art and has recently tried her
hand at kiln glass and ceramics. Her major sources of
inspiration include folk art, Japanese woodblock prints, art
nouveau, and pop art.
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EMILY CARLIN
ceramics
COURAGE
PJ PUGH
glass
PJ Pugh is a senior pursuing a BFA in Printmaking
at the University of South Alabama. He was born in
Georgia but has lived many places due to being a
military child. His art often incorporates comic book
themes, such as the color and linework present in
manga art.
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PRINTMAKING
FICTION
THE CHOSEN PEOPLE
LESLIE SELBST
I do not understand. Grandpa tells me that God has given the
Jews laws that must be followed. Laws so important that he
carved them in stone with lightning, and gave them to Moses.
Grandpa says that we are the Chosen People and must set an
example for everyone else.
My friend Peter Ronzillo is Catholic, and he tells me that his priest
says it’s his people that are the chosen ones, and he can prove it. He
says that if I come with him to church on Sunday he’ll show me.
I tell him that I can’t go to church because I’m Jewish and it would
be a sin. He says that I’m afraid to go cause he has proof, and
I don’t. After thinking about it for a while, I figure that if I go to
church it would be okay because I would be standing up for God,
and he couldn’t get mad at me. Besides, I’ve never been to church
and I’m very curious. The Catholic kids always get to leave school
early on Wednesdays for religious school, and I want to see where
they go.
The church is around the corner from school. We all share the
same playground. So early Sunday morning I sneak down into
my apartment building’s laundry room and change into a starched
shirt. I walk towards school and see Peter and his family in front of
his church. He introduces me to his dad and mom who smile, and
welcome me to their church.
Grandpa says that we
are the Chosen People
and must set an example
for everyone else.
DAUPHIN ISLAND
WITH PAW PAW
LEAH FOX
woodcut print
Catholics must be rich. It looks like a castle, and now that I’m so
close, much bigger than the school. I look up to the bell tower, and
all I can think of is Rapunzel with her long hair. It smells damp,
like my aunt Shirley’s country house, and the ceiling is so high
that it makes our schul look puny. Sunlight from large stained
glass windows spill across the first few rows, painting them in
blues and reds. The only other light comes from spotlights shining
on the stage.
There is a big cross hanging over the stage and a man is hanging
from it. He has nails through his hands and feet with a bunch of
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FICTION
I think, Maybe I can still go to heaven ’cause we pledge allegiance
every day in school.
The seats fill up and the priest starts the service. I’m surprised
because he talks in English, but his prayers are in a different
language. Peter says its church language. A man plays a large organ,
and all the people sing beautiful hymns. There’s never an organ in
shul because playing music on Shabbos is a sin.
A plate is passed along each row and people put money in it. This
never happens in shul, and I don’t know what to do. I see Peter’s
father give him a dollar to contribute, which he does and with a
smile passes it onto me. All I can see is paper money. Everybody
is staring at me so I dig into my pocket, and discover thirty-five
cents. This was my allowance that I was planning to use for a new
Spaulding. Instead I sheepishly drop it into the pile. It announces
my cheapness with a loud plunk and I quickly pass the dish on.
At the end of the service each row goes up to the stage and gets on
their knees. They open their mouths and the priest puts a cookie
on their tongue. As it gets closer to our turn I think that I will just
stay seated, but as Peter and his family stand up, they can’t get
past me and a little old lady starts whispering for them to move.
Embarrassed, I stand and go with them to eat the cookie, which
doesn’t taste so good.
Peter proudly whispers that I’ve just eaten a piece of Jesus. Now I’m
really scared. Jesus has got to be the most unkosher food you can
eat. Maybe now I’m Catholic and can’t be Jewish anymore. Can I
sleep in my grandma’s house if I’m not Jewish? I’m getting nauseous
and dizzy. God’s really going to punish me now; I took a bite out of
his son and will go to hell.
As we get up to leave I notice two small wooden playhouses on
the sidewall. I nudge Peter and nod. He looks at me like I’m
stupid or something.
“Those are where we do confession. If we do something wrong, we
go into one of those booths and tell the priest, who’s behind the
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curtain, what we did, and he asks God to forgive us. It always works.
Don’t Jews have confession?”
“I don’t think so. We just have a lot of rules. If we sin, it stays on us.”
Peter looks confused. “Then how do you get into heaven?”
“I don’t think we go to heaven, but I think we can go to hell.”
As we approach the exit Peter turns to me as if to ask another
question, but his father nudges him to continue moving.
We then all file out in an orderly line past the priest who shakes
everyone’s hand as he greets them. Peter tells him that I’m Sheldon,
his Jewish friend, and don’t believe that Catholics are the chosen
people. I can feel my face turn red. The priest just smiles and takes
my hand as he leans in to whisper into my ear. Surprised, I look at
him and smile in wonder. We move on as others take our place.
Peter wants to know what his priest whispered to me, but I don’t
tell him cause it must be some kind of religious secret; otherwise
the priest wouldn’t have whispered it.
…I’ve just eaten a piece of Jesus.
thorns on his head. He looks sick, and is splashed with red paint
that looks like dripping blood. Peter sees me staring and whispers,
“That’s Jesus, the son of God. If you pledge allegiance to him you can
live forever in heaven.”
I think about church all week. I am very frightened because I have
sinned very badly. Not only have I eaten a piece of Jesus Christ, but
also, if he was really Jewish, and I’m Jewish, then it means that I am
a cannibal.
In school, I ask Peter a lot of questions about church, and he tells
me some crazy things. I think he is lying. First he says that priests
can’t get married because they have to concentrate only on God.
Then he says that nuns are the priest’s sisters, and they are married
to God.
I ask Peter, “How do you know that nuns are the priests’ sisters?”
“They must be because the priests call them sisters. Don’t you
know anything?”
I think he is lying because nobody can marry more than one person.
Then I think that he might be right cause if the Catholic God is
married to so many nuns, maybe most of the girls are used up, and
there are not enough girls left for boys to marry. That’s why boys
can only marry one girl.
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FICTION
“Peter, you’re lying. How do you know this stuff?”
“The priest told us in Sunday school, and priests don’t lie. That
would be a sin and they couldn’t get into heaven.”
Peter’s right, priests have to tell the truth.
“What else did you learn in Sunday School?”
“Sister Valerie told us that Jesus Christ is God’s son, but He is also
God, and that His mother was a virgin.”
“I don’t believe you. How can Christ be God’s son and God? A person
can’t be two things at the same time.”
Peter’s face is getting red and as he turns to leave, yells over his
shoulder, “Yes He can. God can do anything…He’s God.”
“Well I don’t believe you. Maybe the priest can’t lie but you can.”
Peter is crying now and yells back that he’s not lying and that I’m
stupid and don’t even know what a virgin is.
Me and Peter see each other in school the next day but don’t talk, or
even sit near each other at lunch. I try to share my dessert with him
but he says we can’t be friends any more ’cause Tony Pitzerrillo, a
sixth grader, told him that the Jews killed Jesus. I told him that can’t
be true ’cause Jesus was Jewish.
“That’s not true. Jesus was Catholic. You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying Peter. That was what your priest whispered into my
ear at church Sunday.”
Now Peter gets really angry and pushes me to the ground, telling
me that he isn’t going to be friends with a lying Jew who killed Jesus,
and storms away.
I yell back, “I’m telling the truth. You told me yourself that priests
don’t lie.”
I made a detour on the way home from school so that I could pass
Peter’s church. I was very frightened; so much had happened in the
last week. Just going into church with Peter had been very brave. If
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my parents or friends find out, I couldn’t be kosher any more. I don’t
even know if I would still be Jewish. Maybe if I put kosher salt in my
next bath, and said a prayer, I could become Jewish again.
The stone church looked less friendly in the late afternoon winter
gloom, especially without all the people there. I knew the large
wooden doors weren’t locked because I’d seen an old lady walk
in, so I quietly climbed the stone steps and entered the little outer
room where the priest had whispered his secret to me just a few
days ago.
I opened the door just a crack and peered in. The weak afternoon
light hardly filled even the first row of seats, and the stained glass
windows, so beautiful in Sunday’s sunshine, now looked tired and
frightening. The only other light came from spotlights shining on
statues and the giant cross with Jesus nailed to it. His shadow was
so big that it covered most of the floor.
There in the corner were the confession booths. It was assembly
day at school so I was wearing my white shirt, tie, and leather
shoes; the ones with taps, and as I crept closer, the stone floor
announced my presence. Tippy-tap, tippy-tap — the Jew is here, the
Jew is here. Thankfully, the only two other people there were old
ladies kneeling at the front praying, and they didn’t look up.
I crossed under the shadow of Jesus, so I put on my yarmulke and
did the cross sign that I saw Peter do. This way Jesus would see
that I’m Jewish like him. His sad eyes followed me as I sneaked to
the confession booth.
I was really scared and would have turned around, but Jesus was
staring at me and I didn’t dare tippy-tap back to the exit.
I knocked quietly on the playhouse door, hoping that no one would
hear me, but a voice inside asked me to come in. I immediately
recognized the voice as Peter’s priest, and my courage grew as my
story spilled out.
“Mr. Priest, I’m Jewish and not supposed to be here but I’ve sinned
and I can’t confess to the Rabbi cause I’m not kosher anymore and
he won’t listen. I was here Sunday and ate a piece of Jesus — but I
didn’t know he was Jewish — and Peter said that I killed him and
he won’t be my friend anymore — and both Jesus and Moses hate
me — and Jesus will send me to Hell — and the Jewish God will turn
the Jew is here, the Jew is here.
“I don’t believe you. How can Christ be God’s son and God?
A person can’t be two things at the same time.”
Tippy-tap, tippy-tap —
PHOTOGRAPHY
FICTION
me into salt like he did to Sodom and Gomorra, or make me live in
a whale like he did to Jonah.”
I then collapsed into a heap, my sobs echoing worse than my taps.
There was a long period of silence, and for a moment I thought
that I would be dragged out of the confessing house and chased
out of the church. Instead, the voice on the other side of the sliding
window sighed and softened as he spoke.
“My son.” He called me his son. “Can I call you by your first name?”
“You won’t call my parents?”
“No, I won’t call your parents. Anything you say in this booth is a
total secret. I won’t even tell a policeman. It’s part of our religion.
You tell me, I talk to God, and put in a good word for you.”
I wasn’t that sure of this system so I told him that my name was
Adam.
“Well Adam, that’s a good Old Testament name. You are not the first
Jew to come to confession. There have been quite a few before you.
As a matter of fact I know of a priest, right here in this church that
went to seek advice from a Rabbi, and I know of at least one Rabbi
who came to confession — right here in this very booth.”
If he weren’t a priest I wouldn’t have believed him. Priests in Shuls,
and Rabbis in church? I begin to feel a little better. If things go well
I would tell him my real name so that God would erase my sins, and
not some other kid’s called Adam.
The priest continued.
RELIGION
THOMAS MYERS
photography
Thomas Myers, a native of Mobile, Alabama, is
an executive with a local healthcare information
technology company. His black and white
photography focuses on abstract qualities
of natural and cultural themes, often with an
emphasis on the Southern condition.
I had to cross under the shadow
of Jesus and the cross…
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“You said quite a mouthful in your first couple of minutes so I think
that we should go over each of them, one at a time. First, let me say
that you are not in trouble with God. I am quite an expert on
the Jewish Religion because I studied Jewish law in school, so what
I am going to tell you is correct.”
“First, you are still Jewish and kosher. Coming to church doesn’t
change that. Jesus was Jewish, one of many great Jews who lived in
ancient times, but the church believes that He was more than a man.
We believe that He was God’s son. Jews don’t believe this, but
everyone is free to believe in their own version of God.”
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PHOTOGRAPHY
FICTION
“The cracker you ate on Sunday is just a cracker. As a matter of fact,
they make them in New Jersey. They only represent the goodness of
Jesus; they are not really a part of Him. Lastly, you did not kill Jesus.
History is filled with wars and killings and no one really knows who
did what to whom. Besides, you can’t kill God. He is too powerful.”
“Adam, you didn’t sin at all, so you don’t need confession. Think of
it this way: Jesus was Jewish, so God has made both Catholics and
Jews the chosen people. Adam, go home before your parents worry;
you have done nothing wrong.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. I was still kosher, my parents would never
know that I’d gone to confession, and I’d found out that God was
Jewish…and Catholic. As I turned to leave, a thought occurred to me
and I knocked on the window again.
“Yes, Adam.”
“Mr. Priest, I just thought of something Peter told me. He said
that Jesus was God’s son and also God. I told him that it was
impossible for God to be his own father but now I know how. If
God was lonely, He could put some of himself into Jesus and be
born so that He could have a mommy to talk to. Then He wouldn’t
be lonely anymore.”
There was some subdued chuckling from behind the window as the
priest answered.
“Very good Adam, I’ll have to think about that. Now hurry home
before it gets dark.”
The best part is that I didn’t have to confess any sins because I’d
been worried that maybe, God would forgive some kid named Adam
his sins, while Sheldon would still be un-kosher.
CONFLICT
THOMAS MYERS
photography
Thomas Myers, a native of Mobile, Alabama, is an
executive with a local healthcare information technology
company. His black and white photography focuses on
abstract qualities of natural and cultural themes, often with
an emphasis on the Southern condition.
Leslie Selbst is a retired New York City school system science teacher
who holds both a BA and an MS degree from the New York City University System. Selbst and his wife have coauthored a book entitled
Surviving The Storm, a story about cancer survival. His current project
is a novel entitled Conversations From the Grave. Selbst lives in North
Carolina and is a member of the North Carolina Writer’s Network as well
as several small writing groups.
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POETRY
PHOTOGRAPHY
PORTMAHOMACK SUMMER
J.C. ALFIER
Ordered gardens fade where lichen
and moss encroach the slim meridian
of the shoreline. Boats in the crooked
queue of school children await their tides.
Over the town’s streets, chimney smoke
finds its windless paths. A sky untethered
from storms lends the full sun to this scant
coastal town — quiet, settled, whitewashed
houses, porch windows that eye the horizon,
fretted masonry of brickwork and stone
that funnels the town along the firth, the pier’s
mottled asphalt arrowing into passable waters.
A rusted buoy has been pulled to land.
It shoulders, like a brother, a beached dory,
its rotting planks, all paint abraded beyond
color, the name taken back by the sea.
PORT
JAMAL DORTCH
photography
J.C. Alfier won the 2014 Kithara Book Prize for his poetry
collection, Idyll for a Vanishing River (Glass Lyre Press
2013). His most recent work is The Color of Forgiveness,
a collaboration with his wife and fellow poet Tobi Alfier
(Mojave River Review & Press 2014). He is also author of
The Storm Petrel – Ireland Poems (Grayson Books 2014).
His work has appeared recently in Hiram Poetry Review,
Poetry Ireland Review, and Louisiana Review.
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Jamal Dortch is an electrical engineering
major at the University of South Alabama. A
few years ago, he decided to take a studio art
class for fun. That turned into a minor in studio
art. He enjoys the process of building, making,
and designing piece by piece.
Boats in the crooked
queue of school children
await their tides.
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POETRY
POETRY
SIGNING
ROADKILL SUTRA
JANET CANNON
ROBERT ANNIS
he listens with his eyes
giggling at my awkward
attempts to speak visually
to his born deaf ears
I passed it again today. In the gutter,
hardly even a cat. Sleek fur matted,
paws contorted into nothing like a prayer,
ribs shattered; rubber wheels crush and grind.
The vultures know it isn’t safe anywhere
near this road. Last month’s opossum
taxidermied itself, leathered skin under the hair
the tires couldn’t tear away. The maggots wait
for traffic to clear, for their chance, to chew
on jerked eyeballs, writhe in bowels, bloat
and deflate. The cars continue, chiseling.
besides finger spelling i
show him the new signs
i learned today my hands
saying the moving words
good morning my friend
how are you today please
forgive me trying to talk
without knowing how
Janet Cannon is a graduate of the University of
Iowa. She is the author of two published chapbooks.
One of these, Dinner for Two, is a quarter finalist
in the 2015 Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook Prize.
Janet’s poems have been published in many literary
journals such as Berkeley Poetry Review, Texas
Review, New York Quarterly, and G.W. Review.
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Robert Annis received his MFA from the University of South
Florida and currently teaches at Cogswell Polytechnical
College. He was nominated for the 2013 and 2014 AWP Intro
Journals Project, won the Bettye Newman Poetry Award in
2014, and the Estelle J. Zbar Poetry Prize in 2015. His poetry
has appeared in Exit 7, Atlas Poetica, Lynx, and others.
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POETRY
ON THE WALL
SHITTU FOWORA
as if to catch the scent of God
He wraps words into thick liquid
as if to catch the scent of God
started having issues
with Heaven, his prayers now
throw words into the void,
with a thud, every punch
returned a dud,
he’s printed his prayers and
pasted on the wall, beside his bed.
At night, he draws a duvet
over his dread, peeks
head out from under his sheets,
then points at the wall and says:
“Lord, please read them
…I can’t shout”
Shittu Fowora is a lifelong fan of history and the power of words.
Having been stung more than twice while attempting to lounge in
trees to write verses, he now spends more time around PCs and
electronic gadgets. His works have recently appeared in or are
forthcoming in Sentinel Quarterly Review, Cha, Monkeystarpress, and
various other literary outlets.
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ETYMOLOGY OF
DAVID LEE UTLEY
KEITH CASTELIN
charcoal and acrylic paint
Keith Castelin is a Mobile native graphic designer
and artist. He draws inspiration from his Catholic
faith as well as his experiences from living on the
Gulf Coast.
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FICTION
DOOR TO DOOR
WILEY SCOTT
Justin isn’t a member of the National Rifle Association, and he
doesn’t visit the gun range. Sixty years of life and he’s never even
fired his old man’s gun. The last time the pistol was used was a decade ago at his grandma’s house when his dad was still alive. Now it
sits in a deep green lock-box with a hundred 9mm rounds and two
loaded clips. A third empty clip stays in the gun. Justin only touches
the handgun on monthly cleanings to remove gun powder that long
ceased accruing, and it’s time for October’s cleaning.
The single-wide trailer makes Justin feel efficient even as he shuffles
barefoot across the immaculate white carpet to his bedroom. He
finds the locked box in the closet prominently featured beside two
pairs of shoes — one dress and one work. With the weighty box
wobbling his stride, Justin is back in the living room at a remarkable
pace. There’s not much time for suspense in so small a space.
Justin sidles up to the low couch and eases down. The pleather cushion moans in appreciation. He smooths out the local paper on his
glass top coffee table to catch any dripped oil or solvent. The
oscillating fan flitters a corner occasionally, so he weights it down
with the cup of quarters he saves for the laundromat. The front
page news this week (as with last week) is dedicated to coverage of
a crook grifting elderly people living alone. The meat of the article is
all wild speculation since none of the victims’ descriptions corroborate beyond “middle-age white man about six feet tall.” By such
loose criteria, even Justin fits the description. Otherwise, it’s only
known that he goes door to door.
“Prolly peddlin’ snake oil to grannies,” he says aloud to no one.
“Carpetbaggin’ scam artist preyin’ on the elderly like a coward.”
The paper covers the incidents as if a serial killer had moved to
town and already attended church. The town is small enough to
escalate the talk to reactionary levels, but Justin doesn’t live close
enough to anyone with whom to gossip while fetching the Wednesday paper. A “neighbor” does live about three miles away as the crow
flies. His tiny acre is embraced on three sides by a curtain of oaks.
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The paper covers the
incidents as if a serial
killer had moved to
town and already
attended church.
Every fall the curtain
turns threadbare as the
leaves meet the ground.
Justin is proud to live in
a trailer and not a trailer
park because everyone
likes to look down on
someone.
With a shake, Justin detaches his eyes from the paper and sets to
business. The gun cleaning kit sits year round pinched between
the arm of the couch and the TV tray (or blank wall tray since he
hocked his TV). The aluminum case with its sharp lines makes
Justin feel professional. The only briefcase-like thing he takes to
work is a tin lunch pail. The case covers the distracting article and
latches pop revealing parsed sections with their respective tools.
Justin unlocks the gun box with a cute key and removes his dad’s
hand gun: a Beretta M1951.
Expertly, Justin disassembles the gun and focuses back on the
kit. Three brass rods screw together to form one the length of a
rifle barrel, but the Beretta requires not this assembly. Brass wire
brushes to fit all calibers sit unneeded while Justin plucks the 9mm
brush from its slot and attaches it to one of the brass rods. He removes the bottle of gun oil and the bottle of solvent unscrewing the
latter’s lid and tips an unassuming amount of the liquid into it. After
dabbing the wire brush tip into the lid, the rod is crammed in one
end of the barrel and pops out the other. Specks of solvent appear
on the newspaper.
With the rod removed, Justin sets the barrel aside so the solvent
can work on the oil residue from September’s cleaning. He tends to
the rest with a cloth that he used to call a t-shirt. He tosses the used
shirt into the garbage without standing and removes the one he’s
wearing. If it weren’t for cleaning his dad’s gun, Justin would never
buy new t-shirts. He grabs his shirt for a dry once over of the slide,
slide receiver, recoil spring, and recoil spring guide to remove any
loose powder.
Justin reassembles the gun deftly. He reinserts the unloaded clip
and places the gun back in the case on top of the t-shirt rag. The
gun cleaning kit closes, latches, and assumes its position by the
couch. Before he can lock the box and return it to its closet shrine,
Justin hears three taps against his door. He hesitates, thinking it
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FICTION
more likely that three tree limbs fell rhythmically and rather gently
against his trailer than someone would visit him.
Knock Knock Knock
Knock Knock Knock
This time it’s undeniable. Justin rocks to a stand and slips on a dirty
shirt to cover his chest. He lumbers toward the door arriving sooner
than he would have liked. The idea of a guest confuses him. The
hour’s not absurd but the thought of him hosting is outrageous. Justin leans one hand against his eggshell wall that clashes beautifully
with his carpet. He places his other hand on the knob taking a deep
breath and pulls the door open and peers around.
“Hi. We represent The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.”
A man who looked a few years younger than Justin stands on the
concrete steps. His black hair in a high and tight cut reveals his
sweaty brow. His white, short sleeve button down, baby blue necktie,
and black pants are at various levels of dishevel. Justin peeks over
the man’s head (he is Justin’s height but a step lower) and sees only
his pick-up truck — no other car, bike, or person is in the yard.
“We?” Justin asks raising an eyebrow. “What? You got God in your
pocket or somethin’?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir. Force of habit. My partner got cut up on the walk
from your neighbor’s house and just ran back to the motel.”
“My neighbor? Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Young?”
“Uh. Smith, sir.”
“That’s a three mile walk if you cut through the woods.”
“We did, sir. Bob got caught in a brier patch.”
“I’m Walter, by the way,” he says, extending a hand.
Justin accepts, simply replying “Justin.”
“Do you have a last name, sir?”
“Most folks do,” Justin says shortly. The Mormon missionary seems
to suppress a laugh, and he flashes a smile at Justin which strikes
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him as insincere. It’s the smile of a used car salesmen right before
he robs you.
“Well, would you mind if I come in and talk with you for spell?” With
a flash of bravery, Justin stands aside and allows Walter to enter.
Justin takes note of Walter’s satchel slung over his shoulder. He
gestures towards the couch and the missionary plops down. The
remaining wicker chair beside the couch that Justin occupies sits a
good foot higher.
“I’m sorry to say you may have wasted a walk,” Justin says not in the
least bit sorry. “See, I’ve got my own sort of faith.”
“Oh,” he replies hurriedly. “I’m not trying
to convert you, sir. I’m
here to share a message for all faiths. The
Book of Mormon is
simply more scripture.
It’s a sacred record of Christ’s activities in the western hemisphere.”
Justin doesn’t believe him — not the Christ in the western hemisphere part. Justin doesn’t believe Walter believes what he’s saying. He’s
pretty sure Walter isn’t lying about not trying to convert him, though.
With a flash of bravery,
Justin stands aside and
allows Walter to enter.
“I’m afraid you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, down the wrong hole,
and at the wrong mailman,” Justin says threateningly.
“I can’t force you to do anything, sir.”
Damn right you can’t.
“But we’re actually the fourth largest denomination in the United
States.” Justin can’t help but be impressed at the research this
stranger did. He thinks it’s an awful lot of work to do for a small
time grifter, but maybe he’s elevating his crimes. Normally, the
paper said, he’d be targeting women. Maybe he really did visit Mrs.
Smith. Justin decides to call later to check on her. “Sir? What’re you
reading?”
Justin had let his eyes wander onto the still spread out article, but
he averts his gaze and refocuses on the stranger in his trailer.
“Nothing. Nothing,” Justin answers hoping “Walter” hadn’t noticed.
“Fourth largest, you say?”
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“Yes, sir, and that’s just our branch. The entire Latter Day Saints
movement is even larger. But you seem to be busy, so I’ll hurry this
up and just…” his voice trails off as he leans over and reaches into
his shoulder bag.
Justin reacts immediately: standing without rocking while also
reaching for the gun cleaning kit. Justin swings with all his might
as the stranger finally notices and lifts his head into the strike
zone. The sharp corner of the kit connects with his left temple. The
stranger grunts after the second swipe, but the third is followed
only by Justin’s heavy breathing. The carpet is no longer immaculate.
Specks of blood appear on the newspaper.
Catching his breath first, Justin picks up his phone and dials 911.
Before the first ring, Justin remembers he meant to check on Mrs.
Smith. She may need an ambulance more than he needs to tell the
police he killed the scam artist in self-defense. He hangs up and
dials her number half expecting nothing on the other end.
“Hello,” she answers brightly.
“Mrs. Smith? It’s Justin. Is everythin’ okay over there?” he asks in a rush.
“More or less, dear. I thought my fridge finally broke, but it was just
the light needed changing. I thought everything was ruined at first.”
“That’s a relief,” Justin says without any real relief. “Other than that,
anything else interestin’ happen today?”
“Oh! I met two Mormons!” she says sounding almost scandalized.
“You know, I’ve never even met a Catholic. It’s all Methodist and Baptist round here, and I refuse to socialize with Pentecostals unless I
absolutely have to.” She pauses. “Are you still there?” Justin, mouth
gaped, is staring. “Hello?”
Justin hangs up, but his eyes never leave the missionary’s corpse
now slumped in front of the couch and leaking, draining. Justin
looks at his own shirt speckled with Mormon blood and tries to
calm himself. Maybe Mrs. Smith just doesn’t realize she was robbed,
he thinks. “That’s got to be it,” he says aloud to no one. “A scam
wouldn’t work if it were obvious. She was just distracted by the
novelty of gettin’ to see ‘real Mormons’ for the first time.”
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Then why were there two? his mind asks itself. He thinks for a bit
trying to answer his own query. Obviously so the police reports
would have conflicting descriptions. It’s a pretty clever plan, actually,
he thinks. Justin decides to dial 911.
“911. What is the location of your emergency?”
Justin hesitates at the sharpness in the woman’s voice. “Wilbrush,
but it’s not an emergen—”
“City or county, sir?”
“County, but—”
“What is the specific location, sir?”
“Look, it’s not an emergency, but I think I saw the scam artist the
paper’s been on about.”
“Sir, if you will give me your
location an officer will be there momentarily.” Justin
loses confidence and eyes
the corpse.
Too scared to
move, he remains
at the window until
darkness falls.
He lies, “I saw him at the
Snake Skin Inn,” and hangs
up shaking so hard he’s surprised the operator didn’t hear his
bones clacking. He slumps unceremoniously into the wicker chair
and lets his head fall towards the corpse. What now? he thinks. I’m
a murderer.
“Only if you get caught,” he says to himself.
After a few measured breaths, Justin rises and picks up his gun
cleaning kit to rinse off in the kitchenette sink. He dries it before
placing it deep in his bedroom closet behind Christmas and Easter
decorations. He strips to his boxers and bags his bloody shirt and
jeans for later burning. He crumples up the newspaper wet with a
blood/solvent mix and adds it to the bag. The carpet will be harder
to dispose. Not to mention the body.
The body. Justin rips the garbage bag open and redresses with the
bloody clothing. Peeking out of the blinds, Justin decides to wait
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until the sun is down completely. Too scared to move, he remains
at the window until darkness falls. He sits slowly on the couch and
throws his right leg over the lolling corpse, straddling it as if he
were a girl braiding a friend’s hair. With his arms under the body’s
armpits, Justin lifts himself and the corpse. He half crab-walks to
the door, stopping to breathe after each scuttle. The door pulls
open, and Justin and Walter enter the woods on the way to Mrs.
Smith’s house.
Wiley Scott is a senior at the University of South Alabama, majoring
in English with a focus in creative writing.
BE THERE BEFORE DARK
W. JACK SAVAGE
oil
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and
educator. He is the author of seven books
including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack
Savage. To date, more than fifty of Jack’s
short stories and over four-hundred of his
paintings and drawings have been published
worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy live in
Monrovia, California.
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POETRY
GLASS
APRIL AND MY PLASTIC FLOWERS
SONNET MONDAL
The four plastic sunflowers in my bedroom —
the way they swayed in the ceiling fan’s air
were the functional-year-long-April for me.
Fallen twigs of meditating winter
and the deadwood sanity of their roughness;
the begging deserts of the patient summer
and the coarseness of their ravaged mirages;
the thin tune of the nostalgic autumn
and the restlessness of their alcoholic breezes —
were never like fresh seasonal fruits to me
for I had the functional-year-long-April in my bedroom:
those four plastic sunflowers.
Not long, my wedding and divorce —
both in their infancy
ended the perpetual April in my room
by demanding those yellow sunflowers
in the package of reparation.
It was four seasons ago and the spring of April
now seems to be a creepy plastic serpent
irresistibly insidious in its illusory cruelty
as my new girlfriend from the same city
talked of bringing new plastic flowers in my room.
DECAYING MACHINE
KATIE CARWIE
glass
Katie Carwie is a student at the University of
South Alabama.
Sonnet Mondal is the founder of The Enchanting Verses Literary
Review. He has authored eight books of poetry and has performed
by invitation at Struga Poetry Evenings, Macedonia in 2014
and Uskudar International Poetry Festival, Istanbul in 2015. His
works have appeared in Business Insider, The McNeese Review,
Sheepshead Review, and others
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ART
FICTION
FLOWERS IN THE SPRING
THOMAS ELSON
Mary was one of two people that called him by his real name. And
now, John’s wife, Mary, mother of five children, pregnant for the
sixth time, had been ill with a sore throat, a severe headache, a
103-degree temperature spike, racking coughs, and nosebleeds.
Days later, John stood between the convent and the church. He
placed his hand on the limestone corner post, and waited for his
wife and children; then watched as the wind shoved piles of Russian
thistles against the fence while music mixed with the lingering
scent of candles, flowers, and incense. The final songs were
interrupted by chattering, and John squinted at a knot of sparrows
threatening a hawk that dared to threaten one of their nests.
At the corner of the fence, John noticed a cluster of convent girls his
wife had predicted would not remain there for long. Too much the
rebel, too lively to stay in that place. They’ll find husbands before
they find God, she had said. John smiled as he recalled that, after a
moment, she had added, Or husbands will find them. His memory
roamed. Girls who smile and raise their shoulders like that are not
preparing to say the rosary.
The early October wind that year delivered cool days and crisp
evenings coupled with multi-colored fields and trees. October’s
strength gathered later in the month with overcast days, longer,
colder nights and an invading wind that chilled, and took up
residence until late April.
THE HIDDEN TRUTH
Adorable Monique is a U
​ .S. based artist​. She
​​​
received art instruction a
​ broad and is currently pursuing her MA​. She has received
merit awards and has had the opportunity to exhibit​in various venues. She was also fortunate enough to be mentored by a renowned
Central American artist, who helped enrich her artistic vision.
ADORABLE MONIQUE
acrylic on canvas
To live then was to live in another time — no one in Berdan had
talked on a telephone, listened to a radio, turned on an electric light,
cooked food over anything but buffalo chips or wood, experienced
a pain-free dental visit, or visited a doctor who graduated from
medical school.
It was a place where uniformity and familiarity were sacred, where
people from a town a few miles away were outsiders, and where
the first pages of a grandmother’s bible told a family everything it
needed to know about its place in the world.
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FICTION
A week earlier, John walked in from the outhouse, a tiny shed
with a nine-foot deep hole underneath a wood slat that extended
across two other slats raised by a box constructed of 1x3’s from the
chicken shed. He waited in the kitchen near their stove, then leaned
against the galvanized sink he had built from the remnants of the
windmill from which hand-pumped water diverted from the cattle
trough into the kitchen.
When Mary walked into the kitchen, John smiled, and kissed her
cheek. She pointed to the rifle. “I’ll carry it today while you drive.”
John lifted Mary into their horse-drawn farm wagon. While he
talked of livestock, land, and weather, she listened and enjoyed
the last of the sunflowers
facing east, which, upon
their return later that day,
would face the setting
sun. John held the reins
between thumbs and
forefingers. He glanced
at his wife, pleased that
today she was as giddy
and happy as a young girl.
In a time when many
men treated their wives
as chattel, John treated
Mary, as he knew she
was — a gift.
She turned, “Hans, we are so lucky to have our church and your
sister so close to us.”
He looked at his wife, her German cadence contrasted with her
green eyes and ready smile; then he nodded and patted her knee. In
a time when many men treated their wives as chattel, John treated
Mary, as he knew she was — a gift.
John’s wife came from a family whose very existence in America
depended on its success with hard bargains. “Mary could rub two
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nickels together and get a quarter,” John bragged to his friends
as he exhaled smoke from a cigarette seldom removed from his
mouth. He never flicked an ash, but let gravity earn its keep around
him. As a wife, Mary’s duties were basic: keep the house running
smoothly, their children quiet, her husband content, and negotiate
the contracts for their general store and lumberyard.
She had her focus for the day — secure the best price for the best
goods to supply their general store. Every week she negotiated the
agreements; and, after John signed them, they packed the wagon
and headed back to Berdan to stock the store.
“Who do you think I’ll deal with today?” Mary asked as she held the rifle.
Later, when John gave his suggestions about how she should
approach the suttler, she replied, “We’ll see how it goes, Hans.
We’ll see.”
He had learned to let it drop. He waited a moment, then asked how
she felt.
“In this country, we talk American.”
A flurry of gold fever prompted John and Mary to set up a general
store and lumberyard in Berdan, a crossroads village between the
southwest part of the state and the military fort. The gold eventually
mined out, but lumber, roads, water, and limestone remained.
People who migrated into the town from surrounding areas had
presented John an opportunity that had eluded his father — a
growing population not served by nearby towns.
“Sehr güt, Hans, sehr güt.” Mary corrected herself immediately.
“Very good, Hans.” It was her rule that “In this country, we talk
American.”
The fort was a crowded enclave with rutted, muddy streets and
muddier men, wooden planks in front of the suttlers’ stores, and
four inch raised platforms in front of the Federal establishments.
The fort was overlaid with a staggering odor unmatched inside
a hot, wet barn. Mary disliked the stench and confined space,
and wondered how folks lived in such close quarters and filthy
conditions yet maintained any level of civility or health.
John pulled the reins to stop the horses and touched Mary’s
shoulder. He jumped down, walked around to her side, and held
out his hand. She placed her foot on the toe board he had installed
during her second pregnancy, balanced herself on the hand brake
lever, swatted at a small swarm of flies, and stepped onto the iron
tire. John lifted her, and she whispered in his ear. He smiled as he
watched her walk into the sutler’s wedge tent.
After church that following Sunday, Mary struggled to the porch,
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FICTION
so exhausted she was barely able to shuffle into the bedroom.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes to relieve
the pressure, and said she saw “nothing but sparks.” Tired, hot,
coughing, and her headache accelerated, she felt as if her brain
chilled but then turned hot. The Northwest wind blew at a strange
angle that made her too hot, then too cold, and gave her eyes a
sandpaper feel she knew would remain for hours.
John’s sister walked in the kitchen that evening. When she saw
the children waiting for their supper, she said in an amalgam of
German and English, “Hans, was ist los? What’s wrong?” Emma
pointed at the children, and, in her weighted German accent,
said, “All of you, come with me. Snell.” She waved her hands in the
direction of her house. “I’ve got stew and rhubarb pie in my kitchen
for you.” They followed her like ducklings.
Each time Mary coughed, John heard her silent voice plead for relief.
He had listened to that voice for years, but today it was different.
She had been sick before, but this time she sounded separated from
her body. Even more worrisome, she was not angry.
After Mary drank a honey and bourbon concoction John prepared,
she revived temporarily, then slept. John watched as she lay in a
fetal position. Two hours later, she woke with bloody ears and nose.
Her pillow was stained red. Her face had turned a light blue. She
complained of an acidic, bitter taste. “My throat burns.” Mary felt
her wet hair, sat erect, and pointed to the mirror. She saw herself
through coughs and spasms. “John, I feel I’m dying.” Her eyes met
John’s before darting toward the bedroom window. Outside was
her dormant flower garden where she had planted and nurtured
her perennials since their marriage. She reached for John’s hand,
looked out the window again. John thought he heard, “I won’t see
the flowers in spring.” He sat on their bed until she fell asleep.
Later that evening he removed the mirror from the bedroom, and
sent their three youngest children to his sister’s house. The next
morning their two oldest children, Edmund and Josephine, began to
work in the general store.
Mary grew weaker from the fever. When she tried to sit straight, she
fell back. Tears filled her eyes, “I’m too weak.” Her face had grown
slack and drained; her mouth opened slightly, “I can’t see you, Hans.”
She attempted to say more, but could not.
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Mary’s illness had
spread at sprinter’s
speed to her upper
respiratory tract,
then invaded her
lungs, and inflamed
her heart muscle.
John held his wife after she
coughed with a force so fierce
it tore her abdominal muscles,
and spewed green-tinged
blood. He wiped the blood
from her lips, stroked her hair,
and helped his sister change
his wife’s clothes. When Mary
vomited and became incontinent,
he cleaned up after her.
Later in the kitchen, his eyes
fixed on the open bedroom door, John sat helpless while his sister
set out food for the children.
Mary’s illness had spread at sprinter’s speed to her upper
respiratory tract, then invaded her lungs, and inflamed her heart
muscle. There was no reprieve. John held his wife’s hand, heard her
cough, felt her convulsions, cleaned up the blood that shot from her
nose and mouth, watched as her face turned a blue so deep that in
the dim light, it looked black.
When John finally heard his sister’s voice, it was as if she had
replied to someone else. He already knew the answer. “The baby
died when she did.”
Moments later, John stopped the Napoleon clock in the kitchen, and
his sister brought flowers to mask the odor. They laid Mary in the
living room. Relatives conducted a two-day, round-the-clock, open
casket vigil.
At the corner of the fence between church and convent, John closed
his eyes and caught the fragrance from plowed-under fields to the
east, mingled with the odor from cattle, the fresh-turned sod from
the cemetery, and the incense escaping from inside the church. The
church shadow made the day seem cold and isolated.
He turned toward the brown fields to the south with dried stubble
harvested with the efficiency of generations of farmers from west of
the Volga River, concentrated on the cattle grazing the fields waiting,
while he waited for Mary’s eight-sided coffin. The wind cut him as it
had cut his grandfather, and shoved John toward his wife’s grave.
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FICTION
PHOTOGRAPHY
I won’t see the flowers in spring.
Custom dictated that the husband was to dip the metal perforated
wand into the holy water and sprinkle his wife’s coffin before it
was lowered. The priest touched John’s shoulder and directed him.
“John, take the aspergillum.” He pointed to Mary’s coffin. John bent
his head and began to tremble. He leaned to the right, his eyes
moved toward their house.
He saw his wife at their bedroom window, heard her voice. Not yet,
Hans, sit and wait with me a moment. He dropped the aspergillum
on the wet ground and walked across the street.
John sat on their bed, and heard her voice again. I won’t see the
flowers in spring. There, on her deathbed, he expelled the contents
of the past few days, then bent forward and expelled the contents of
his stomach.
He reached for a rag to wipe the floor. When he finished, he walked
to the stable to prepare the horses for his drive to the fort.
Thomas Elson has traveled throughout the country, from California to North
Carolina, and Louisiana to Washington. His most recent short stories have been
published in the United States and United Kingdom, including short stories in the
Clackamas Literary Review, The Literary Commune, and Perceptions Magazine.
ESPAÑOL ROSA Y BICHO
JENNIFER CLARK-GRAINGER
fuji emulstion lift
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Jennifer Clark-Grainger is a senior at
the University of South Alabama and an
aspiring visual anthropologist. This photo
was inspired by her recent study abroad
in Spain, which took place in the summer
of 2015. This will be the third edition of
Oracle which features her work.
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121
POETRY
PRINTMAKING
MOLASSACRE
ARIKA ELIZENBERRY
Boom!
Rivets from the 50-foot distillery tank busted
from the flimsy metal sheets exploding with
molasses onto Boston’s North End. The two
million gallon wave thrashed people into billiards,
freight cars, and stables. Children who had once
collected the seeping sucrose off the tank for
suckers were trapped under its girth and met
their gooey graves. Teamsters and librarians on
their noonday lunches sitting in the balmy climate
were strangled by its syrupy brown glaze and swept
under it like trash to a dustpan. The trotting of horses
through the city hauling goods came to a stop — their
hooves stuck to the street as bugs to flypaper. Houses
and stores didn’t go unscathed either — being wrenched
from their roots and ensnaring electrical poles, trucks,
and the firehouse in its glutinous wake. 21
died and another 150 were injured, but to this
day the air still lingers of the sweet smelling
molasses.
A CALM VETERINARIAN
AMY WILKINS
print
Arika Elizenberry received her Associate of Arts in Creative
Writing from the College of Southern Nevada and was Vice
President of the college’s creative writing club for three
years. Elizenberry is currently the assistant editor at Helen:
A Literary Magazine. Her work has been published in the
Silver Compass, Neon Dreams, East Coast Literary Review,
and elsewhere.
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Amy Wilkins is a senior
at the University of South
Alabama pursuing a BFA
in Graphic Design with a
secondary concentration
in printmaking.
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123
POETRY
PAINTING
The violence you have
done…will overwhelm
you…For you have shed
man’s blood; you have
destroyed lands and cities
and everyone in them. Of
what value is an idol, since
a man has carved it?...For
he who makes it trusts in
his own creation; he makes
idols that cannot speak.
— Habbakuk 2:17-18
DETACHED
Brittany Carney is from northern Illinois
and is a freshman at the University of
South Alabama. She is majoring in marine
biology, but she spends her free time as
an artist. Brittany mainly paints with acrylic
and watercolor paints, but she also has
experience in oils, pencils, and charcoal.
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BRITTANY CARNEY
watercolor
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POETRY
OUTLAW SAINTS
ANNE BABSON
“The violence you have done…will overwhelm you…For you
have shed man’s blood; you have destroyed lands and cities
and everyone in them. Of what value is an idol, since a
man has carved it?...For he who makes it trusts in his own
creation; he makes idols that cannot speak.”
—
­ Habbakuk 2:17-18
Here in Juarez, we started with Saint Jude, but coño,
He wouldn’t bless the bullets or the vengeance, right?
And vengeance is the only way — turning the cheek,
That gets you a cap in the ass, mi padre.
So the shrine we put up in the garage near where
We bag the shit before it goes up north in mules —
We have this whole thing going — but I can’t tell you.
That confessional seal thing of yours — a racket —
And then there’s Malverde, I think en inglés it’s
“Bad Green,” right? He was a thug who really lived, who
Really died, but he stole from the rich and gave to
Los olvidados, God’s forgotten kids. You know,
I get it. I have me some kids, too, and I don’t
See them, neither, so I don’t hold no grudge, padre.
So I pray where it doesn’t feel so forgotten.
I mean it’s rough out there. When they fire, we fire back.
I’ll build you a saint, padre. How do you want it?
I could name it, “Holy Child Abuse Cover-Up”
Or maybe just, “Holy Ignore Them.” I like that —
Your face as a model. I’ll design a tattoo.
And why should I trust you? You wear gang colors, too,
Son — black with the white nick in your collar; how is
That so different than the black teardrops we nick
Into our cheeks for each enemy we ice?
So we built the shrine to Santa Muerte, Holy
Death, like the skulls on the day of the dead we eat,
The cakes in the graveyards with our great-grandmothers,
Skull-eating was Aztec and Conquistador, too.
We didn’t invent this — I mean the genocide —
Isn’t that what you call it? I read that in school
Before I quit and got me a real job right here.
Yes, I pour whiskey in front of the skeleton.
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Anne Babson has been nominated for the Pushcart prize
four times and has been featured on Poetry Daily. Her poetry
collection includes The White Trash Pantheon (Vox Press,
2015) and her current chapbook, Poems Under Surveillance
(Finishing Line Press, 2013) are currently available in
independent bookstores and on Amazon. Her work has
recently appeared in a variety of international publications,
and she has completed residencies at Yaddo and Vermont
Studio Center.
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DIGITAL ILLUSTRATION
POETRY
CARBON-DATED ANTHROPOCENE
VIGNETTE
laid out in endless rows, then find their tank,
to bulldoze through clogged arteries…
RICHARD HILLYER
A mastodon negotiates the cash
register, lugging bales of diet coke;
she wears a spandex circus tent, a sash
of New Age wisdom, and a slimming cloak.
The teratorn who swipes her purchases
sports Armageddon in tattoos, plus studs
in every hole, but still admonishes
“Have a blest day!” to her indifferent buds.
Outside, a mammoth family looks blank,
confronted with a grave of beasts more vast,
laid out in endless rows, then find their tank,
to bulldoze through clogged arteries, at last
achieve Arcadia, their suburban home,
there, where the giant buffalo still roam.
BUTTER
Ashley Fiveash is a senior graphic design student at
the University of South Alabama. She has a secondary
focus in painting, which she uses to enhance her digital
painting skills.
ASHLEY FIVEASH
digital illustration
Richard Hillyer was born and raised in London, England.
Since 2007, he has taught Renaissance literature at the
University of South Alabama. He is currently writing a
book provisionally entitled Descartes’s Dagger: Poetry
and Science as Mortal Enemies.
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FICTION
ANY LAST WORDS?
MATTHEW POIRIER
“504,” he growled, “you’ve been found guilty of murder and have
been sentenced to die by lethal injection on this day, the 20th of
April, 2036. Do you have a final statement?”
504 fruitlessly tugged at the straps holding him against the gurney
as two physicians swabbed his forearms with alcohol. 504 grimaced
as they inserted the IVs.
“504,” he repeated impatiently, “do you have anything to say?”
504 looked up at the light and listened to the steady beat of the
heart monitor. It was the closest thing to a song 504 had heard in
years. His pupils dilated at the artificial light like the moon pouring
through the bars of a cell, painting the cement floor with columns of
radiance and shadow.
He said something else, but 504 couldn’t hear him. 504 closed his
eyes as the physicians dripped saline through the IVs to prevent
blockage. That way, the real injections could be administered
without any trouble. 504 sighed, struggling to remember.
January 30th, 2027
It was darker than usual — no stars.
504 entered the liquor store. It had been an exceptionally stressful
day at work — 504 was a loan processor. Mr. Suit from the bank
across the street had called 504 every thirty minutes asking about
a mortgage application. By 3:00 pm, 504 was so frustrated that he
told Mr. Suit over the phone that maybe if he sold his suit and Rolex
he wouldn’t need a damn mortgage loan.
Shortly thereafter, 504 was called into his boss’ office to be told that
“Employees with poor conduct are easily replaceable.”
All things considered, 504 needed a drink.
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504 hadn’t had a drink since college. He bumbled around the back
of the liquor store, looking at the various bottles and wondering
which one would help him forget the quickest.
504 produced his wallet, making sure he had his license. He was
surveying booze, ID in hand, when he heard somebody shout from
the front of the store.
“Empty it!”
504 froze at first, but curiosity reigned supreme. Peeking through
the shelves, he saw a masked man waving a handgun in the
cashier’s face. “Empty it!” the gunman repeated. The cashier
relinquished what was left in the cash register. The money had
recently been deposited into a safe, leaving only a few twenties and
some change.
“Empty your pockets. Now!”
The cashier reached for his back pocket — BANG. The cashier
slumped to his knees, a hole between his eyes. He had reached for
his wallet too quickly, startling the gunman.
I’ve never held a gun,
504 thought.
The gunman bolted away,
leaving the liquor store
eerily quiet.
504 waited behind the shelves. How long? Minutes? Hours? He
couldn’t tell. He left his hiding spot, shuffling numbly toward the
front desk. There, on the floor near the cash register, was the
handgun.
I’ve never held a gun, 504 thought. He hated that that was all he
could think of. Not Someone was shot. Not I should call somebody.
Not I can see blood.
Just I’ve never held a gun.
504 put his ID on the counter and stooped to pick up the handgun.
It was heavier than he expected.
504 heard sirens wailing.
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POETRY
FICTION
“504! Any last words?”
It wasn’t the angry voice that startled 504. It was the
beat of the heart monitor.
He wasn’t thinking about the gun, or the blood, or Mr.
Suit and the mortgage application.
504 was thinking about his ID that he’d left on the
counter.
“Eric,” 504 said. “My name is Eric.”
The injections were administered.
Matthew Poirier received his BA in English at the University of South
Alabama in May 2014, and he is currently working on his Masters in
English with a concentration in Creative Writing. He was the recipient
of the 2015 Steve and Angelia Stokes Scholarship for Fiction and of the
2015 Dr. Patricia Stephens Memorial Scholarship. His ballad poem Anne
was published in the 2014 Oracle Fine Arts Review.
UNTITLED
JOSHUA PARKER
digital illustration
Joshua Parker, a Pensacola native, is a graphic design major at
the University of South Alabama.
He is desperately working on
a mid-life career change with
hopes that he will, at last, find his
niche in life. When not working,
attending class, or finishing a
project, he enjoys experiencing
the small moments of life with
his family.
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SCULPTURE
POETRY
A TRIBUTE TO SUE WALKER
AVA TINDOL LONG
“504! Any last words?”
She said
in lines of poetic verse,
straightforward lines, like an
arrow piercing the heart, the
message she meant to say, which
was spoken in
words full of brass and vociferousness like
“vociferation” and “sonorousness” and
words of scientific exclamation like
“idiopathicendolymphatic hydrops” and
words of irony, or perhaps great revelation, like
“serendipitously, sagaciously like the camel.”
She said this and that,
whatever she wished to say, to
send her words to the ears, to the
brain, and even more frightening, to
travel loosely and lodge permanently,
or not, in the mind of the listener.
Or perhaps she said just to entertain, to
spread a spark of humor, like a
man who wants his
kidney, beloved kidney,
at least monetarily,
that is lodged in the depths
of his wife, recently divorced.
She said things like that.
Ava Tindol Long is originally from Grove Hill, Alabama,
the land of pine trees and old gossips. She began writing
around the age of sixteen. She received a BA in English
at the University of Mobile. Currently, Ava teaches English
at Alma Bryant High School while working on her MA in
English at the University of South Alabama.
MANTEL
APRIL LIVINGSTON
mixed media
April Livingston is a sculptor, painter, and photographer from
Alabama. She completed a PBC at S.A.C.I. in Florence, Italy
and an MFA at the University of Alabama. While exhibiting
her work in the US and abroad, Livingston has expanded her
knowledge of cast metal, blacksmithing, and fabrication. She
is currently a resident artist at Fairhope Foundry in Alabama.
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NONFICTION
RAGING AGAINST ALZHEIMER’S NIGHT
LYNN VEACH SADLER
Alzheimer’s slowly savors its targets as it eats them alive. How much
the more horrific if the victim has worked in the health field and witnessed that disease overwhelm her mother and aunt, though they
died, officially, of a stroke and a heart attack, respectively.
After two years at Meredith College and four years in Duke’s School
of Nursing, Martha Lillian Henderson, born in Greenville, North
Carolina, worked two years at San Francisco General. From 19701972, under the auspices of the United Methodist Committee on
Overseas Relief, she trained student nurses in Nha Trang, South
Vietnam, after spending eight hours a day for eight weeks learning
how to speak their language. A friend had planned to accompany
Martha, but during the interview, after admitting having smoked pot,
she was not allowed to go. When Martha returned after the Vietnam
War with her husband, Herbert Carlisle “Carl” Henley, Jr., to see
her friends, she learned that they had not been allowed to practice
because of having been trained by an American.
Martha received Family Nurse Practitioner and Geriatric Nurse
Practitioner degrees from the University of North Carolina School
of Nursing. Next came training at Union Theological Seminary and
a Master’s of Divinity from Yale. She was the first Director of Inpatient Services at Carol Woods Retirement Community in Chapel
Hill, North Carolina, and, in the summer of 1985, was a missionary
nurse in Lomalinda, Colombia, teaching in Continuing Education.
In 1986 came her Doctorate of Ministry from Southeastern Baptist
Theological Seminary. Her dissertation topic was Preparing for a
Good Death. She was a Nurse Practitioner at the VA Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina, and spent six months in Cape Town,
South Africa, as a missionary nurse. She and Carl are especially
pleased to have been there when Nelson Mandela was released
from prison in February of 1990.
As a member of its Faculty Scholars Program, Martha received a
certificate “In recognition and appreciation of her extraordinary
effort and commitment to transforming the culture of dying in
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America through her fellowship with the Open Society Institutes’
Project on Death in America” (1 July 1997 ­— 30 June 2000).
Martha retired in 2000 after serving ten years on the faculty of the
University of North Carolina School of Nursing. Afterwards, she
was a Transitions Consultant and gave a six-week workshop series
on The Gift of Life: Aging Well. Her clinical specialty was normal
aging, advanced chronic illness, and end-of-life care, especially advance care-planning. She served on the Ethics Committee at UNC
Hospitals and as a Clinical Associate Faculty member at Duke’s
Institute on Care at the End of Life. She received a Certificate of
Commendation “for outstanding contributions to the nursing profession and to the goals and objectives of the North Carolina Nurses
Association” (1995). Three years later, the Duke School of Nursing
gave her a Distinguished Alumna award.
In 2003 came the book Improving Nursing Home Care of the Dying:
A Training Manual For Nursing Home Staff. Martha was the lead of
three authors.
Even more telling, perhaps, is Martha’s poem, published in Palliative and Supportive Care (Cambridge University Press, 2: 95):
The Face of One Who Is Dying
(Written as My Mother Was Dying from
Alzheimer’s Disease and a Stroke, 27 August 2003)
The loved one who is dying has a very special face.
No matter what the appearance,
it leads us to a special place;
There’s more than lines and wrinkles;
there’s more than words can say.
The face of one who’s dying leads us back a way.
To times of fun and sweetness,
to times of sadness and joy,
to times of struggles and forgiveness,
to times of much, much more.
Now that face is different — tired and ready to go,
that face of poignant connection with times long ago.
The face is still our connection
to one whose hand we hold.
We look for recognition from one who’s gotten old.
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NONFICTION
No matter whether there’s knowing
that shows upon the face,
there’s knowing, in one’s presence,
the gift of holy grace.
The face of one who is dying
shows we’re soon to part.
The face of one who is dying
leads us to our heart.
I edit the journal Writeway for Galloway Ridge, and at the launching
of the second issue, Martha read that poem. It was received with
tears from many in the audience. After several others read, she
raised her hand and returned to the podium to announce, “I
have Early-Onset Alzheimer’s.” Many of those who did not know
succumbed to shock and more tears.
Martha (and Carl) had had health issues, but the official diagnosis
came in 2013. She did not suspect Alzheimer’s. Her sister, sisterin-law, and husband did. Accordingly, in 2012, she and Carl moved
from the Henley family farm in Chapel Hill to Galloway Ridge, a
Continuing Care Retirement Community, where his sister and
brother-in-law were already residing. His parents had met and
married in Kinston, North Carolina, but, after his father’s death in
1947, his mother moved the family to “Henley Hill,” which Carl and
his siblings still own.
Martha and Carl met when he attended a sermon she preached
at Binkley American Baptist Church in Chapel Hill. (She remains
pleased that it performs marriage ceremonies for gay couples.)
Martha jokes that Carl didn’t remember a word of her sermon,
only that she was pretty. They dated five years, and she would not
respond directly to his proposals. Finally, she wrote in a Valentine’s
card to him:
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
If you’ll marry me,
I’ll marry you.
They were married thirty-three years ago in that same church.
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Alzheimer’s also preys on its victims’ families. Carl’s training
complements Martha’s, and he, too, knows trauma personally. His
BS from North Carolina State is in Math Education, and he taught
math in Virginia Beach. His Master of Science (Public Health) and
Ph.D. (Biostatistics) are both from the University of North Carolina
School of Public Health. He served in the US Public Health Service
at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland, and was
Professor of Statistics in the UNC School of Social Work (1968–
1999).
In July of 1995, Carl and two friends were playing golf in Southern
Pines, North Carolina. He began to have what he thought was a muscle
spasm in the back of his left shoulder. After the pain worsened and
he developed additional symptoms, they took him to the Emergency
Room. The physician kept him five and a half hours trying to determine
whether he was having a heart attack. He was discharged and told to
seek further medical advice if the problems continued.
When he arrived home, Martha knew something was wrong and
wanted to take him to the ER at UNC Hospital. He was exhausted and
refused to go until, after losing strength in many of his muscles, he
became paralyzed from the neck down. The MRI showed a lesion in
his spine (C2-C6). He remained in the hospital five and a half weeks,
doing physical therapy an hour every morning and occupational
therapy an hour every afternoon. He slowly learned to walk again
and to use his upper body muscles but never regained full use of the
muscles on his right side. Finally, he was released in the custody of
Nurse Practitioner Martha, who made him exercise regularly. He drags
a leg and wears a brace but still plays golf, participates in the Senior
Games, and dances with Martha at every opportunity.
A colleague of Carl at the UNC School of Social Work was so
impressed with his rehabilitation that he nominated him to be one
of those carrying the Olympic Torch through Chapel Hill ( June
1996) on its way to Atlanta. Amazingly, he was given the torch, and
Jim Cochran and his Woodworkers Committee are now building a
display case for it at Galloway Ridge.
Carl shares Martha’s undiminished delight in living. They both
also have a lively sense of humor, and he enjoys sharing this
anecdote. When he was an undergraduate at NC State, his first
cousin Jim Hunt, his roommate and Student Body President (and
future Governor), “appointed” him head cheerleader to replace the
elected one who flunked out. One night at a basketball game, Carl
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…Alzheimer’s ate Martha alive.
NONFICTION
led the cheer meant to spell “S-T-A-T-E” as the fans responded.
Unfortunately, he forgot the second T, and the crowd responded
with laughter! After that, he was “relieved” of his official role.
15/501. A member of the Duke Center for Living, who knew her by
sight and reputation, passed her and turned back. Martha was loath
to get in the car but was eventually persuaded. Forthwith, she was
moved to the Arbor’s Memory Unit. At first, she did “not go gentle
into that…night.” She raged.
Attractive and supple, Martha roams the halls at Galloway Ridge
and occasionally walks in on a meeting. Even with Early-Onset
Alzheimer’s eating away at her, she remains an avid walker; a
member of The Galloway Ridge Singers; and a volunteer in the
Arbor singing to those in Assisted Living, Skilled Nursing, and
Memory Care. She is constantly looking for someone to help and
constantly surprises those she encounters by giving them a copy of
her poem about her mother. Her philosophy remains to live life to
the fullest in every moment and to make plans for the future.
Martha has now settled in to do for fellow Arbor patients what she
can — she visits, sings, assists with make-up and hair, and reads the
poem she wrote about her mother. She has her niche, and remains
a helping soul.
Martha’s condition, though it worsens on snail time, can be
increasingly seen and felt. At a Saturday morning breakfast recently,
she sat with another resident, my husband, and me. Each time
someone entered the Café, she jumped up and ran to give hugs.
Soon came repetition: she hugged the same people several times
and then went back, again and again, to sing “Oh, My Darling
Clementine” and “God Bless America” to all who would listen.
Many of the residents became visibly impatient with her. She ate
almost nothing, just flitted and darted, sharing her hugs and songs
even with us when she returned to the table. “Pamlico Cove,” The
Memory Unit, awaits. It is named for the largest “lagoon” along the
East Coast, Pamlico Sound, which is separated from the Atlantic
Ocean by the barrier islands known as the Outer Banks. Perhaps
the size is demonstrated by Giovanni da Verrazzano’s thinking
(1524) that body of water was the Pacific Ocean. A Florentine,
Verrazzano explored in North America for King Francis I of France.
The “history” seems ironically apt.
Martha participated in and was sponsored for a CROP Hunger
Walk as recently as last spring. We made her our special “poster
child” for the Chatham County Alz NC Walk & 5K, hosted by
Galloway Ridge (13 September 2014), and she walked in that
fundraiser, too. Very likely, Alzheimer’s, even as it slowly has its
way with Martha, is stalking, or has stalked, someone you know.
Coda
What stands out about Martha’s Early-Onset case is not only that
the fate of her mother and aunt made her know what was coming,
but that her distinguished career included work in the health
field. Additionally, she may well be as productive as she remains
partly because of her devotion to music and dance, an increasingly
promising area of research for Alzheimer’s and dementias.
Recently, I was asked to leave a program in the Auditorium to
accompany Martha to her room in the Arbor’s Pamlico Cove, The
Memory Unit, for her to get her eye drops. She knew the way and
led it, and I, who walk quickly, had to move to keep up with her.
In June of 2015, Carl brought Martha to the dance my husband
and I were leading, and they danced often. She was attractive and
talkative, though she did not, as she has not since she went to the
Memory Unit, use my name.
Something has to be done for the manifold Marthas of this world.
Over 5.4 million in our country have Alzheimer’s (or another
dementia) and, statistics indicate, it eats another person alive every
seventy seconds. The third leading cause of death in the United
States, it will be feasting, unless a breakthrough is found, on sixteen
million Americans by 2050. They will not all be old.
Lynn Veach Sadler has published numerous books and articles. She has
edited books, proceedings, journals, and publishes a newspaper column.
Dr. Sadler has a number of poetry chapbooks, short stories, novels, short
story collections, and plays. As the Central Region Gilbert-Chappell Distinguished Poet 2013-2015, she mentored student and adult poets. Dr. Sadler
is also a former college President.
In December 2014, Alzheimer’s ate Martha alive. She slipped off
the Galloway Ridge campus and began to walk down Highway
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141
POETRY
PAINTING
PUTTING MY NAME ON IT
ALAN D. HARRIS
Years ago my brother and I
fought over everything
but he caught on quick
to the art of verbal dueling
knowing in my predictability
I would demand
that he give something up to me
“Why?” he would ask
“Because your name’s not on it,” I’d reply
so with a crayon
he wrote his name
on the couch
on the TV
on my favorite cereal bowl
And now that he’s gone
I’ve put my name
on all of our
shared memories
ready for the day
that his ghost asks me
to give it up
TRIBAL CIRCLE
KATELYN HUFF
oil
Katelyn Huff is a senior at the University of
South Alabama pursuing her BFA in Graphic
Design. Katelyn was born and raised in Mobile,
Alabama and loves living on the Gulf Coast.
When she is not designing, Katelyn enjoys
painting with oils. She likes to focus her work
around nature and structures.
Alan D. Harris is a graduate student who writes short stories, plays,
and poetry based primarily upon the life-stories of friends, family, and
total strangers. Harris is the 2011 recipient of the Stephen H. Tudor
Scholarship in Creative Writing, the 2014 John Clare Poetry Prize, and
the 2015 Tompkins Poetry Award from Wayne State University as well as
a nominee for the Pushcart Prize in both 2013 and 2014.
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FICTION
LAST DANCE FOR UNCLE SAM
JIM PLATH
The silliness attracted attention. I was out of breath by the
afternoon rush-hour. Route 5 was musical with passing
cars, hissing as they came, humming as they went. Basically, I
was jumping. On every third or fourth bounce, I’d throw a leg to
one side or the other. I wouldn’t call it rhythmic, but it was at least
repetitive. I decided to risk offending dancers by calling it a jig and
adding it to my repertoire alongside the running-man and the hokeypokey.
I had two jobs. For the past few years, I’d worked at a movie theatre.
The hours were flexible, so I could take classes around it, and given
the fact that I wore a tie, I could actually pose as respectable, right
up until I put on the red vest and nametag. It didn’t pay well. I can’t
imagine that surprises you, but it did give me the right to tell people I
worked in the movie business.
What brought me to Route 5 was my second job. One of my father’s
friends ran a financial services company. He hired me to dance and
twirl a sign at the curbside by his office building. A lot of tax-prep
places did it to compete with the nationwide chains and do-it-yourself
software. You’ve probably seen people along busy roads, between
January and April, dressed as Uncle Sam or Lady Liberty. Some of
them dance like they think the road is full of talent scouts; others are
just trying to keep warm. When I was hired, the guy asked if I was a
good dancer. When I told him I wasn’t, he thought that was a good
thing. Some people dream of being funny for a living, but I doubt many
want to be silly.
I wish I could remember exactly when people stopped asking me
what I wanted to be when I grew up. Just like that, in those words,
because the question doesn’t go away. It just changes. As a teenager,
they ask what you plan to do after high school. You need a degree
to check someone’s tire-pressure, so what they’re really asking is
whether you’re going to college or joining the military. Even that’s a
feint, since now people who go into the service just end up going to
college later.
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In college, they ask about your major, and unless it’s pre-law or
pre-med, they want to know what you’ll do with it. All of it leads to
the ultimate introductory question. “What do you do?” I prefer the
variant, “What do you do for a living?” That way, they acknowledge
the fact that you do it because you have to. Most people, unless
they’re doctors, lawyers, teachers or some profession that can be
identified with a single term, just name the place where they work.
Why not? Is there really a difference between working in a medical
records office or some company’s payroll department? You wear
the same clothes, answer phones, move papers around. If you’re an
optimist, you swing by a gas station on your way home and buy a
lottery ticket.
When people asked me
what I did, I told them I
got drunk and laughed at
schlock television. When
they ask what I did for a
living, I told them I was a
student. As a statement,
it wasn’t a lie. I was an
undergrad in anthropology. It’s just that unless you were a world-class
athlete or some child-prodigy, schools charged money. They didn’t pay.
That’s why I played a jubilant Uncle Sam for drive-by audiences amid
an amphitheater of brick plazas and glass display-windows.
Some people dream of
being funny for a living,
but I doubt many want
to be silly.
I wore my usual red and white striped pants, matching top-hat, and
blue blazer. There was also a fake beard made up of the texture of
compressed cotton-swabs, which was nice for keeping the wind off
my face when it was cold. A light rain passed through that morning,
but by late afternoon the clouds were gone and it was warm enough
to keep standing water from turning to ice.
A silver SUV turned into the lot and parked in a handicapped spot in
front of the office. A woman stepped out, but she turned away from
the building and scuttled toward me. She had the build of a light-bulb
and she held her overcoat tight, as though the breeze could cut her.
For all of her struggling against the weather, it should have at least
still been raining.
People had standardized reactions to me when I worked that job.
There were those who made an effort to be friendly; drivers who
honked, waved, or both, passers-by who smiled and nodded, or even
paused on the sidewalk to chat. Once, when it was snowed, a plow-
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FICTION
driver bought me a cup of coffee. He didn’t let me pay him, or even
tell me his name. Then there were those who tried not to notice
me. They squinted and craned their necks as though something else
caught their interest. They looked near me, but never at me. I think it
was fear of some social obligation to say or do something. For those
people, when Uncle Sam danced, it was like a wet spot spreading on
an old man’s pants.
This woman decided to be friendly enough to talk to me, but her skin
wrinkled above her eyebrows, like a frown that used her entire face,
and I gathered she would rather have avoided me. When she spoke,
her voice sounded unnatural with that heightened pitch some people
think takes the edge off the fact that they’re about to be rude.
“Excuse me, what are you charging?”
“Well, my little dancing show is free to you. Inside is where they charge you.”
She shook her head. “What?”
“Never mind. Do you just need to file a short form?”
Her mouth hung open. “What’s the difference?”
I wondered what she wanted to be when she was a child, when
people still asked her that question. My guess was that she studied
history or literature, then took a job as an office manager or a
Human Resources type. “Well, the rates change depending on what
you need to file, if you’re married filing jointly, if you own your home
and things like that.”
“Maybe you can tell me. My paperwork is in the car.”
I looked over my sleeves, spotted with mist from passing cars, then
down to the flecks of gravel, kicked-up from the road to cling to my
pant legs like ticks. “Ma’am, I’m not an accountant. They only pay me
from the neck down.” I never expected I’d need to explain that.
“Well, do I get a discount if I give someone your name?”
Apparently, I looked like a guy with connections. “You’d be the
first, ma’am.”
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“Oh.” She tucked her hands under her arms. “Then what are you doing out here?”
The first few answers that came to me probably would have gotten
me fired. When I reminded myself that I needed that job, I shook my
head and feigned a smile. “My job’s to get noticed, I guess.”
Somehow, I didn’t put her off, because she turned back, got her
papers from the car, and went inside to ask questions of people
who could answer them. I was okay with that. Talking to her gave
me an excuse to be still and catch my breath, but I wouldn’t miss
her. The office door had hardly closed behind her before I noticed
Roy meandering toward me, staring at the sidewalk as if it would
change between steps.
Roy was tall and skinny in a way not even Hollywood could make
look healthy. He wasn’t simply the sum of small numbers, but a
fraction of something, like he’d given one of his ribs and received
nothing in its place. It showed most in his face. His cheekbones
made angles where people who ate three times a day had curves.
His hair was dirty white and he usually sported the beginnings of
a beard. I probably would’ve struggled to ballpark his age, but he
once told me he’d done two tours in Vietnam. Seventy-something
seemed about right.
I met him outside a liquor store a couple blocks away. The guy that
owned the place was an immigrant from Ho Chi Minh City. When
I passed by, Roy was shouting at him in Vietnamese. I never asked
what it was that he said, but I really didn’t need to. I think he liked
that about me anyway. I don’t ask a lot of questions.
Roy got close, and I could see his clothes looked clean and there
wasn’t much more than a couple days’ worth of gray stubble, like
fine carpet fibers in the creases of his skin. He must have spent a
night at the shelter.
He stopped on the curb beside me, his knees wobbled under him.
Roy was the sort of alcoholic who actually looked worse when he
hadn’t been drinking. He’d convinced his body alcohol was as much
a fuel as a poison.
When I was hired for this gig, I was told to discourage loiterers.
That meant I was expected to chase people like Roy away from the
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FICTION
building. It wasn’t worded that way, but they’d have called the cops
on Roy if they could have claimed the sidewalk as private property,
so I chose not to understand that instruction. People are always
willing to believe you’re stupid.
His voice spilled from the back of his throat. “Did I miss the
dancing?”
I held the arrow-shaped sign at arm’s length from my chest and
spun it like a ceremonial rifle from my left hand to my right, then
pantomimed a twenty-one-gun salute. “I try to mix it up.”
He bowed his head toward the building. “I saw somebody just
stopped and talked to you. Must be working.”
Route 5’s song and moving closer to me than it should have. As I
turned, my right hip caught the initial blow. I don’t know if my head
bounced off the door frame or if the force of the impact whipped my
brain against my skull, but I was thrown, concussed on to a patch of
damp grass. Momentum rolled me to my side where I’d been struck.
It should have hurt worse. It would, eventually, but there was just
a pulsing along my leg, up to my rib-cage, and a taste like pennies
dissolving on my tongue.
A familiar voice squealed behind a lowering window. “I didn’t see you!”
My head throbbed, and I wondered at which point after our
conversation I disappeared. Ahead shone the red brake-lights of her
silver SUV.
“It’s bound to work every once in a while. I don’t suppose you’ve got
taxes to file?”
He laughed. “Sorry. Grab me by the ankles and shake, if you want.”
“Don’t apologize to me. They just need somebody to get attention
and I’m less of a commitment than a billboard.”
Roy bobbed his head, fidgeting to conceal involuntary tremors. He
sighed. “Well, with me here, you’ll be damn near invisible, so I’ll get
out of your hair.”
Jim Plath is an author of fiction and poetry. His work has most recently
appeared in The Lowestoft Chronicle, Amarillo Bay, The 3Elements Review,
and War, Literature, & the Arts. He holds a BFA in Creative Writing from the
University of Nebraska at Omaha.
“I’m done here in couple of hours. Come back and I’ll buy you a
cup of coffee.”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but I never could take charity from
Uncle Sam.”
I watched Roy as he ambled down the sidewalk, as though a
chronic limp harried both legs, alternating between them with every
few steps. His body shrank with distance until he looked as though
he might disintegrate in the wind. I wondered what he wanted to
be when he was young, how he answered that question. When did
people stop asking him?
Route 5’s car-engine medley held its tune, hissing past the blood
bank, a pair of brick and mortar plazas and me, then humming
on to the cash advance office, pawn shop and wherever Roy was
headed. Behind me, a different engine groaned, not a part of
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POETRY
SCULPTURE
AFTER PARIS
CYNTHIA STRAUFF SCHAUB
Square white teeth
shown in rare smile;
reaching her eyebrows,
the thick black bob,
one day dyed flaming red,
later white,
this gaunt Parisienne,
one-time gamine,
keeping her seductive coif
to the end.
She told of times past,
her city possessed,
enemy ensconced,
dispossession, deprivation
for most,
not all.
Collaborators,
hunted hungrily
at war’s end.
Black marketeers
turning in
and on
their customers,
gallows swifter than
their victims’
denials.
Lovers vanished
or perished
or returned
to their frauleins.
The women,
whose acts
for food,
for love
for nylon stockings,
were now decried
and punished
by those who did,
or would have done,
the same.
Hair shorn;
Foreheads carved,
not rosemary
but a swastika,
for remembrance.
In her last hours
a nurse stroked
her hand and
smoothed
her hair
and saw,
three shades lighter
than the skin,
a twisted cross.
An accident,
she thought.
Cynthia Strauff Schaub is a native of Baltimore. Her work has been published
in three anthologies and in O. Henry Magazine, PineStraw Magazine, and
Salt Magazine. Some of her work has been performed in the North Carolina
Touring Theatre’s production, Deployed.
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Oracle Fine Arts Review
FREE SPIRIT
TERRI WALLACE
carved stone
Terri Wallace is a senior majoring in printmaking at the University
of South Alabama. After graduating in Spring 2017 she plans to
pursue a MFA in printmaking.
Square white teeth
shown in rare smile
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151
STAFF
MICAELA WALLEY
POETRY EDITOR
ARYN BRADLEY
EDITOR IN CHIEF
Aryn Bradley is a native of Pensacola,
Florida. She completed her BA in English and Anthropology at the Florida
State University in 2014. Aryn is pursuing her MA in English Literature with a
focus on modernist American fiction at
the University of South Alabama. She
served as a literature board member for
Oracle 2015.
Micaela Walley is originally
from Montgomery, Alabama. She
is currently pursuing her BA in
English with a concentration in
Creative Writing at the University of
South Alabama. Upon graduation,
Micaela plans on pursuing her MA
in English so she can go on to work
in editing or publishing.
KARIE FUGETT
NONFICTION EDITOR
Karie Fugett was Editor in Chief
of Oracle 2015 and Poetry Editor of
Oracle 2014. She was chosen as a
nonfiction finalist in the 2014 Tuscon
Festival of Books Literary Awards
and the 2015 SLS-DISQUIET
Literary Contest. Her work can be
found in UPENDER, Deep South
Magazine, Hermeneutic Chaos
Literary Journal, and elsewhere. She
will begin her MFA at Oregon State
University in fall 2016.
LOUISE KING
ART DIRECTOR
Louise King is pursuing a BFA in
Graphic Design at the University of
South Alabama. After graduation,
she plans to work in advertising.
Currently, Louise’s passion project
is teaching herself illustrative hand
lettering and calligraphy.
JOSHUA JONES
FICTION EDITOR
Joshua Jones is pursuing his MA in
English Literature at the University
of South Alabama, where he recently
obtained his BA in English. Joshua
has a particular interest in slave narratives, war literature, and of course,
Star Wars. He hopes to one day
teach at the College level, preferably
somewhere close to his hometown of
Mobile, Alabama.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
Please follow directions carefully or your work may not be considered
WRITTEN WORK
ART WORK
Submit each piece of work, including author bio, in separate documents
and name each file “[Last Name]_[Title of Piece].”
For each piece of art work, specify in the body of your e-mail which
category you would like to submit to. Make sure your work is titled.
Submit all work via e-mail in CMYK, 300 dpi, JPEG format, and title each
document “[Last Name]_[Title of Work].” In a seperate Word document,
submit an author bio of 150 words or less. See Oracle website for
example bios.
No more than one piece should be on a single document. Identifying
information should be nowhere on the page. Include a bio of 150 words
or less. E-mail submissions in a Word document. Submissions will not be
accepted in any other format.
Fiction and Nonfiction: Maximum of three (3) submissions.
No more than 3,000 words, double spaced, 12-point, Times New Roman
font.
Poetry: Maximum of three (3) submissions.
200 lines or less, 12-point, Times New Roman font. Format your work as
you wish it to read.
Stage/Screenplays: Maximum of three (3) scenes. Include a brief
synopsis of the entire work and an explanantion of the submitted scenes.
Introductions should be no more than five sentences; 12-point, Times
New Roman. Format your work as you wish it to read.
Categories: Ceramics, Painting, Illustration, Mixed Media, Photography,
Printmaking, Sculpture, Drawing, and Glass
Each person may submit a maximum of three (3) pieces in each category.
Artists can submit up to nine pieces total.
Please note: If you need your work photographed, you must deliver it to
the office of diane gibbs in the Graphic Design Visual Arts Building, Room
VAB 342. See the map on the University of South Alabama’s website.
E-mail art submissions or inquiries to
[email protected]
E-mail writing submissions or inquiries to
[email protected]
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In antiquity, people sought out an Oracle
to gain knowledge of the future. Oracles
were the medium between people and
the gods. We believe this relationship
still exists. The arts allow individuals in
modernity to foretell the future, revisit
the past, and consider the sacred. As this
cover demonstrates, our Oracle serves
each year to explore, express, and reveal
that which is beneath the skin.
SGA
STUDENT
GOVERNMENT
ASSOCIATION