(Issue) 1Avant(Poetry) |
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"Curation"
S Whitaker, Virginia When I am listening, standing still my neurons are on fire, all or nothing, eyes fixed on some coriaceous juncture of earth and leaf and peachtree, the earthspeak a slow syllable long enough so that I can repose between their language, something to hang a hammock upon and nap between their words. My neurons know this and wish to mirror their slow pause. Cura Cura hee Sha hee sha sha wind in the elms, in the grandfather pines The marsh beyond ss ha ss ha ss ha hoo shu hoo shu The only sound an oyster knows is the sound of its shell cupping the gradual wash of tide over the mud it is buried in. Oh ha, oh ha, oh ha Pull for me the voice of a star uncurling its gases, Ss long silence between Ss snaking out from its hazy corona of hydrogen atoms splitting apart. Ah Sss, Ah Sss, Ah Sss, not a snake but gas slipping out of gravity. A muted push of force, a wooden blade wuffling as a samurai swings his practice sword under the bow of a paper lantern tree. Ah ha Ah ha breath breath Breath |
Avant(Art)
"The Decisive Embrace of Light and Snow"
Bill Wolak, New Jersey
Bill Wolak, New Jersey
Avant(Story)
"Divine" Part 1
Rudy Thomas, Kentucky
The Hour of Worship Radio Program
As he had promised the woman he would do, my uncle turned on the radio as he drove us home.
“Now, we shall hear a song. I believe Sister Mary Magdalean and her quartet are ready. They’re gathered round the microphone. What song have you picked out for us today, Sister?”
“What a friend we have in Jesus,” she answered.
“That’s a good old one, radio listeners. Remember now, the only way we can keep this radio program coming to you is for you to send us your love offering. If you love God...”
“I love God,” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted.
“God bless you, Sister. The Lord Jesus said he has gone to prepare a place for you that where he is you might be also. Dearly beloved, you listeners there at home, if you want to help us spread the Gospel over the air....just imagine what Jesus could have done with this marvel...”
“Brother House, me and the boys here have taken up a love offering and we’d be pleased if you’d take it now.”
“God bless you again, Sister and you boys. For you, listeners, out there in radio land, friends, let that be an example for you. Send your love offerings to me: Preacher House, Post Office Box 333, Divine... Besides his twelve chosen disciples, there were women Jesus had cured of different diseases that followed him around...”
“Amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted.
“One was Mary Magdalean. If you remember, she was the one with seven evil spirits that he cast out...”
“Amen, Preacher!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted. “Praise be to him...”
Another was Joanna, the wife of a nobleman named Chuza. He was a high officer in the court of King Herod, the ruler of Galilee. Another was named Susanna, and there were a number of other women. The point I’m trying to make is that some of these women were rich, and gave freely of their money to help Jesus. I don’t think Sister Mary Magdalene here is rich...”
“Amen! No, Preacher!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted, bumping the microphone.
“All the four gospels agree in saying that the first person to see Jesus Christ after his death on that cruel cross was Mary Magdalean, that is Mary of Magdala, the woman a year before or thereabout he had driven out evil spirits from her, and who in love for what...”
“Amen, Preacher, I love the Lord...”
“God bless you sister as your namesake was blessed. As I was saying, she followed him and helped him with her gifts, for she was a rich woman. None of us in this studio is rich, but we love him, too...”
“Amen, Preacher, I sure do,” Sister Mary Magdalene called out...
“Now, out there in radio land, stop whatever it is you’re doing and listen to this fine quartet sing for you. After they’re done, fix up a love offering. If we’re going to be able to work for him in our radio ministry, we need more of you to be our disciples...”
“Amen! Amen!”
The quartet sang; my uncle drove, gravel from the road pinging the rocker panels of his car, but we did not get to hear Preacher House deliver his sermon, for my uncle had turned into our driveway as he was praising the singers and asking for all who loved such gospel songs to send their love offerings...
Love Offering
I was at the Divine Post Office with my father, my brother, and my older sister, older by fifteen months, and the postmaster was talking about the Divine Hour of Worship radio program when Brother House walked in...
"How are you, Brother House?" father asked.
"I'm fine, Red," he answered.
Red was father's nickname, one of several.
"It was good to see your sister and her husband last Sunday," Brother House began...
"They said they saw you," father said.
I remember what my uncle had said when we passed Brother House. It surprised me that the man spoke now as though he and my uncle had taken time to talk...
"And these are yours?" Brother House asked, pointing at the three of us.
"Two of them, at least," Father laughed.
"I see," Brother House said, looking at us for a moment. "Red hair and freckles..."
Father always used that two of them, at least, line when he introduced us to strangers.
"The other one?"
I knew what was coming next: he always used the line about how the hospital mixed me up with another man's baby in the nursery before a nurse brought me into the hospital room where he and my mother were...
"I think he belongs to a traveling salesman," father said.
My sister and my brother laughed. I felt my face flush...
"Let's see, now," Brother House rubbed his chin. "Only traveling salesman in these parts is the Watkins’ man..."
"We were living in Ohio when he was born," father said. "They've got a sh** load; pardon my French, of traveling salesmen up there..."
"Dayton?" Brother House asked.
"Springfield," father said.
"You've a sister in Dayton, don't you?"
"I sure do and one in Sherwood..."
"I know where Cincinnati, Dayton, and Sherwood are, but I can't place Springfield."
"It's north and east of Cincinnati..."
"I see. These young 'uns went to church last Sunday. You should be proud of them..."
"They all seem to be smarter than I am," father laughed.
"The older boy there found the prize egg. Won a silver dollar..."
"You did, did you?" Brother House asked, turning to face me.
I nodded; still embarrassed from the ribbing I had taken.
"What can I do for you, Brother House?" the postmaster asked.
"I thought I might best pick up my mail," Brother House said.
"Don't think you've got any," the postmaster said, "but I'll check."
"Did you two happen to catch my radio program last Sunday?" Brother House asked.
"No," father answered. "Didn't know you were on the radio..."
"Me neither," the postmaster, the grandson who was filling in for the woman normally in charge of the Divine Post Office, said, turning around to face Brother House. "No mail for you..."
Brother House looked disappointed...
"We heard you," my sister said.
Brother House turned toward us.
"We did!" my brother said.
"Most of it," I said. "We got home before it was over."
"Out of the mouths of babes," Brother House said, smiling at us.
"What's the name of this radio program?" the postmaster asked.
"The Divine Hour of Worship," Brother House answered.
"I thought there might be a love offering or two for me."
"Nope," the postmaster said. "Nothing..."
Brother House was about the saddest looking man I had ever seen. He turned without saying anything else and started toward the door...
"What did you say you call your radio program?"
"The Divine Hour of Worship," Brother House replied, turning past us to face the postmaster again.
"There's a package here with that name on it," the postmaster said. "I didn't know what to do with it. I put in the outgoing mail with a label, return to sender. I'll get it for you."
Brother House perked up noticeably. I was happy for him, thinking how he must feel about a love offering so big it would come in a package. The postmaster was gone for a few minutes before he came back to the counter and slid the package beneath the bars toward Brother House. The young man took it and began to rip off the brown paper, grocery bag wrapping.
I looked a father. He had a possum grin on his face. The young postmaster was about to choke, trying to keep from laughing too.
"How much offering did you get?" father asked.
Brother House turned to face him and the postmaster walked toward the back, laughing so hard inside that his head and shoulders bounced.
Brother House rubbed his chin. Father had a serious look on his face. Brother House tossed him the book. Father caught it. The stand in postmaster returned to the caged counter, composed and professional looking again.
Father opened the book and began to read: "Timely Sermons by Dainel Rosoff. Do you reckon they misspelled his name? Reckon they meant Daniel Roseoff? Copyright 1936... Well, look at that! Man signed his name. D-a-i-n-e-l R-o-s-o-f-f... Wrote: First Edition under that... Wrote: For Brother House. Lift up thy voice with joy. You've got a collector's item here, Brother House. You best take care of it. Might be worth a hundred bucks one of these days..."
"I bet the man was traveling through here and heard you, Brother House. Give him back that book, Mr. Red!"
Father got up and walked over to Brother House. Brother House took the book, but there was no joy on his face.
"Do you sing on your program?" the postmaster asked.
"Sister Mary Magdalene and her band sing," Brother House said.
"And you don't sing?" Father asked.
"I can't carry a tune for shinola," Brother House answered. "I bring the message..."
"What message you bringing this Sunday, Brother House?" the postmaster asked.
"The Lord ain't laid a sermon on me yet."
"Well, Brother House, this government work don't pay much or I'd give you a love offering” the postmaster said.
"I would, too, Brother House, but I've not been back from Indiana long enough to get a job yet. I've farming some, but you know that's a one time a year prospect where money's concerned..."
"I do. I didn't ask you boys for a love offering. Red, I know you got these three young 'uns to feed. Where was it in Indiana that you were? New Castle?"
"Yeah... I had a job at Chrysler, but they closed the doors. That's why I moved back here. I hear they’ve kept a few old timers working..."
"I tell you what, Brother House," the postmaster said...
"What?"
"Maybe we can help you with your sermon just in case the Lord's laying sermons on all them other preachers in this world for Sunday. I think you need to preach on the sins that lead young men like me astray here in the Divine Community. What do you think, Mr. Red?"
"I think you're on to something...H-m-m-m... What about smoking?" father asked.
I saw the young postmaster frown and push his pack of Camel cigarettes out of sight.
"Is smoking a sin?" the postmaster asked. "Are you a Nazarene, Brother House?"
"I think anything worldly can be a sin," Brother House said, not answering the postmaster's second question.
"What about drinking, Brother House? Surely you can preach against that!"
I saw father frown.
"Drinking has led many a young man down the path of destruction," Brother House said.
"And what about Jezebels’?" father asked.
"That's right," the postmaster said. "What about the women who have been married three of four times and tempt so as to take us young men down..."
"I see," Brother House interrupted. "Lead our young men down the road of sin. You have ... I mean, I think you boys have touched the Lord. I feel him moving me to do that for you. You listen tomorrow. I know the Lord will have me say what you want..."
"I'll listen," father said. "I'll get everybody I can to listen."
"Me, too," the postmaster said. "And you'll get a love offering for it... Just you wait and see..."
Father was grinning. The postmaster was grinning and Brother House did not look sad any more.
It seemed like the right thing to do. I reached into my pocket and took out my silver dollar. I walked over to Brother House and placed it in his hand. He tucked his book under his arm and left the Divine Post Office without even thanking me.
The Sermon
"I'm taking you with me," father said as we walked from the barn toward the house on Sunday morning.
I never asked him where he was taking me. I was just happy for the invitation.
"We'll leave about eleven," he said.
I didn't mention anything to my sister and my brother, for I knew father would invite them, too, if he were to take them. The three of us spent the morning in the shed above the cellar, watching the water level slowly reside, flowing through a half inch plastic pipe. Now and then, we would leave the shed, crawl under the barb-wire fence, and run down the hillside pasture to the end of the hose to see if the dingy water had stopped flowing. During the warming, April night, a storm hit and rain fell until after sunrise. Father had not siphoned the water to get it draining. He had plugged the end inside the shed with a cork from a wine bottle and had climbed a ladder to get on the roof where he sat with a funnel in the other end. Mother carried water, two lard buckets at a time and tied one to the rope that father dropped. He would pull the bucket up, take the lid off, pour the water into the hose, and then drop the bucket and lid to pull up the second. When the pipe was filled to overflowing, he put another cork in it, dropped it and climbed down.
"Take it over the hill," he told mother, "and when I tell you, jerk that cork out..."
I followed father and my brother and sister went with mother. I watched him hold the pipe in his right hand until mother almost tugged it away.
"Now!" he shouted.
I ran to the fence.
"Now!" I shouted.
"Now!" shouted my brother who was half-way between the fence and our mother and sister.
"Now!" shouted my sister, standing next to mother.
It was a smooth operation, but by eleven, less than three foot of water had emptied from the large cellar. While my sister and brother rode the brindle cow in the pasture, I sat on the front porch.
"Ready?" father asked when he came out of the house.
"Yes, sir!" I could not contain my excitement when I answered.
I did not know where we were going until father turned left into the parking lot at Oleman Rains' store. I walked behind him as we crossed the gravels. The store, a white, one-room frame and clapboard building with a deck across the front and six steps leading up on the right, was a community center as well as a country store.
Inside the store, the postmaster and three other men I had seen before, but I did not know by name, played Rook. Two other men leaned on the counter, talking to Oleman who seldom ran the store, leaving that task to his wife and daughters while he operated the farm or hauled livestock to area stock yards.
"You made it," Oleman called out.
"Told you I'd be here," father said.
"Who you got with you?" Oleman asked, but I knew he knew who I was.
What father said surprised me...
"My son," he answered. "Give him a Baby Ruth and a Dr. Pepper even though it ain't ten, two, or four..."
Oleman grabbed a candy bar and I started to take it...
"Not that one," father told the postmaster. "He deserves that big one you've got hid on that shelf behind you."
Oleman turned, picked up the giant candy bar, and gave it to me.
"You know where the drinks are, Red. Get him one. What can I get you?"
"Baloney sandwich," father answered.
Oleman turned toward his left then turned right at the meat case. He took out the rolled balogna and thick-sliced it with a butcher knife.
"What's you want on it?"
"A slab of cheese and a tomato," father said.
"No pickles?"
"No pickles," father said, handing me a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
"She's here," someone called.
I turned around and discovered that the she in question was Sister Mary Magdalene.
“You’re gonna be late for the radio show, Sister,” father said.
“No, no...” Mary Magdalene smiled. “Be right on time. Don’t want to be sitting out front like I have to do when I go to the doctor’s office. I want to get there when it’s time to walk down the hall to the studio and the DJ turns on the On The Air sign. Need me a Pepsi...”
“Got a frosty one just like you want it,” Oleman said as he walked toward the General Electric refrigerator. He took a bottle from the top shelf with difficulty, for I could see it was stuck to the side of the ice-covered wall of the freezer compartment.
“How are you, young man?” she asked, mussing my hair with her left hand while he extended her right toward Oleman.
“Keep your money, Sister,” father said.
Oleman’s chin dropped.
“Oleman’s matching the silver dollar the boy gave Brother House for a love offering. Same dollar he got for finding the prize egg at church...”
“Lawdy be,” Sister Mary said, mussing my hair again. “I put up that dollar. I’ll give that old hoot Oelman’s dollar bill and get that silver dollar back for you, son.”
Before I could tell her not to, she began to speak quickly...
“Coloring Easter eggs is a fun Easter tradition. Nowadays, it’s become an art form. They sell many different kits for it. Coloring Easter eggs is only one of the traditions surrounding eggs on Easter. Parents tell their babies how the Easter Bunny hides the eggs, and them babies go on an Easter egg hunt...”
“I saw the Easter bunny this year for the first time in my life,” Oleman said. “Black and white flop-eared bunny it was. It weren’t no white rabbit like Alice followed and it weren’t no wild, brown rabbit like me and Cameron hunt...”
Sister Mary stared him down then continued...
“Every year I color eggs the same way. I'm good at coloring Easter eggs without a kit, with food coloring and natural dyes like my Mama taught us kids to do it. You color eggs, boy?”
“Yes’m,” I answered.
“Good for you... Do you know who started the tradition?”
“Your namesake,” father said.
“Well I’ll be John Brown, old boy, you do know don’t you. Mary Magdalene was a woman of some wealth and social status. Following Jesus Christ's death and resurrection, she used her position to gain an invitation to a banquet given by Emperor Tiberius Caesar. When she met him, she held a plain egg in her hand and exclaimed Christ is risen! Caesar laughed, and said that Christ rising from the dead was as likely as the egg in her hand turning red while she held it. Before he finished speaking, the egg in her hand turned a bright red, and she continued proclaiming the Gospel to the entire imperial house. Is that how you heard it?”
“Only thing I remember about it is that she was the one started it...”
“I gotta run, boys. You all listening to the program today?”
“Got a bunch of the men folk coming in atterwhile, Sister,” Oleman said. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world...”
“Bless your heart, old boy,” Sister Mary Magdalene said, smiled, and then rushed from the country store.
Men from Divine Ridge began to arrive a few minutes before nine o’clock. Most of them I knew by name. The couple I did not know I would ask my father about later.
Before Oleman finished ringing up their purchases, he turned on the radio, full blast.
“Good morning out there in radio land, dear hearts,” Brother House’s voice silenced the crowd that had gathered. “Sister Mary Magdalene and her quartet will sing for you now. What’s you got for us today, Sister?”
“We’re gonna try two songs: In the Garden and Bearing the Cross to Win the Crown. These are going out to Oleman and Red and all the boys down Divine Ridge community way. Key of C...”
A shout,” Amen,” went up from Oleman...
“You boys oughta be ashamed now,” Jason laughed. “Woman should kill you two...”
I didn’t know why he said that.
“Shut up and listen,” Oleman shouted.
“I’ll thank her next time I see her,” father said of Sister Mary Magdalene and her group. “They keep it up; they’ll be good before you know it.”
After the two songs, Brother House began to speak: “A- man! Good job sister... All you listeners take the messages from them fine songs to heart and send us your love offerings so we can keep this radio program going...”
“Any lover offerings this week?” Sister Mary Magdalene’s voice rang out...
“Nary a one,” Brother House said.
Oleman and father looked at me. I dropped my head.
“Blessed be all of you out there in radio land. Before our time is up, I want to say what God has laid on my heart. He has told me that I should speak to the young men out there in radio land. If you have a young man in your house, get him in front of the radio so he can hear this. It will be a blessing today...”
“Amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted...
“The Lord God has told me that this world is full of temptations for everyone, but he has told me; bless his name, to speak to every young man out there listening this fine day... Let us pray...”
“Good, Lord,” Sister Mary Magdalene prayed. “We thank you for this beautiful morning you have allowed us to gather here in your presence. Go with us throughout the rest of this worship service and bless Brother House for being your instrument. We thank you for the young men gathered around the radio and we pray they get a blessing out of this message. We pray in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen...”
“A-man, Sister, hallelujah, a-man... You know, dear hearts, the Lord has laid it upon me to tell you young boys out there that the Devil tempts you with cigarettes. The Devil wants you to think smoking is fun. Well, it ain’t. Your body is a temple so the Good Book tells us...”
“Amen, Brother House... My body is a temple unto the Lord. I never smoked in my life. You young boys heed the message Brother House is giving you...” Sister Mary Magdalene interrupted.
“The Devil knows your heart, young man, whoever you are out there in radio land. He can read it like the Lord can. He reads it to work his own no good on you. I tell you young men in the radio audience, the Devil ain’t never up to no good. Give up them smokes and give yourself to God...”
“Amen and amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted in the background.
“And I tell you what the Lord told me just yesterday, young men out there in Divine Ridge and every other ridge and holler in this county, sons, don’t take to drink neither... Now I’m not talking about water or pop, them kind of drinks. I’m telling you the Lord don’t approve of beer, homebrew, and likker of all kinds. Young man gets imbibed, he defiles his body.”
“Red, he didn’t say anything about taking a little wine for the stomach’s sake, did he?”
“No, he didn’t, Oleman, bless his heart...”
A roar went up in the store that drowned out Sister Mary Magdalene’s amens...
“Now we’re getting close on time here, dear hearts out there in radio land. Before we go, I want to remind you to get those love offerings in the mail... Send your love offerings to me: Preacher House, Post Office Box 333, Divine...”
“He ain’t gonna do it,” Oleman cried out. “You sure you and Mrs. Mooringson’s grandson primed him about Jezebels?”
“I heard them,” I said.
“Maybe he will do it yet,” Father said.
“Before we sign off, brothers and sisters, and all you young men out there, let me tell you that the Devil is at work. He wants you to believe smoking and drinking is fun...”
“Amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted.
“And I think we have just enough time...”
“He’s gonna do it,” father called out, looking toward me.
“The Devil works his way through Jezebels out there in the world, women who have been married three or four time and prey on our young men like mantis on flies. Young men, I’m telling you the Lord don’t approve of them painted hussies that lure you down the road of sin...”
There was silence on the radio...
After a moment, Brother House returned to his sermon...
“I said the Good Lord don’t want you young men out there within the sound of my voice to be sinning, lusting after no painted Jezebels..."
There was a longer silence...
Brother House cleared his throat...
More silence...
“I see that met with a cold reception,” Brother House cleared his voice again. “Get your love offerings in the mail, dear hearts, and we’ll be back on the air next Sunday, God willing...”
"Divine" Part 1
Rudy Thomas, Kentucky
The Hour of Worship Radio Program
As he had promised the woman he would do, my uncle turned on the radio as he drove us home.
“Now, we shall hear a song. I believe Sister Mary Magdalean and her quartet are ready. They’re gathered round the microphone. What song have you picked out for us today, Sister?”
“What a friend we have in Jesus,” she answered.
“That’s a good old one, radio listeners. Remember now, the only way we can keep this radio program coming to you is for you to send us your love offering. If you love God...”
“I love God,” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted.
“God bless you, Sister. The Lord Jesus said he has gone to prepare a place for you that where he is you might be also. Dearly beloved, you listeners there at home, if you want to help us spread the Gospel over the air....just imagine what Jesus could have done with this marvel...”
“Brother House, me and the boys here have taken up a love offering and we’d be pleased if you’d take it now.”
“God bless you again, Sister and you boys. For you, listeners, out there in radio land, friends, let that be an example for you. Send your love offerings to me: Preacher House, Post Office Box 333, Divine... Besides his twelve chosen disciples, there were women Jesus had cured of different diseases that followed him around...”
“Amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted.
“One was Mary Magdalean. If you remember, she was the one with seven evil spirits that he cast out...”
“Amen, Preacher!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted. “Praise be to him...”
Another was Joanna, the wife of a nobleman named Chuza. He was a high officer in the court of King Herod, the ruler of Galilee. Another was named Susanna, and there were a number of other women. The point I’m trying to make is that some of these women were rich, and gave freely of their money to help Jesus. I don’t think Sister Mary Magdalene here is rich...”
“Amen! No, Preacher!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted, bumping the microphone.
“All the four gospels agree in saying that the first person to see Jesus Christ after his death on that cruel cross was Mary Magdalean, that is Mary of Magdala, the woman a year before or thereabout he had driven out evil spirits from her, and who in love for what...”
“Amen, Preacher, I love the Lord...”
“God bless you sister as your namesake was blessed. As I was saying, she followed him and helped him with her gifts, for she was a rich woman. None of us in this studio is rich, but we love him, too...”
“Amen, Preacher, I sure do,” Sister Mary Magdalene called out...
“Now, out there in radio land, stop whatever it is you’re doing and listen to this fine quartet sing for you. After they’re done, fix up a love offering. If we’re going to be able to work for him in our radio ministry, we need more of you to be our disciples...”
“Amen! Amen!”
The quartet sang; my uncle drove, gravel from the road pinging the rocker panels of his car, but we did not get to hear Preacher House deliver his sermon, for my uncle had turned into our driveway as he was praising the singers and asking for all who loved such gospel songs to send their love offerings...
Love Offering
I was at the Divine Post Office with my father, my brother, and my older sister, older by fifteen months, and the postmaster was talking about the Divine Hour of Worship radio program when Brother House walked in...
"How are you, Brother House?" father asked.
"I'm fine, Red," he answered.
Red was father's nickname, one of several.
"It was good to see your sister and her husband last Sunday," Brother House began...
"They said they saw you," father said.
I remember what my uncle had said when we passed Brother House. It surprised me that the man spoke now as though he and my uncle had taken time to talk...
"And these are yours?" Brother House asked, pointing at the three of us.
"Two of them, at least," Father laughed.
"I see," Brother House said, looking at us for a moment. "Red hair and freckles..."
Father always used that two of them, at least, line when he introduced us to strangers.
"The other one?"
I knew what was coming next: he always used the line about how the hospital mixed me up with another man's baby in the nursery before a nurse brought me into the hospital room where he and my mother were...
"I think he belongs to a traveling salesman," father said.
My sister and my brother laughed. I felt my face flush...
"Let's see, now," Brother House rubbed his chin. "Only traveling salesman in these parts is the Watkins’ man..."
"We were living in Ohio when he was born," father said. "They've got a sh** load; pardon my French, of traveling salesmen up there..."
"Dayton?" Brother House asked.
"Springfield," father said.
"You've a sister in Dayton, don't you?"
"I sure do and one in Sherwood..."
"I know where Cincinnati, Dayton, and Sherwood are, but I can't place Springfield."
"It's north and east of Cincinnati..."
"I see. These young 'uns went to church last Sunday. You should be proud of them..."
"They all seem to be smarter than I am," father laughed.
"The older boy there found the prize egg. Won a silver dollar..."
"You did, did you?" Brother House asked, turning to face me.
I nodded; still embarrassed from the ribbing I had taken.
"What can I do for you, Brother House?" the postmaster asked.
"I thought I might best pick up my mail," Brother House said.
"Don't think you've got any," the postmaster said, "but I'll check."
"Did you two happen to catch my radio program last Sunday?" Brother House asked.
"No," father answered. "Didn't know you were on the radio..."
"Me neither," the postmaster, the grandson who was filling in for the woman normally in charge of the Divine Post Office, said, turning around to face Brother House. "No mail for you..."
Brother House looked disappointed...
"We heard you," my sister said.
Brother House turned toward us.
"We did!" my brother said.
"Most of it," I said. "We got home before it was over."
"Out of the mouths of babes," Brother House said, smiling at us.
"What's the name of this radio program?" the postmaster asked.
"The Divine Hour of Worship," Brother House answered.
"I thought there might be a love offering or two for me."
"Nope," the postmaster said. "Nothing..."
Brother House was about the saddest looking man I had ever seen. He turned without saying anything else and started toward the door...
"What did you say you call your radio program?"
"The Divine Hour of Worship," Brother House replied, turning past us to face the postmaster again.
"There's a package here with that name on it," the postmaster said. "I didn't know what to do with it. I put in the outgoing mail with a label, return to sender. I'll get it for you."
Brother House perked up noticeably. I was happy for him, thinking how he must feel about a love offering so big it would come in a package. The postmaster was gone for a few minutes before he came back to the counter and slid the package beneath the bars toward Brother House. The young man took it and began to rip off the brown paper, grocery bag wrapping.
I looked a father. He had a possum grin on his face. The young postmaster was about to choke, trying to keep from laughing too.
"How much offering did you get?" father asked.
Brother House turned to face him and the postmaster walked toward the back, laughing so hard inside that his head and shoulders bounced.
Brother House rubbed his chin. Father had a serious look on his face. Brother House tossed him the book. Father caught it. The stand in postmaster returned to the caged counter, composed and professional looking again.
Father opened the book and began to read: "Timely Sermons by Dainel Rosoff. Do you reckon they misspelled his name? Reckon they meant Daniel Roseoff? Copyright 1936... Well, look at that! Man signed his name. D-a-i-n-e-l R-o-s-o-f-f... Wrote: First Edition under that... Wrote: For Brother House. Lift up thy voice with joy. You've got a collector's item here, Brother House. You best take care of it. Might be worth a hundred bucks one of these days..."
"I bet the man was traveling through here and heard you, Brother House. Give him back that book, Mr. Red!"
Father got up and walked over to Brother House. Brother House took the book, but there was no joy on his face.
"Do you sing on your program?" the postmaster asked.
"Sister Mary Magdalene and her band sing," Brother House said.
"And you don't sing?" Father asked.
"I can't carry a tune for shinola," Brother House answered. "I bring the message..."
"What message you bringing this Sunday, Brother House?" the postmaster asked.
"The Lord ain't laid a sermon on me yet."
"Well, Brother House, this government work don't pay much or I'd give you a love offering” the postmaster said.
"I would, too, Brother House, but I've not been back from Indiana long enough to get a job yet. I've farming some, but you know that's a one time a year prospect where money's concerned..."
"I do. I didn't ask you boys for a love offering. Red, I know you got these three young 'uns to feed. Where was it in Indiana that you were? New Castle?"
"Yeah... I had a job at Chrysler, but they closed the doors. That's why I moved back here. I hear they’ve kept a few old timers working..."
"I tell you what, Brother House," the postmaster said...
"What?"
"Maybe we can help you with your sermon just in case the Lord's laying sermons on all them other preachers in this world for Sunday. I think you need to preach on the sins that lead young men like me astray here in the Divine Community. What do you think, Mr. Red?"
"I think you're on to something...H-m-m-m... What about smoking?" father asked.
I saw the young postmaster frown and push his pack of Camel cigarettes out of sight.
"Is smoking a sin?" the postmaster asked. "Are you a Nazarene, Brother House?"
"I think anything worldly can be a sin," Brother House said, not answering the postmaster's second question.
"What about drinking, Brother House? Surely you can preach against that!"
I saw father frown.
"Drinking has led many a young man down the path of destruction," Brother House said.
"And what about Jezebels’?" father asked.
"That's right," the postmaster said. "What about the women who have been married three of four times and tempt so as to take us young men down..."
"I see," Brother House interrupted. "Lead our young men down the road of sin. You have ... I mean, I think you boys have touched the Lord. I feel him moving me to do that for you. You listen tomorrow. I know the Lord will have me say what you want..."
"I'll listen," father said. "I'll get everybody I can to listen."
"Me, too," the postmaster said. "And you'll get a love offering for it... Just you wait and see..."
Father was grinning. The postmaster was grinning and Brother House did not look sad any more.
It seemed like the right thing to do. I reached into my pocket and took out my silver dollar. I walked over to Brother House and placed it in his hand. He tucked his book under his arm and left the Divine Post Office without even thanking me.
The Sermon
"I'm taking you with me," father said as we walked from the barn toward the house on Sunday morning.
I never asked him where he was taking me. I was just happy for the invitation.
"We'll leave about eleven," he said.
I didn't mention anything to my sister and my brother, for I knew father would invite them, too, if he were to take them. The three of us spent the morning in the shed above the cellar, watching the water level slowly reside, flowing through a half inch plastic pipe. Now and then, we would leave the shed, crawl under the barb-wire fence, and run down the hillside pasture to the end of the hose to see if the dingy water had stopped flowing. During the warming, April night, a storm hit and rain fell until after sunrise. Father had not siphoned the water to get it draining. He had plugged the end inside the shed with a cork from a wine bottle and had climbed a ladder to get on the roof where he sat with a funnel in the other end. Mother carried water, two lard buckets at a time and tied one to the rope that father dropped. He would pull the bucket up, take the lid off, pour the water into the hose, and then drop the bucket and lid to pull up the second. When the pipe was filled to overflowing, he put another cork in it, dropped it and climbed down.
"Take it over the hill," he told mother, "and when I tell you, jerk that cork out..."
I followed father and my brother and sister went with mother. I watched him hold the pipe in his right hand until mother almost tugged it away.
"Now!" he shouted.
I ran to the fence.
"Now!" I shouted.
"Now!" shouted my brother who was half-way between the fence and our mother and sister.
"Now!" shouted my sister, standing next to mother.
It was a smooth operation, but by eleven, less than three foot of water had emptied from the large cellar. While my sister and brother rode the brindle cow in the pasture, I sat on the front porch.
"Ready?" father asked when he came out of the house.
"Yes, sir!" I could not contain my excitement when I answered.
I did not know where we were going until father turned left into the parking lot at Oleman Rains' store. I walked behind him as we crossed the gravels. The store, a white, one-room frame and clapboard building with a deck across the front and six steps leading up on the right, was a community center as well as a country store.
Inside the store, the postmaster and three other men I had seen before, but I did not know by name, played Rook. Two other men leaned on the counter, talking to Oleman who seldom ran the store, leaving that task to his wife and daughters while he operated the farm or hauled livestock to area stock yards.
"You made it," Oleman called out.
"Told you I'd be here," father said.
"Who you got with you?" Oleman asked, but I knew he knew who I was.
What father said surprised me...
"My son," he answered. "Give him a Baby Ruth and a Dr. Pepper even though it ain't ten, two, or four..."
Oleman grabbed a candy bar and I started to take it...
"Not that one," father told the postmaster. "He deserves that big one you've got hid on that shelf behind you."
Oleman turned, picked up the giant candy bar, and gave it to me.
"You know where the drinks are, Red. Get him one. What can I get you?"
"Baloney sandwich," father answered.
Oleman turned toward his left then turned right at the meat case. He took out the rolled balogna and thick-sliced it with a butcher knife.
"What's you want on it?"
"A slab of cheese and a tomato," father said.
"No pickles?"
"No pickles," father said, handing me a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
"She's here," someone called.
I turned around and discovered that the she in question was Sister Mary Magdalene.
“You’re gonna be late for the radio show, Sister,” father said.
“No, no...” Mary Magdalene smiled. “Be right on time. Don’t want to be sitting out front like I have to do when I go to the doctor’s office. I want to get there when it’s time to walk down the hall to the studio and the DJ turns on the On The Air sign. Need me a Pepsi...”
“Got a frosty one just like you want it,” Oleman said as he walked toward the General Electric refrigerator. He took a bottle from the top shelf with difficulty, for I could see it was stuck to the side of the ice-covered wall of the freezer compartment.
“How are you, young man?” she asked, mussing my hair with her left hand while he extended her right toward Oleman.
“Keep your money, Sister,” father said.
Oleman’s chin dropped.
“Oleman’s matching the silver dollar the boy gave Brother House for a love offering. Same dollar he got for finding the prize egg at church...”
“Lawdy be,” Sister Mary said, mussing my hair again. “I put up that dollar. I’ll give that old hoot Oelman’s dollar bill and get that silver dollar back for you, son.”
Before I could tell her not to, she began to speak quickly...
“Coloring Easter eggs is a fun Easter tradition. Nowadays, it’s become an art form. They sell many different kits for it. Coloring Easter eggs is only one of the traditions surrounding eggs on Easter. Parents tell their babies how the Easter Bunny hides the eggs, and them babies go on an Easter egg hunt...”
“I saw the Easter bunny this year for the first time in my life,” Oleman said. “Black and white flop-eared bunny it was. It weren’t no white rabbit like Alice followed and it weren’t no wild, brown rabbit like me and Cameron hunt...”
Sister Mary stared him down then continued...
“Every year I color eggs the same way. I'm good at coloring Easter eggs without a kit, with food coloring and natural dyes like my Mama taught us kids to do it. You color eggs, boy?”
“Yes’m,” I answered.
“Good for you... Do you know who started the tradition?”
“Your namesake,” father said.
“Well I’ll be John Brown, old boy, you do know don’t you. Mary Magdalene was a woman of some wealth and social status. Following Jesus Christ's death and resurrection, she used her position to gain an invitation to a banquet given by Emperor Tiberius Caesar. When she met him, she held a plain egg in her hand and exclaimed Christ is risen! Caesar laughed, and said that Christ rising from the dead was as likely as the egg in her hand turning red while she held it. Before he finished speaking, the egg in her hand turned a bright red, and she continued proclaiming the Gospel to the entire imperial house. Is that how you heard it?”
“Only thing I remember about it is that she was the one started it...”
“I gotta run, boys. You all listening to the program today?”
“Got a bunch of the men folk coming in atterwhile, Sister,” Oleman said. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world...”
“Bless your heart, old boy,” Sister Mary Magdalene said, smiled, and then rushed from the country store.
Men from Divine Ridge began to arrive a few minutes before nine o’clock. Most of them I knew by name. The couple I did not know I would ask my father about later.
Before Oleman finished ringing up their purchases, he turned on the radio, full blast.
“Good morning out there in radio land, dear hearts,” Brother House’s voice silenced the crowd that had gathered. “Sister Mary Magdalene and her quartet will sing for you now. What’s you got for us today, Sister?”
“We’re gonna try two songs: In the Garden and Bearing the Cross to Win the Crown. These are going out to Oleman and Red and all the boys down Divine Ridge community way. Key of C...”
A shout,” Amen,” went up from Oleman...
“You boys oughta be ashamed now,” Jason laughed. “Woman should kill you two...”
I didn’t know why he said that.
“Shut up and listen,” Oleman shouted.
“I’ll thank her next time I see her,” father said of Sister Mary Magdalene and her group. “They keep it up; they’ll be good before you know it.”
After the two songs, Brother House began to speak: “A- man! Good job sister... All you listeners take the messages from them fine songs to heart and send us your love offerings so we can keep this radio program going...”
“Any lover offerings this week?” Sister Mary Magdalene’s voice rang out...
“Nary a one,” Brother House said.
Oleman and father looked at me. I dropped my head.
“Blessed be all of you out there in radio land. Before our time is up, I want to say what God has laid on my heart. He has told me that I should speak to the young men out there in radio land. If you have a young man in your house, get him in front of the radio so he can hear this. It will be a blessing today...”
“Amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted...
“The Lord God has told me that this world is full of temptations for everyone, but he has told me; bless his name, to speak to every young man out there listening this fine day... Let us pray...”
“Good, Lord,” Sister Mary Magdalene prayed. “We thank you for this beautiful morning you have allowed us to gather here in your presence. Go with us throughout the rest of this worship service and bless Brother House for being your instrument. We thank you for the young men gathered around the radio and we pray they get a blessing out of this message. We pray in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen...”
“A-man, Sister, hallelujah, a-man... You know, dear hearts, the Lord has laid it upon me to tell you young boys out there that the Devil tempts you with cigarettes. The Devil wants you to think smoking is fun. Well, it ain’t. Your body is a temple so the Good Book tells us...”
“Amen, Brother House... My body is a temple unto the Lord. I never smoked in my life. You young boys heed the message Brother House is giving you...” Sister Mary Magdalene interrupted.
“The Devil knows your heart, young man, whoever you are out there in radio land. He can read it like the Lord can. He reads it to work his own no good on you. I tell you young men in the radio audience, the Devil ain’t never up to no good. Give up them smokes and give yourself to God...”
“Amen and amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted in the background.
“And I tell you what the Lord told me just yesterday, young men out there in Divine Ridge and every other ridge and holler in this county, sons, don’t take to drink neither... Now I’m not talking about water or pop, them kind of drinks. I’m telling you the Lord don’t approve of beer, homebrew, and likker of all kinds. Young man gets imbibed, he defiles his body.”
“Red, he didn’t say anything about taking a little wine for the stomach’s sake, did he?”
“No, he didn’t, Oleman, bless his heart...”
A roar went up in the store that drowned out Sister Mary Magdalene’s amens...
“Now we’re getting close on time here, dear hearts out there in radio land. Before we go, I want to remind you to get those love offerings in the mail... Send your love offerings to me: Preacher House, Post Office Box 333, Divine...”
“He ain’t gonna do it,” Oleman cried out. “You sure you and Mrs. Mooringson’s grandson primed him about Jezebels?”
“I heard them,” I said.
“Maybe he will do it yet,” Father said.
“Before we sign off, brothers and sisters, and all you young men out there, let me tell you that the Devil is at work. He wants you to believe smoking and drinking is fun...”
“Amen!” Sister Mary Magdalene shouted.
“And I think we have just enough time...”
“He’s gonna do it,” father called out, looking toward me.
“The Devil works his way through Jezebels out there in the world, women who have been married three or four time and prey on our young men like mantis on flies. Young men, I’m telling you the Lord don’t approve of them painted hussies that lure you down the road of sin...”
There was silence on the radio...
After a moment, Brother House returned to his sermon...
“I said the Good Lord don’t want you young men out there within the sound of my voice to be sinning, lusting after no painted Jezebels..."
There was a longer silence...
Brother House cleared his throat...
More silence...
“I see that met with a cold reception,” Brother House cleared his voice again. “Get your love offerings in the mail, dear hearts, and we’ll be back on the air next Sunday, God willing...”
(Issue) 2
Avant(Poetry)
"Nargarjuna and Quohelet Break Windows Out of an Abandoned Garment Factory"
Michael Williams, Tennessee
“I didn’t think they could find anybody
who would work for less than us,
but they did.”
The old woman stares into her pot
remembers the sound of the sewing machines
each morning like an invasion of cicadas
to which she gave her days
and strength.
“Weren’t no piece work after that
so I went back to stripping tobacco
and cleaning rooms at the hotel
at the park.”
Later that night after consulting
with the philosopher, George Dickel,
Quohelet and Nargarjuna
adjourn to the site of
the abandoned factory.
Ouohelet picks up a rock
the size of a child’s fist
and hurls it at the few window
panes that remain unbroken.
“I’ll show you emptiness!”
Quohelet spoke
as the single smooth stone
flew toward the reflection
of the moon in Goliath’s eye.
“My granddaddy called them
winder lights,” Quohelet recalled,
“Now I see why.”
“If that ain’t emptiness,”
Nargarjuna agreed,
“Then I’ve never seen it.”
Michael Williams, Tennessee
“I didn’t think they could find anybody
who would work for less than us,
but they did.”
The old woman stares into her pot
remembers the sound of the sewing machines
each morning like an invasion of cicadas
to which she gave her days
and strength.
“Weren’t no piece work after that
so I went back to stripping tobacco
and cleaning rooms at the hotel
at the park.”
Later that night after consulting
with the philosopher, George Dickel,
Quohelet and Nargarjuna
adjourn to the site of
the abandoned factory.
Ouohelet picks up a rock
the size of a child’s fist
and hurls it at the few window
panes that remain unbroken.
“I’ll show you emptiness!”
Quohelet spoke
as the single smooth stone
flew toward the reflection
of the moon in Goliath’s eye.
“My granddaddy called them
winder lights,” Quohelet recalled,
“Now I see why.”
“If that ain’t emptiness,”
Nargarjuna agreed,
“Then I’ve never seen it.”
Avant(Art)
"Hurricane IV"
Donna Williams, Louisiana
Donna Williams, Louisiana
Avant(Story)
"Outside In"
Pamela Dae, Kentucky
Pamela Dae, Kentucky
Darlene wiped Amethyst Ablaze lipstick from her lips with a dirty napkin as Earl’s Camaro shuddered to a stop. Couldn't go back with Maybelline on her lips or the screws might figure she'd been gone.
Earl rubber-banded the gearshift to neutral, grabbed the crowbar from the back seat then scuttled around behind the car to pry open the passenger door for Darlene.
She slid low in the seat and emptied out the contents of the Wal-Mart bag: three tubes of Great Lash Mascara, two tins of Camel Spice snus, and one "Thrill" rechargeable personal massager. A tidy haul; she'd get enough buy her commissary for the next three months and then her minute'd be up. Darlene shimmied out of her jeans, pulled the "Go Vols" t-shirt over her head. Her prison-issue orange jumpsuit glowed malevolently in the backseat. She put her feet into the leg holes and slid the sleeves over her shoulders; the stiff cotton felt heavy as iron shackles.
When Earl wrenched open the passenger door, Darlene was ready.
"Earl, put this mascara under my bra in the back." She lowered the back of the jumpsuit, giving him full access while she carefully arranged each round tin of tobacco in the front cups of her bra. "Now all's left is the vibrator for Screamin Nina."
Earl snorted. "Don't reckon you'd wanna . . . "
"Earl. God. Don't be gross," she said, but snickered. "Anything coming?"
"All clear," he said.
The jumpsuit hanging from her shoulders, she tucked the vibrator neatly inside the back of the grayish-white granny panties. She stepped out of the car and stood hunched next to Earl as she snapped the front of the back together. "Sounds like bars closing, don't it, Earl?"
“Damn baby." Earl enveloped her body. "I hate leaving you here again. Five hours ain't enough. You call my cell phone once you make it inside now."
Darlene nodded once, sniffed back a few unshed tears. She knew Earl felt bad; he'd told her many times how sorry he was she got caught with his deal. But there it was, he was out and she was in and now it was almost over. She didn't want a blotchy, tear-stained face to be the last thing Earl saw of her for three months. She wanted him to remember those two hours at the Motel Six.
She stepped away and turned her back to him. “You don't see nothing?”
“Nah, baby. You’re good.” Earl leaned against the passenger door, grasped Darlene's ass in his hands and then turned her for a final kiss. He glanced up the hill. There was nothing there, just grass and trees and silence. If he didn't know better, he would have thought this was just another piece of one of the rich, loamy farms in the area; limestone swiss cheesing below the surface of the grass they called blue, glossy millionaire horses chawing on blades of it from above.
"I’ll make it back fine before the count as long as they ain’t looking for me. All quiet up there.”
The sound of gravel spraying caught them both by surprise but it was just an old Chevy parking across the road. A man in jeans and a windbreaker got out, glanced quickly at Earl's beater but kept his head down, walking toward the house with several brown bags of groceries in his arms.
“I couldn’t of stood this place another day if you hadn’t of got me this morning. I needed you in that motel room.” She pressed her groin against him, hard. “Don’t forget that. It’s you I need. This shit for the girls inside is just a little extra for commissary, you know? I hate having to ask you for money.”
Earl groaned. “Gal, don’t do that or I’ll take you right back to the motel and no Wal-Mart this time.”
Darlene giggled and ground against him tighter. With her head on his shoulder, she could see a mile back down the road. She heard a growling Harley, saw it approaching. “When it's over, Earl, let’s get one of them bikes and just go. God, I can’t wait til I get out of here.”
She closed her eyes, imagining freedom. A job in a Seven/Eleven or a grocery; coming home and fixing a dinner she wanted to eat, not something slopped out of industrial cans and barely heated; maybe somewhere down the line a pink baby with Earl's red hair wrapped in a soft, blue blanket.
"You better get now." Earl held her tighter for a heartbeat and then released her with the changing of the wind.
Darlene sighed, detached herself and edged up the hill. She heard the clang of the crowbar as Earl threw it into the floorboard and turned back to wave. But the man with the Chevy had come back out his front door and was looking at Earl too. He said something from across the black border of asphalt. It wasn't until he started walking towards Earl that Darlene recognized Corporal Brophy.
She scrambled several yards up the hill. There were no trees, no shrubs, not even any long grass between the road and the safety of the brick walls of the minimum-security prison. Only short-termers or low risks were housed here with the expectation they would stay put until officially released; you only had a short time to go and if you were dumb enough to screw that up, your Honor would make sure to give you enough time to see you didn't make that mistake again.
Darlene froze, her breath trapped inside her lungs but Brophy hadn't seen her. He stood in the middle of the road, focused completely on Earl, shouting at him to move the Camaro away from the prison grounds. And damn if that Harley wasn't headed right for his stupid ass. Jesus God, Brophy, look up.
He did not.
The bike barreled closer, the noise a freight train but still the damn fool didn't move. Surely to God Earl heard it. But Earl was standing as still as a catatonic holy roller.
Fuck.
“Brophy," Darlene shouted. She stood fifty yards away from the men, outside the low, wire fence that marked the grounds of the prison. "Brophy, move!”
He jumped at Darlene’s shout, saw the motorcycle headed for him and ran toward Earl. The bike swerved, continued on without slowing, the growl decreasing as it traveled down the road. Darlene watched until it shrank to a pinpoint on the vast blue horizon. When she turned back, Brophy's narrowed eyes fixed on her face.
“Thanks, Cooper," he said. "Course, that’s escape. I gotta charge you. You'll probably get transferred and do two more years.”
“Yeah.” Darlene put her hands behind her back and began walking up the road toward the gate.
Earl rubber-banded the gearshift to neutral, grabbed the crowbar from the back seat then scuttled around behind the car to pry open the passenger door for Darlene.
She slid low in the seat and emptied out the contents of the Wal-Mart bag: three tubes of Great Lash Mascara, two tins of Camel Spice snus, and one "Thrill" rechargeable personal massager. A tidy haul; she'd get enough buy her commissary for the next three months and then her minute'd be up. Darlene shimmied out of her jeans, pulled the "Go Vols" t-shirt over her head. Her prison-issue orange jumpsuit glowed malevolently in the backseat. She put her feet into the leg holes and slid the sleeves over her shoulders; the stiff cotton felt heavy as iron shackles.
When Earl wrenched open the passenger door, Darlene was ready.
"Earl, put this mascara under my bra in the back." She lowered the back of the jumpsuit, giving him full access while she carefully arranged each round tin of tobacco in the front cups of her bra. "Now all's left is the vibrator for Screamin Nina."
Earl snorted. "Don't reckon you'd wanna . . . "
"Earl. God. Don't be gross," she said, but snickered. "Anything coming?"
"All clear," he said.
The jumpsuit hanging from her shoulders, she tucked the vibrator neatly inside the back of the grayish-white granny panties. She stepped out of the car and stood hunched next to Earl as she snapped the front of the back together. "Sounds like bars closing, don't it, Earl?"
“Damn baby." Earl enveloped her body. "I hate leaving you here again. Five hours ain't enough. You call my cell phone once you make it inside now."
Darlene nodded once, sniffed back a few unshed tears. She knew Earl felt bad; he'd told her many times how sorry he was she got caught with his deal. But there it was, he was out and she was in and now it was almost over. She didn't want a blotchy, tear-stained face to be the last thing Earl saw of her for three months. She wanted him to remember those two hours at the Motel Six.
She stepped away and turned her back to him. “You don't see nothing?”
“Nah, baby. You’re good.” Earl leaned against the passenger door, grasped Darlene's ass in his hands and then turned her for a final kiss. He glanced up the hill. There was nothing there, just grass and trees and silence. If he didn't know better, he would have thought this was just another piece of one of the rich, loamy farms in the area; limestone swiss cheesing below the surface of the grass they called blue, glossy millionaire horses chawing on blades of it from above.
"I’ll make it back fine before the count as long as they ain’t looking for me. All quiet up there.”
The sound of gravel spraying caught them both by surprise but it was just an old Chevy parking across the road. A man in jeans and a windbreaker got out, glanced quickly at Earl's beater but kept his head down, walking toward the house with several brown bags of groceries in his arms.
“I couldn’t of stood this place another day if you hadn’t of got me this morning. I needed you in that motel room.” She pressed her groin against him, hard. “Don’t forget that. It’s you I need. This shit for the girls inside is just a little extra for commissary, you know? I hate having to ask you for money.”
Earl groaned. “Gal, don’t do that or I’ll take you right back to the motel and no Wal-Mart this time.”
Darlene giggled and ground against him tighter. With her head on his shoulder, she could see a mile back down the road. She heard a growling Harley, saw it approaching. “When it's over, Earl, let’s get one of them bikes and just go. God, I can’t wait til I get out of here.”
She closed her eyes, imagining freedom. A job in a Seven/Eleven or a grocery; coming home and fixing a dinner she wanted to eat, not something slopped out of industrial cans and barely heated; maybe somewhere down the line a pink baby with Earl's red hair wrapped in a soft, blue blanket.
"You better get now." Earl held her tighter for a heartbeat and then released her with the changing of the wind.
Darlene sighed, detached herself and edged up the hill. She heard the clang of the crowbar as Earl threw it into the floorboard and turned back to wave. But the man with the Chevy had come back out his front door and was looking at Earl too. He said something from across the black border of asphalt. It wasn't until he started walking towards Earl that Darlene recognized Corporal Brophy.
She scrambled several yards up the hill. There were no trees, no shrubs, not even any long grass between the road and the safety of the brick walls of the minimum-security prison. Only short-termers or low risks were housed here with the expectation they would stay put until officially released; you only had a short time to go and if you were dumb enough to screw that up, your Honor would make sure to give you enough time to see you didn't make that mistake again.
Darlene froze, her breath trapped inside her lungs but Brophy hadn't seen her. He stood in the middle of the road, focused completely on Earl, shouting at him to move the Camaro away from the prison grounds. And damn if that Harley wasn't headed right for his stupid ass. Jesus God, Brophy, look up.
He did not.
The bike barreled closer, the noise a freight train but still the damn fool didn't move. Surely to God Earl heard it. But Earl was standing as still as a catatonic holy roller.
Fuck.
“Brophy," Darlene shouted. She stood fifty yards away from the men, outside the low, wire fence that marked the grounds of the prison. "Brophy, move!”
He jumped at Darlene’s shout, saw the motorcycle headed for him and ran toward Earl. The bike swerved, continued on without slowing, the growl decreasing as it traveled down the road. Darlene watched until it shrank to a pinpoint on the vast blue horizon. When she turned back, Brophy's narrowed eyes fixed on her face.
“Thanks, Cooper," he said. "Course, that’s escape. I gotta charge you. You'll probably get transferred and do two more years.”
“Yeah.” Darlene put her hands behind her back and began walking up the road toward the gate.
Is(sue) 3
Avant(Poetry)
"O!"
Charles A. Swanson, Virginia
Charles A. Swanson, Virginia
Avant(Art)
"The Target"
Linda Regula, Ohio
Linda Regula, Ohio
Avant(Story)
"Sticky Red Stain"
Sabne Raznik, Kentucky
Sabne Raznik, Kentucky
Maddie dropped her sucker onto her textbook, picked it up, and popped it back into her mouth. She didn't like math anyway, so what did she care about the sticky red stain left on the page? Ahmed, the doctor’s son, sat in the seat behind her, pulling her hair. She sucked hard to keep from crying. Mom had said: "The bullies bother you to get a rise out of you. If you don't react, after a while they'll get bored and leave you alone." Ugh, she hated school.
"Change of plans, children." Mrs. Prater said. Something about her voice made Maddie forget her hair. "Today we're going to watch TV."
Those were the magic words: an explosion of cheers, slamming books, and chairs grating across the floor. One boy threw his basketball into the air and started up a UK chant (go Wildcats). Instead of sternly ordering silence, Mrs. Prater only grabbed a chair and stood on it to reach the TV.
Maddie felt something was wrong. She'd never seen Mrs. Prater's hands shake before and there were tears in her eyes. Maddie wondered if she should get under her desk and put her hands on her head like they did during drills. She glanced nervously out the class windows. It was still warm out. The rain that had tormented her while she waited on the bus that morning had since moved on, leaving a drowning humidity in its wake. It might as well still be summer, except that the leaves were beginning to wither a bit. A couple more weeks and Fall’s colour would take them, but not yet. The mountains were, as they had always been, inviting and safe like a favourite grandmother. She could see nothing changed outside.
The TV came to life, though its audio was buried under the cacophony of the children’s joy. Still, Mrs. Prater did not quiet them, but stood staring at it. She didn’t even get off the chair at first. Maddie couldn’t understand what she was seeing. She didn’t even notice when the children went silent on their own. In the end, all she would remember was shining glass, fire, black smoke, screaming, bodies falling perpetually like prematurely dead leaves, and the red stain on her textbook blurring with her tears.
****
Maddie couldn’t eat supper. Dad was very quiet and Mom looked from one to another perplexed. Finally, she said: “You going to let my fried chicken go to waste? What’s wrong with the two of you? You ain’t getting sick on me, are you?”
After a long pause, Dad said: “Jaime, we got to get us a TV in this house.”
“No now, Nathan, you know how I feel about a TV at home. They’re all good and well in their place, but you bring one home and next thing you know Maddie won’t play outside no more on account of she’ll miss her show, and then you and I won’t talk no more because it’ll be UK games morning, noon, and night. No, you can watch TV anywhere, but don’t bring it into my house.”
“I suppose it’s just as well today was your day off.” Dad said. “Nobody was eating out anyway unless to watch the TV.” He paused, scratched the line between his eyes that the coal dust had stained black no matter how much he washed. His eyes fell and lingered on Maddie. “They shouldn’t a let the kids watch.”
“Watch what?” Mom shifted in her seat, annoyed. “You’re ruining supper, Nathan. Eat up, both of you. I don’t work all day cooking on my one day off just to have you all turn your noses up at it.” Then to avoid any more talk about TV: “You know our mountain sits right under the air traffic path over these parts, and today there’s not been a single plane. Silent as Hades around here. Plumb uncomfortable strange. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Yep.” Dad answered.
“Well?” Mom said.
Maddie started crying. She couldn’t help it. “They died, mommy. Everybody died.”
“What?” Mom said, horrified. “Who died?”
“Let her go to bed, Jaime. I’m having a word with the principal tomorrow. She’s only 8. They shouldn’t a let her watch.”
Mom let out a long, resigned sigh. Well, she was going to have to let them talk about TV; no way around it now. “Watch what?” she repeated.
“Put Maddie to bed and I’ll wrap up this chicken for ol’ Sadie and her daughter in law. They’ll be needing it since her son drove a tour bus up there yesterday for a bunch from Central Kentucky. Reckon he won’t make it home now.”
“What are you saying, Nathan? You’re scaring me now. All of you are scaring me.”
“Put Maddie to bed and then I’ll tell you.”
****
Mom saw it on the TV the next day at work. She came home from the restaurant looking 10 years older. She went in her room, came out wearing the black cotton dress she kept for funerals, fixed up supper, and set it out like a robot.
“You talk to the principal?” She asked after everybody had sat down.
“Yep.”
“Well, what’d he say?”
“That it was history and the kids need to see history.”
“You tell him I’ll make him history if he makes my child watch something like that again. Has he lost his mind, Nathan?”
“The whole world has, Jaime.”
Mom ended up taking ol’ Sadie the chicken herself. Ol’ Sadie said she had no use for funeral meats yet. Her daughter in law took it when she wasn’t looking, whispered thank you, and tried not to cry. When they left, ol’ Sadie gave Maddie a red sucker. She couldn’t eat it. She just stuck it in her pocket and tried not to cry, too.
****
Maddie didn’t go to school for the rest of the week. She had belly aches and crying fits. She couldn’t sleep or had nightmares. She even quit going to her bed and slept with Mom instead. Dad never went to bed at all anyway. He sat up praying for ol’ Sadie’s son, praying he would eventually come home.
Mom took Maddie to work with her. When Maddie would go out among the tables, the customers would talk to her, give her quarters for the old jukebox in the corner, and always turned off the TV. But as soon as she went back to the kitchen, she would hear them turn it on again and go back to talking about politics. She didn’t understand any of it really, but she did not like the sound of the word “war”.
She went outside behind the dumpster in the parking lot and paged ahead in her history reader. There was a chapter on the American Revolution. It said it was the “War for Independence”. But it was all stories about “the flag was still there” and none of it helped her to understand what war is.
“I guess it’s a grown up thing.” She said out loud to the cat who stood guard against rats.
She put up the book and stretched out on the hot blacktop. The weather was getting cooler fast. She wouldn’t have been able to let her skin touch the blacktop like this a few days ago. She looked up into the sky, already that deep, rich blue usually reserved for October. Not a single line in the sky. Still there were no planes flying of any kind. Mom was right, the quiet of it was plumb uncomfortable strange. Staring at the blue sky. The hot blacktop burning her skin. She heard screaming.
“Is that my baby screaming bloody murder?” Mom cried, red from the kitchen heat and flustered from the sound.
“Found her in the parking lot.” One of the customers said. “She must have fallen asleep out there and had a nightmare.”
Mom’s boss put down a stack of napkins that she was filling a holder with. “You should take that poor baby home, Jaime, and maybe call the doctor. He might know how to help the poor little lamb.” She placed a dishwater hand on Maddie’s head and stroked it sympathetically. “My own babies are the same way and they’re teenagers. They shouldn’t a let the kids watch that.” She ruefully shook her head.
****
The doctor was nice and played games with Maddie. He let her play “Knock Down the Towers”. He said it’d be good for her. She drew pictures and sang songs and wrote poems. It didn’t feel like being at the doctor’s. She liked it.
At school, everything was the same like nothing had happened. Maddie couldn’t understand it because she knew it was just a show. Like the smile painted on a clown’s face. It wasn’t real. Because, of course, everything was different.
In math class, somebody passed her a note. She opened it slowly, wondering who would write her one. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair. It won’t happen again.” She pulled the red sucker out of her pocket and passed it back as a reply.
Now the bullies picked on Ahmed instead of her. So she went to where he sat alone at recess. “My mom says the bullies only want to get a rise out of you. If you ignore them, they’ll leave you alone eventually.” He didn’t say anything, just looked at her with sad, wise eyes.
That was the day that a plane’s engine ripped the quiet open and, after so long, it was loud indeed. Everybody came running out of the school to watch it. A lone army plane, flying lower than the commercial planes would when they resumed a week later - big and heavy with an unknown but dreaded cargo.
****
Five years later, ol’ Sadie finally gave up and held a funeral service for her son. There was no body, so there was no casket. Just a photo next to some flowers and a large computer monitor showing a slideshow of more pictures and videos. It was weird going to a funeral without a graveside service. Maddie wore her mom’s black cotton dress, since it fit her now. Her mom had to work that day and couldn’t make it, but she sent enough fried chicken to feed an army.
After the service, Maddie helped serve the mourners. Never is there as big a feast as at weddings and funerals! The whole thing was surreal, though. People talked about it like it wasn’t five years ago; they talked about it like it was yesterday. And the strangest thing, at least to Maddie, was the way everybody treated the doctor and his family. Oh, they still went to him for their ailments, but outside of that, he wasn’t welcome. Because of that, he and his family didn’t come to the funeral.
Maddie stayed behind to help with the cleanup. When she got all the leftovers together, Sadie’s daughter in law said to keep them.
“Everyone’s been so kind; we’ve got so much food at the house, there’s nowhere to put it all. Take that back home to your sweet mommy. She won’t have to cook when she gets home tonight.”
The crickets were singing by the time she and Dad headed home, but she asked Dad to drive the opposite way instead. The doctor lived in a big, fine home on the other side of the river. She rang the doorbell next to the oak door with stained glass and waited. A dog barked and she saw a dachshund galloping happily her way. Ahmed opened the door.
“I know your dad was good friend’s with ol’ Sadie’s boy once. So I brought this from the funeral. My sympathies for your loss.”
Ahmed took the load out of Maddie’s arms. “Anyway, I’ve got to get home and fix supper for Mom.” She said, feeling embarrassed.
“Wait,” Ahmed said and lumbered down the hall.
He was gone for some time. She felt awkward to say the least. She played with the dachshund to pass the time.
Finally, Ahmed came back to the door. “Sorry,” he said. “I had to put the food away first.” He reached out his hand. “Thank you, for everything.” In his hand was the red sucker.
"Change of plans, children." Mrs. Prater said. Something about her voice made Maddie forget her hair. "Today we're going to watch TV."
Those were the magic words: an explosion of cheers, slamming books, and chairs grating across the floor. One boy threw his basketball into the air and started up a UK chant (go Wildcats). Instead of sternly ordering silence, Mrs. Prater only grabbed a chair and stood on it to reach the TV.
Maddie felt something was wrong. She'd never seen Mrs. Prater's hands shake before and there were tears in her eyes. Maddie wondered if she should get under her desk and put her hands on her head like they did during drills. She glanced nervously out the class windows. It was still warm out. The rain that had tormented her while she waited on the bus that morning had since moved on, leaving a drowning humidity in its wake. It might as well still be summer, except that the leaves were beginning to wither a bit. A couple more weeks and Fall’s colour would take them, but not yet. The mountains were, as they had always been, inviting and safe like a favourite grandmother. She could see nothing changed outside.
The TV came to life, though its audio was buried under the cacophony of the children’s joy. Still, Mrs. Prater did not quiet them, but stood staring at it. She didn’t even get off the chair at first. Maddie couldn’t understand what she was seeing. She didn’t even notice when the children went silent on their own. In the end, all she would remember was shining glass, fire, black smoke, screaming, bodies falling perpetually like prematurely dead leaves, and the red stain on her textbook blurring with her tears.
****
Maddie couldn’t eat supper. Dad was very quiet and Mom looked from one to another perplexed. Finally, she said: “You going to let my fried chicken go to waste? What’s wrong with the two of you? You ain’t getting sick on me, are you?”
After a long pause, Dad said: “Jaime, we got to get us a TV in this house.”
“No now, Nathan, you know how I feel about a TV at home. They’re all good and well in their place, but you bring one home and next thing you know Maddie won’t play outside no more on account of she’ll miss her show, and then you and I won’t talk no more because it’ll be UK games morning, noon, and night. No, you can watch TV anywhere, but don’t bring it into my house.”
“I suppose it’s just as well today was your day off.” Dad said. “Nobody was eating out anyway unless to watch the TV.” He paused, scratched the line between his eyes that the coal dust had stained black no matter how much he washed. His eyes fell and lingered on Maddie. “They shouldn’t a let the kids watch.”
“Watch what?” Mom shifted in her seat, annoyed. “You’re ruining supper, Nathan. Eat up, both of you. I don’t work all day cooking on my one day off just to have you all turn your noses up at it.” Then to avoid any more talk about TV: “You know our mountain sits right under the air traffic path over these parts, and today there’s not been a single plane. Silent as Hades around here. Plumb uncomfortable strange. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Yep.” Dad answered.
“Well?” Mom said.
Maddie started crying. She couldn’t help it. “They died, mommy. Everybody died.”
“What?” Mom said, horrified. “Who died?”
“Let her go to bed, Jaime. I’m having a word with the principal tomorrow. She’s only 8. They shouldn’t a let her watch.”
Mom let out a long, resigned sigh. Well, she was going to have to let them talk about TV; no way around it now. “Watch what?” she repeated.
“Put Maddie to bed and I’ll wrap up this chicken for ol’ Sadie and her daughter in law. They’ll be needing it since her son drove a tour bus up there yesterday for a bunch from Central Kentucky. Reckon he won’t make it home now.”
“What are you saying, Nathan? You’re scaring me now. All of you are scaring me.”
“Put Maddie to bed and then I’ll tell you.”
****
Mom saw it on the TV the next day at work. She came home from the restaurant looking 10 years older. She went in her room, came out wearing the black cotton dress she kept for funerals, fixed up supper, and set it out like a robot.
“You talk to the principal?” She asked after everybody had sat down.
“Yep.”
“Well, what’d he say?”
“That it was history and the kids need to see history.”
“You tell him I’ll make him history if he makes my child watch something like that again. Has he lost his mind, Nathan?”
“The whole world has, Jaime.”
Mom ended up taking ol’ Sadie the chicken herself. Ol’ Sadie said she had no use for funeral meats yet. Her daughter in law took it when she wasn’t looking, whispered thank you, and tried not to cry. When they left, ol’ Sadie gave Maddie a red sucker. She couldn’t eat it. She just stuck it in her pocket and tried not to cry, too.
****
Maddie didn’t go to school for the rest of the week. She had belly aches and crying fits. She couldn’t sleep or had nightmares. She even quit going to her bed and slept with Mom instead. Dad never went to bed at all anyway. He sat up praying for ol’ Sadie’s son, praying he would eventually come home.
Mom took Maddie to work with her. When Maddie would go out among the tables, the customers would talk to her, give her quarters for the old jukebox in the corner, and always turned off the TV. But as soon as she went back to the kitchen, she would hear them turn it on again and go back to talking about politics. She didn’t understand any of it really, but she did not like the sound of the word “war”.
She went outside behind the dumpster in the parking lot and paged ahead in her history reader. There was a chapter on the American Revolution. It said it was the “War for Independence”. But it was all stories about “the flag was still there” and none of it helped her to understand what war is.
“I guess it’s a grown up thing.” She said out loud to the cat who stood guard against rats.
She put up the book and stretched out on the hot blacktop. The weather was getting cooler fast. She wouldn’t have been able to let her skin touch the blacktop like this a few days ago. She looked up into the sky, already that deep, rich blue usually reserved for October. Not a single line in the sky. Still there were no planes flying of any kind. Mom was right, the quiet of it was plumb uncomfortable strange. Staring at the blue sky. The hot blacktop burning her skin. She heard screaming.
“Is that my baby screaming bloody murder?” Mom cried, red from the kitchen heat and flustered from the sound.
“Found her in the parking lot.” One of the customers said. “She must have fallen asleep out there and had a nightmare.”
Mom’s boss put down a stack of napkins that she was filling a holder with. “You should take that poor baby home, Jaime, and maybe call the doctor. He might know how to help the poor little lamb.” She placed a dishwater hand on Maddie’s head and stroked it sympathetically. “My own babies are the same way and they’re teenagers. They shouldn’t a let the kids watch that.” She ruefully shook her head.
****
The doctor was nice and played games with Maddie. He let her play “Knock Down the Towers”. He said it’d be good for her. She drew pictures and sang songs and wrote poems. It didn’t feel like being at the doctor’s. She liked it.
At school, everything was the same like nothing had happened. Maddie couldn’t understand it because she knew it was just a show. Like the smile painted on a clown’s face. It wasn’t real. Because, of course, everything was different.
In math class, somebody passed her a note. She opened it slowly, wondering who would write her one. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair. It won’t happen again.” She pulled the red sucker out of her pocket and passed it back as a reply.
Now the bullies picked on Ahmed instead of her. So she went to where he sat alone at recess. “My mom says the bullies only want to get a rise out of you. If you ignore them, they’ll leave you alone eventually.” He didn’t say anything, just looked at her with sad, wise eyes.
That was the day that a plane’s engine ripped the quiet open and, after so long, it was loud indeed. Everybody came running out of the school to watch it. A lone army plane, flying lower than the commercial planes would when they resumed a week later - big and heavy with an unknown but dreaded cargo.
****
Five years later, ol’ Sadie finally gave up and held a funeral service for her son. There was no body, so there was no casket. Just a photo next to some flowers and a large computer monitor showing a slideshow of more pictures and videos. It was weird going to a funeral without a graveside service. Maddie wore her mom’s black cotton dress, since it fit her now. Her mom had to work that day and couldn’t make it, but she sent enough fried chicken to feed an army.
After the service, Maddie helped serve the mourners. Never is there as big a feast as at weddings and funerals! The whole thing was surreal, though. People talked about it like it wasn’t five years ago; they talked about it like it was yesterday. And the strangest thing, at least to Maddie, was the way everybody treated the doctor and his family. Oh, they still went to him for their ailments, but outside of that, he wasn’t welcome. Because of that, he and his family didn’t come to the funeral.
Maddie stayed behind to help with the cleanup. When she got all the leftovers together, Sadie’s daughter in law said to keep them.
“Everyone’s been so kind; we’ve got so much food at the house, there’s nowhere to put it all. Take that back home to your sweet mommy. She won’t have to cook when she gets home tonight.”
The crickets were singing by the time she and Dad headed home, but she asked Dad to drive the opposite way instead. The doctor lived in a big, fine home on the other side of the river. She rang the doorbell next to the oak door with stained glass and waited. A dog barked and she saw a dachshund galloping happily her way. Ahmed opened the door.
“I know your dad was good friend’s with ol’ Sadie’s boy once. So I brought this from the funeral. My sympathies for your loss.”
Ahmed took the load out of Maddie’s arms. “Anyway, I’ve got to get home and fix supper for Mom.” She said, feeling embarrassed.
“Wait,” Ahmed said and lumbered down the hall.
He was gone for some time. She felt awkward to say the least. She played with the dachshund to pass the time.
Finally, Ahmed came back to the door. “Sorry,” he said. “I had to put the food away first.” He reached out his hand. “Thank you, for everything.” In his hand was the red sucker.
Is(sue) 4
Avant(Poetry)
Volodymyr Bilyk, Ukraine
Baa Baa La La
Ho Ho Ho
sparkle
Jab Jab
Nom nom ... crunch?
Cha ching zing!
dull toot dim bulb
knack
"babble”
Stomp-stomp clap.
stomp-stomp clap.
gnawing
sprawling and aimless
chuckle
beaming smile
Heard the Thunder
fog
Shimmer
mouth gives legs
nothing could be so terrible
ZAH-sigh
boom bah
hip
Nil gaze
gauges
uh-uh, ka-ching
Ding
506 506 195 195 254 270 294 246 355 267 219 240 280 253 329 267 254 240
"???????".
***
swipe. pull, repulsive - feeze:
jarring: uh-hmm "jab"
"bump .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.-
...tap-tap", slobber
fanfare swish
pitapat
(breathe lisp, spasm): whack .-..-..-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.-.-..-..-.-.- .-.-..
("pound" burp.)
/
hair jumps to the mouth,
gets flushed with saliva,
chewed and swallowed;
irksome tickling deep inside...
...:twist of jaw - sway;
- eddy:
wrest dab: "wry" -
skirt -blink
CLOUT
bubble-billow: gob, cough,
temples squashed brown brows
swell
- thigs tears
Shush;
- 'poke.
sob yank
Baa Baa La La
Ho Ho Ho
sparkle
Jab Jab
Nom nom ... crunch?
Cha ching zing!
dull toot dim bulb
knack
"babble”
Stomp-stomp clap.
stomp-stomp clap.
gnawing
sprawling and aimless
chuckle
beaming smile
Heard the Thunder
fog
Shimmer
mouth gives legs
nothing could be so terrible
ZAH-sigh
boom bah
hip
Nil gaze
gauges
uh-uh, ka-ching
Ding
506 506 195 195 254 270 294 246 355 267 219 240 280 253 329 267 254 240
"???????".
***
swipe. pull, repulsive - feeze:
jarring: uh-hmm "jab"
"bump .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.-
...tap-tap", slobber
fanfare swish
pitapat
(breathe lisp, spasm): whack .-..-..-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.-.-..-..-.-.- .-.-..
("pound" burp.)
/
hair jumps to the mouth,
gets flushed with saliva,
chewed and swallowed;
irksome tickling deep inside...
...:twist of jaw - sway;
- eddy:
wrest dab: "wry" -
skirt -blink
CLOUT
bubble-billow: gob, cough,
temples squashed brown brows
swell
- thigs tears
Shush;
- 'poke.
sob yank
Avant(Art)
"Explosion"
Mary K. Morgan, Kentucky
Mary K. Morgan, Kentucky
Avant(Story)
"Interview with a Ghost"
Elizabeth Burton, Kentucky
Elizabeth Burton, Kentucky
Announcer: And today, we communicate with the ghosts of the boys who were beaten, killed, and then placed in the graveyard at the Dozier School for Boys in Florida. We are speaking with the inmate known as “R248.” Thomas Melton, as your family called you, what has brought you back here today?
R248 (Thomas): I never left. When the school closed and they unearthed the graveyard, suddenly people could see me, hear my voice. But in reality, I’ve been here all the time, calling out with the other boys.
Announcer: You say you want to tell your story. What is it you want our audience to know?
R248 (Thomas): I ran away from home when I was thirteen. No beatings or lack of love led me away—it was World War II and I was like all the boys in wanting to join up, prove that I was a man. I thought I’d call myself an orphan and join the Army in another state, so I hitchhiked out of Two Lick, Kentucky. I didn’t expect to be picked up by men in Tennessee who’d stolen a car and murdered its occupants. I didn’t expect to be arrested and charged as an accessory to their crime.
Announcer: So it’s your contention that you never committed any violent acts?
R248 (Thomas): I was only a boy looking for adventure. I loved my mother, teased my little sister, wanted to be brave and fight in the War like my father. I lived for fishing, riding the bike my parents bought second hand, and science. I could have been someone.
Announcer: When you were arrested with the men, you were sent to the Dosier School for Boys, a juvenile detention facility in Florida.
R248 (Thomas): I ran away from home when I was thirteen. I made it all the way to Florida before my ride ended, but I never saw the ocean. The heat of the Panhandle was as close as I got, just heat, no breeze to cool the blinding burn of your face. The first day I was there, they gave me a number for a name and put me naked in a room with one light bulb to keep out the darkness. I was fed once a day through a slit in the door. They kept me there for thirty days to break me in.
Announcer: And your family? Did they believe you were innocent? Why didn’t they fight for your release?
R248 (Thomas): I received one letter from my mother, a letter I read over and over until the ink started to fade away and the paper was almost worn into holes. It told me they loved me and were saving money for a lawyer to get me out.
Announcer: From your records, you didn’t last long at Dozier before you “escaped.” Can you tell our listeners what really happened?
R248 (Thomas): When I got out of the Hole, they turned me loose with all the rest of the boys. The boys whispered their names in secret, told me we had to stick together, and I felt hope for the first time. That was before I picked up a cigarette I didn’t even know was forbidden. A guard saw me with it and dragged me by the arm into the White House, the place reserved for punishment. I saw the looks on the other boys’ faces, and I knew to be afraid.
I never saw home again. The strap he hit me with came down on my skin over and over again (I lost count at thirty), turning my back into what must have looked like roadkill run over too many times. When the infection set in, the kindhearted nurse cried and said we needed to call a doctor, take me to a hospital, before it was too late. I remember a guard using the words “murderer” and “not worth the trouble.”
I died two months after I arrived at the Dozier School for Boys. I never saw the inside of a school or they might have seen I was smart, curious. They might have given me a chance. Death wasn’t peace for me but a waiting. I watched as they told my parents I’d escaped and they didn’t know what had happened to me. I watched as the years passed and the beatings turned into art classes, the deaths and the bodies forgotten in the overgrown patch of land behind the West Wall. I watched the school grow old, waited while the budget cuts shut it down. And one day, when the bulldozers came, I knew it was time to tell my story.
Announcer: Thomas, is there anything else you’d like to share with our audience?
R248 (Thomas): Soon, my body will fly on an airplane back to Kentucky, the last place it was safe. It will be reunited with my family, put in the ground next to those who loved and never stopped looking for me.
I don’t know what will happen then. Maybe my spirit will join my body, finally experience the sleep of forgetting. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll wait here until the other boys have the courage to tell their stories. Each one of them had a life before they were left to die at Dosier. When they speak, they will become Billy, Alex, Fernando again. Maybe then we’ll go away together, find a new home where the sunlight isn’t hot but gentle. Where a breeze soothes and an ocean sings in the distance. Maybe then there will be quiet; maybe then there will be peace.
R248 (Thomas): I never left. When the school closed and they unearthed the graveyard, suddenly people could see me, hear my voice. But in reality, I’ve been here all the time, calling out with the other boys.
Announcer: You say you want to tell your story. What is it you want our audience to know?
R248 (Thomas): I ran away from home when I was thirteen. No beatings or lack of love led me away—it was World War II and I was like all the boys in wanting to join up, prove that I was a man. I thought I’d call myself an orphan and join the Army in another state, so I hitchhiked out of Two Lick, Kentucky. I didn’t expect to be picked up by men in Tennessee who’d stolen a car and murdered its occupants. I didn’t expect to be arrested and charged as an accessory to their crime.
Announcer: So it’s your contention that you never committed any violent acts?
R248 (Thomas): I was only a boy looking for adventure. I loved my mother, teased my little sister, wanted to be brave and fight in the War like my father. I lived for fishing, riding the bike my parents bought second hand, and science. I could have been someone.
Announcer: When you were arrested with the men, you were sent to the Dosier School for Boys, a juvenile detention facility in Florida.
R248 (Thomas): I ran away from home when I was thirteen. I made it all the way to Florida before my ride ended, but I never saw the ocean. The heat of the Panhandle was as close as I got, just heat, no breeze to cool the blinding burn of your face. The first day I was there, they gave me a number for a name and put me naked in a room with one light bulb to keep out the darkness. I was fed once a day through a slit in the door. They kept me there for thirty days to break me in.
Announcer: And your family? Did they believe you were innocent? Why didn’t they fight for your release?
R248 (Thomas): I received one letter from my mother, a letter I read over and over until the ink started to fade away and the paper was almost worn into holes. It told me they loved me and were saving money for a lawyer to get me out.
Announcer: From your records, you didn’t last long at Dozier before you “escaped.” Can you tell our listeners what really happened?
R248 (Thomas): When I got out of the Hole, they turned me loose with all the rest of the boys. The boys whispered their names in secret, told me we had to stick together, and I felt hope for the first time. That was before I picked up a cigarette I didn’t even know was forbidden. A guard saw me with it and dragged me by the arm into the White House, the place reserved for punishment. I saw the looks on the other boys’ faces, and I knew to be afraid.
I never saw home again. The strap he hit me with came down on my skin over and over again (I lost count at thirty), turning my back into what must have looked like roadkill run over too many times. When the infection set in, the kindhearted nurse cried and said we needed to call a doctor, take me to a hospital, before it was too late. I remember a guard using the words “murderer” and “not worth the trouble.”
I died two months after I arrived at the Dozier School for Boys. I never saw the inside of a school or they might have seen I was smart, curious. They might have given me a chance. Death wasn’t peace for me but a waiting. I watched as they told my parents I’d escaped and they didn’t know what had happened to me. I watched as the years passed and the beatings turned into art classes, the deaths and the bodies forgotten in the overgrown patch of land behind the West Wall. I watched the school grow old, waited while the budget cuts shut it down. And one day, when the bulldozers came, I knew it was time to tell my story.
Announcer: Thomas, is there anything else you’d like to share with our audience?
R248 (Thomas): Soon, my body will fly on an airplane back to Kentucky, the last place it was safe. It will be reunited with my family, put in the ground next to those who loved and never stopped looking for me.
I don’t know what will happen then. Maybe my spirit will join my body, finally experience the sleep of forgetting. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll wait here until the other boys have the courage to tell their stories. Each one of them had a life before they were left to die at Dosier. When they speak, they will become Billy, Alex, Fernando again. Maybe then we’ll go away together, find a new home where the sunlight isn’t hot but gentle. Where a breeze soothes and an ocean sings in the distance. Maybe then there will be quiet; maybe then there will be peace.
Is(sue) 5
(Avant)Poetry
"Chaana Chaana"
Jeff Bagato, Virginia
Ganallag hanoc claaghonna noc nollanag
Holloc gnaaghan calloch llaanagoa
Clanah hocla challanoch annaghanno callag
Ganla, hallagannah, cochog, annochonnag
Chaana hollonaggon cangol
Chaana chachagalan hollonach
Chaana gnaag onaloa ochlan
Chaana annaganloch clac hoganna
Allochan chonog gollano annalocha
Claggananol oglach nol hallagannoch
Gnaganah onnoggac annochla challac
Oanlah, challachanal, gogoc, naglachanon
Chaana collahaggalah
Chaana hognachan allag
Chaana golan, chaana nachlanno, chaana gaan
Chaana annaganloch clac hoganna
Occallachan gannaloa anallag canla haghal
Golanog ollach channagach naolana
Connoch gaanlagganol chacna llaagallah
Onnagoa, callachanach, cholca clag, gnaganhoch
Chaana onnalocha gloconna
Chaana aganlahan callanach oglanno
Chaana glaachon anochlan
Chaana annaganloch clac hoganna
Jeff Bagato, Virginia
Ganallag hanoc claaghonna noc nollanag
Holloc gnaaghan calloch llaanagoa
Clanah hocla challanoch annaghanno callag
Ganla, hallagannah, cochog, annochonnag
Chaana hollonaggon cangol
Chaana chachagalan hollonach
Chaana gnaag onaloa ochlan
Chaana annaganloch clac hoganna
Allochan chonog gollano annalocha
Claggananol oglach nol hallagannoch
Gnaganah onnoggac annochla challac
Oanlah, challachanal, gogoc, naglachanon
Chaana collahaggalah
Chaana hognachan allag
Chaana golan, chaana nachlanno, chaana gaan
Chaana annaganloch clac hoganna
Occallachan gannaloa anallag canla haghal
Golanog ollach channagach naolana
Connoch gaanlagganol chacna llaagallah
Onnagoa, callachanach, cholca clag, gnaganhoch
Chaana onnalocha gloconna
Chaana aganlahan callanach oglanno
Chaana glaachon anochlan
Chaana annaganloch clac hoganna
(Avant)Art
"Rebirth"
Katherine Workman, Kentucky
Katherine Workman, Kentucky
(Avant)Story
"Appalachian Trail: Sabretooth Run"
Jason Belcher, Kentucky
Jason Belcher, Kentucky
Susan awoke to a tremendous rustling sound. She sat upright and looked around, unable to see very far in the pre-dawn fog enveloping her like a gray blanket. The morning wakeup call took some getting used to. Realizing the source of the cacophony overhead, she eased back down onto her hammock and exhaled slowly. The leaves at the top of the forest canopy were turning over to face the sun, and the sound proclaimed sunrise to every living thing below like an army on the march above the trees.
She stood up and stretched, reaching her arms towards the top of the enormous tree behind her. With a diameter of sixteen feet, the giant oaks dominated the landscape like silent guardians forever standing their watch. Hundreds of their kin surrounded her, holding hands with their branches to keep the ground beneath in perpetual shade.
Checking her reversible moisture stand she found two liters of water had pooled in the small container overnight. The smart material of the fabric pulled water from the air around her like a continuous pump requiring no external power source. Oceans of moisture floated above human beings in Earth’s atmosphere, but most of the time that water lingered forever out of reach. A dehydrated human could die surrounded by water. The first thing she’d bought had been a section of smart cloth.
For breakfast she opened a plastic pack with two squares inside. Power cubes provided nutrients, up to 10,000 calories in a single unit which easily fit in the palm of her hand. After downing the water and swallowing a cube, she readied herself to get started.
Her holo-watch indicated the year 20,000 BC. She’d come to break the record for the Appalachian Trail. She knew she could do it in under a week, which meant covering almost three hundred miles a day. The wagers were 4 to 1 against, and she figured by now the betting pool exceeded ten million dollars. If she won, she’d get ten percent, enough to buy next the next gen enhancements she needed. Well, needed and wanted, she added to herself.
Winners made a good living through the quantum relay. She got to run every day, and running made her feel alive. The longer the distance, the better the sensation.
With a wave of her hand she released her microdrones, and when they reached altitude she synced her bio-lens with their video capture. The drones stayed below the canopy, but their infrared and imaging laid out the terrain clearer than broad daylight ever could. Optic connections in the brain were wired for two eyes, and the surgical enhancements enabling a wider field of vision had not been cheap. But they had been worth it.
The nano-particles began firing in her legs, pushing the muscles far past anything a standard human could achieve. Like an uncoiled spring she leapt off through the foliage. Trail running required as much mental effort as physical; uneven terrain along with roots, branches, and rocks jutting out of the ground required runners to constantly think about where their next step would be. A bad decision could result in a slip or fall, and with that came the risk of injury.
Running while seeing from a hundred feet above had required intensive training. At first the leading practitioners suggested she think of herself as a giant, so that the distance from view to foot became that of a tremendously tall figure. Bio-enhanced runners needed even more mental discipline than traditional marathoners; training the mind to choreograph greater speeds and distances took experience, and more than a few bruises.
Her feet danced across the slopes of gnarled roots and jagged rocks at a pace faster than an unenhanced Olympic marathoner from the old days. Technology gave her greater speed and access to a course thousands of years in the past. Innovation had taken her forward and backward at the same time. Did all progress inevitably lead to contradictions? She thought it probably did.
Enhancements were just tools; without the will to use them they served no purpose. Her purpose was pushing limits; all runners pushed their limits, with champions going further past their limits than any of their competitors. Pain made her angry; she used it break barriers and as fuel for achievement. With her will to win and her top of the line bio-mods, Susan covered fifteen miles an hour through rugged terrain for twenty hours at a stretch.
“Look at her pace! She’ll beat the record for sure, and you convinced me to bet against her!” Blake turned to look at Charles, who simply stared straight ahead at the viewing screen provided by his augmented reality headset. “I mean a five or ten million dollar bet is for amusement, but this is serious money, we’re talking about a hundred million now.”
“Would you relax; here, have a drink.” Charles replied, handing Blake a Diamond is Eternal, a $90,000 a glass cognac topped with a $15,000 diamond on the side.
“A hundred million is not serious money, and you know it,” Charles chided.
“Well that’s not the point,” Blake said with both mock indignation. “The center writes checks to me, I don’t write checks to them. I hate writing checks to them, makes me feel like I owe someone. I don’t owe them, they owe me!”
“My dear friend,” Charles began like an older sibling explaining the ways of the world “the center works because occasionally everybody writes at least one check to them. If not, eventually the whole thing would collapse. Do you want to go back to a world where people had to do pointless labor to earn money? Imagine the horror of daily drudgery, to no real purpose, other than the acquisition of mere things.”
“We are living the dream outlined by Buckminster Fuller.”
“Think what horrors and wasted lives he saw before his vision came to fruition. Remember how things used to be? As Fuller put it,”
“’We should do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian Darwinian theory he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.’”
“That’s what created the whole system. Once we’d automated the tasks of producing food, goods, and delivering them, we realized most human jobs were working against the economy, not for it. Our labor became an obstacle to production rather than a facilitator. So what to do?”
“The early internet generation had an inkling, as YouTubers set to work building an audience and getting paid by advertisers to play games or react to videos. The whole thing was not just an entertainment economy, it was actor/audience economy. Some people were good at performing, others good at watching. The two groups supported each other.”
“When shopping malls closed by the thousands, enterprising minds discovered they could build obstacle courses, fighting rings, and virtual reality arenas in the old structures. People without traditional jobs suddenly found they could compete against other races or fighters, and that the crowds would pay to watch them.”
“Guilds sprang up as the system began to organize itself, training new competitors and arranging ever more grand competitions. The modern gladiator economy was born. Only there were so many different arenas nobody could compete in them all, so instead the goal was to create ever more elaborate spectacles.”
“With mass classroom schools permanently shuttered, gifted minds were unchained from the mediocre masses to focus on their true purpose: innovation. Free to devote their lives to innovation, the rate of scientific breakthroughs and discoveries entered a new golden age. The quantum relay was invented by a group of the gifted, who never would have been able to construct it in the socio-economic conditions of the late twentieth or early twenty-first centuries.”
“Our wagers facilitate the system by providing the lifeblood of the center. So don’t begrudge them a drop or two every now and then. Where the economy used to be built on labor, management, and consumers, now we have participants, audiences, and gamblers. Automation grew all the food we needed, made all the necessities and things we could ever want, and transported goods globally. Human beings were freed from a life of labor to focus on their life’s work.” Charles finished.
“Besides, I don’t know about you, but I would rather watch someone else being hunted by sabretooth tigers than be hunted myself.”
Blake sighed and sipped his drink.
“It’s a good thing you have excellent taste; I wonder if I should be able to listen to your speeches without alcohol.”
Charles laughed out loud. “I would never inflict that on you.”
Charles looked out the clear glass window at other geodesic domes around him, which dotted the valleys and hillsides of Central Appalachia in much the same way log cabins had three hundred years earlier. The new pioneers came to escape the crowded living conditions of the cities, but in a way that did not require them to disconnect from the global cybo-organic network, once known as the internet.
Micro homes provided occupants with all of life’s necessities for a fraction of the cost city dwellers paid for rent in dense urban areas. Communities of tiny homes had sprung up on reclaimed mining land, where inhabitants could access natural beauty outside and modern technology inside. After two hundred years of urban growth, Central Appalachia had found a way to reverse the trend. Wealthy, educated, and talented young people began flocking to the countryside away from massive urban centers, lured by a low cost of living and freedom from high crime and violence of the cities.
America was returning to its roots, going back to a time when the majority of the people lived in small communities of homesteaders. And like all times of intense change, there was a lot of money to be made.
The whole system had been designed and built deep into the mountains. Now city dwellers came here looking for wealth.
As nightfall came Susan climbed to the top of the canopy for a peek at the stars. The moon hung above the ceiling of the forest while the stars blazed with a light the floor below could not see. Up here the air tasted purer and less stifling than in the dense undergrowth of the forest.
Leaping from treetop to treetop by moonlight, she gazed out at the endless sea of forest silhouetted against the brilliant starlit sky. To her left, which she thought to be west, lay an endless expanse of virgin wilderness, untouched by human hands. Treetop running came naturally to her; maybe she had the spirit of a panther, she thought vividly.
With a tap of her finger against her left temple she activated her electro-optics, which swung a small thin visor downward giving her a menu of options for surveying the dense wilderness. By winking her right eye she selected infrared, turning her head down to regard the forest beneath her.
She’d preprogrammed the search criteria to look for a specific body mass. Smilodin Fatalis could weigh up to six hundred pounds, making them stand out from smaller mammals even in the deep brush of primeval foliage. Birds swooped and flew above her, and down below on the forest floor the nocturnal dance of hunter and hunted, which played out as it had since the dawn of time, brought a parade of darkened shapes scurrying back and forth in the 3D image provided by her visor.
Best known for their oversized upper teeth, sabre tooth tigers were less well known for their biggest strength, front legs thicker and stronger than those of African lions. The better to hold prey in place while those massive canines carved up the meal, the forepaws of the sabre tooth were immensely powerful. Once they had prey in their grip, the fight was over.
Like their Asian and African cousins, saber tooth tigers were solitary hunters. Alone in a vast landscape with dense vegetation and plenty of hiding places for prey, sabers had to find their meals without help from other members of their kind. Unlike wolves who could use numbers to find and chase down prey, sabers were on their own.
To make up for the lack of teammates, sabre tooth tigers possessed exceptional hearing, eyesight, and smell. Their nose and ears were comparable to blood hounds, and their eyes could see almost as well as eagles. They were ambush predators, preferring to hide and wait for the perfect moment to attack their unsuspecting prey. Long teeth made it difficult for prey to extract themselves, and while they were trying those powerful forepaws finished them off. After that the large cats could dine at their leisure. And she was running through their neighborhood.
Only a year ago she’d been one of the last human workers in a vanishing profession, retail sales. Drones loaded all of the goods in the giant warehouses where orders came in from all over the world now, as the entire retail process had become automated. Orders came in electronically, robots sorted and loaded the orders onto auto-trucks, and aerial drones completed the delivery by flying the merchandise directly to the customers’ home. Aside from repair work, humans weren’t needed at all. And repair bots were on the verge of taking most of those jobs too. Seeing the end she’d quit her job to focus on running.
She’d won race after race through sheer determination, earning the chance to compete for winnings through the quantum relay. Inside every worker an athlete, artist, and warrior was waiting to be freed. She had found her calling. Running was more than physical; for her it was spiritual.
Now she was running an ultramarathon in 20,000 BC, gliding above the forest canopy in total darkness. And avoiding sabretooth tigers. Gamblers were not above fixing the odds. Sending genetically engineered, enormous predatory cats after runners was not against the rules. There were no rules. And that was why she loved it.
Susan awoke to a tremendous rustling sound. She sat upright and looked around, unable to see very far in the pre-dawn fog enveloping her like a gray blanket. The morning wakeup call took some getting used to. Realizing the source of the cacophony overhead, she eased back down onto her hammock and exhaled slowly. The leaves at the top of the forest canopy were turning over to face the sun, and the sound proclaimed sunrise to every living thing below like an army on the march above the trees.
She stood up and stretched, reaching her arms towards the top of the enormous tree behind her. With a diameter of sixteen feet, the giant oaks dominated the landscape like silent guardians forever standing their watch. Hundreds of their kin surrounded her, holding hands with their branches to keep the ground beneath in perpetual shade.
Checking her reversible moisture stand she found two liters of water had pooled in the small container overnight. The smart material of the fabric pulled water from the air around her like a continuous pump requiring no external power source. Oceans of moisture floated above human beings in Earth’s atmosphere, but most of the time that water lingered forever out of reach. A dehydrated human could die surrounded by water. The first thing she’d bought had been a section of smart cloth.
For breakfast she opened a plastic pack with two squares inside. Power cubes provided nutrients, up to 10,000 calories in a single unit which easily fit in the palm of her hand. After downing the water and swallowing a cube, she readied herself to get started.
Her holo-watch indicated the year 20,000 BC. She’d come to break the record for the Appalachian Trail. She knew she could do it in under a week, which meant covering almost three hundred miles a day. The wagers were 4 to 1 against, and she figured by now the betting pool exceeded ten million dollars. If she won, she’d get ten percent, enough to buy next the next gen enhancements she needed. Well, needed and wanted, she added to herself.
Winners made a good living through the quantum relay. She got to run every day, and running made her feel alive. The longer the distance, the better the sensation.
With a wave of her hand she released her microdrones, and when they reached altitude she synced her bio-lens with their video capture. The drones stayed below the canopy, but their infrared and imaging laid out the terrain clearer than broad daylight ever could. Optic connections in the brain were wired for two eyes, and the surgical enhancements enabling a wider field of vision had not been cheap. But they had been worth it.
The nano-particles began firing in her legs, pushing the muscles far past anything a standard human could achieve. Like an uncoiled spring she leapt off through the foliage. Trail running required as much mental effort as physical; uneven terrain along with roots, branches, and rocks jutting out of the ground required runners to constantly think about where their next step would be. A bad decision could result in a slip or fall, and with that came the risk of injury.
Running while seeing from a hundred feet above had required intensive training. At first the leading practitioners suggested she think of herself as a giant, so that the distance from view to foot became that of a tremendously tall figure. Bio-enhanced runners needed even more mental discipline than traditional marathoners; training the mind to choreograph greater speeds and distances took experience, and more than a few bruises.
Her feet danced across the slopes of gnarled roots and jagged rocks at a pace faster than an unenhanced Olympic marathoner from the old days. Technology gave her greater speed and access to a course thousands of years in the past. Innovation had taken her forward and backward at the same time. Did all progress inevitably lead to contradictions? She thought it probably did.
Enhancements were just tools; without the will to use them they served no purpose. Her purpose was pushing limits; all runners pushed their limits, with champions going further past their limits than any of their competitors. Pain made her angry; she used it break barriers and as fuel for achievement. With her will to win and her top of the line bio-mods, Susan covered fifteen miles an hour through rugged terrain for twenty hours at a stretch.
“Look at her pace! She’ll beat the record for sure, and you convinced me to bet against her!” Blake turned to look at Charles, who simply stared straight ahead at the viewing screen provided by his augmented reality headset. “I mean a five or ten million dollar bet is for amusement, but this is serious money, we’re talking about a hundred million now.”
“Would you relax; here, have a drink.” Charles replied, handing Blake a Diamond is Eternal, a $90,000 a glass cognac topped with a $15,000 diamond on the side.
“A hundred million is not serious money, and you know it,” Charles chided.
“Well that’s not the point,” Blake said with both mock indignation. “The center writes checks to me, I don’t write checks to them. I hate writing checks to them, makes me feel like I owe someone. I don’t owe them, they owe me!”
“My dear friend,” Charles began like an older sibling explaining the ways of the world “the center works because occasionally everybody writes at least one check to them. If not, eventually the whole thing would collapse. Do you want to go back to a world where people had to do pointless labor to earn money? Imagine the horror of daily drudgery, to no real purpose, other than the acquisition of mere things.”
“We are living the dream outlined by Buckminster Fuller.”
“Think what horrors and wasted lives he saw before his vision came to fruition. Remember how things used to be? As Fuller put it,”
“’We should do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian Darwinian theory he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.’”
“That’s what created the whole system. Once we’d automated the tasks of producing food, goods, and delivering them, we realized most human jobs were working against the economy, not for it. Our labor became an obstacle to production rather than a facilitator. So what to do?”
“The early internet generation had an inkling, as YouTubers set to work building an audience and getting paid by advertisers to play games or react to videos. The whole thing was not just an entertainment economy, it was actor/audience economy. Some people were good at performing, others good at watching. The two groups supported each other.”
“When shopping malls closed by the thousands, enterprising minds discovered they could build obstacle courses, fighting rings, and virtual reality arenas in the old structures. People without traditional jobs suddenly found they could compete against other races or fighters, and that the crowds would pay to watch them.”
“Guilds sprang up as the system began to organize itself, training new competitors and arranging ever more grand competitions. The modern gladiator economy was born. Only there were so many different arenas nobody could compete in them all, so instead the goal was to create ever more elaborate spectacles.”
“With mass classroom schools permanently shuttered, gifted minds were unchained from the mediocre masses to focus on their true purpose: innovation. Free to devote their lives to innovation, the rate of scientific breakthroughs and discoveries entered a new golden age. The quantum relay was invented by a group of the gifted, who never would have been able to construct it in the socio-economic conditions of the late twentieth or early twenty-first centuries.”
“Our wagers facilitate the system by providing the lifeblood of the center. So don’t begrudge them a drop or two every now and then. Where the economy used to be built on labor, management, and consumers, now we have participants, audiences, and gamblers. Automation grew all the food we needed, made all the necessities and things we could ever want, and transported goods globally. Human beings were freed from a life of labor to focus on their life’s work.” Charles finished.
“Besides, I don’t know about you, but I would rather watch someone else being hunted by sabretooth tigers than be hunted myself.”
Blake sighed and sipped his drink.
“It’s a good thing you have excellent taste; I wonder if I should be able to listen to your speeches without alcohol.”
Charles laughed out loud. “I would never inflict that on you.”
Charles looked out the clear glass window at other geodesic domes around him, which dotted the valleys and hillsides of Central Appalachia in much the same way log cabins had three hundred years earlier. The new pioneers came to escape the crowded living conditions of the cities, but in a way that did not require them to disconnect from the global cybo-organic network, once known as the internet.
Micro homes provided occupants with all of life’s necessities for a fraction of the cost city dwellers paid for rent in dense urban areas. Communities of tiny homes had sprung up on reclaimed mining land, where inhabitants could access natural beauty outside and modern technology inside. After two hundred years of urban growth, Central Appalachia had found a way to reverse the trend. Wealthy, educated, and talented young people began flocking to the countryside away from massive urban centers, lured by a low cost of living and freedom from high crime and violence of the cities.
America was returning to its roots, going back to a time when the majority of the people lived in small communities of homesteaders. And like all times of intense change, there was a lot of money to be made.
The whole system had been designed and built deep into the mountains. Now city dwellers came here looking for wealth.
As nightfall came Susan climbed to the top of the canopy for a peek at the stars. The moon hung above the ceiling of the forest while the stars blazed with a light the floor below could not see. Up here the air tasted purer and less stifling than in the dense undergrowth of the forest.
Leaping from treetop to treetop by moonlight, she gazed out at the endless sea of forest silhouetted against the brilliant starlit sky. To her left, which she thought to be west, lay an endless expanse of virgin wilderness, untouched by human hands. Treetop running came naturally to her; maybe she had the spirit of a panther, she thought vividly.
With a tap of her finger against her left temple she activated her electro-optics, which swung a small thin visor downward giving her a menu of options for surveying the dense wilderness. By winking her right eye she selected infrared, turning her head down to regard the forest beneath her.
She’d preprogrammed the search criteria to look for a specific body mass. Smilodin Fatalis could weigh up to six hundred pounds, making them stand out from smaller mammals even in the deep brush of primeval foliage. Birds swooped and flew above her, and down below on the forest floor the nocturnal dance of hunter and hunted, which played out as it had since the dawn of time, brought a parade of darkened shapes scurrying back and forth in the 3D image provided by her visor.
Best known for their oversized upper teeth, sabre tooth tigers were less well known for their biggest strength, front legs thicker and stronger than those of African lions. The better to hold prey in place while those massive canines carved up the meal, the forepaws of the sabre tooth were immensely powerful. Once they had prey in their grip, the fight was over.
Like their Asian and African cousins, saber tooth tigers were solitary hunters. Alone in a vast landscape with dense vegetation and plenty of hiding places for prey, sabers had to find their meals without help from other members of their kind. Unlike wolves who could use numbers to find and chase down prey, sabers were on their own.
To make up for the lack of teammates, sabre tooth tigers possessed exceptional hearing, eyesight, and smell. Their nose and ears were comparable to blood hounds, and their eyes could see almost as well as eagles. They were ambush predators, preferring to hide and wait for the perfect moment to attack their unsuspecting prey. Long teeth made it difficult for prey to extract themselves, and while they were trying those powerful forepaws finished them off. After that the large cats could dine at their leisure. And she was running through their neighborhood.
Only a year ago she’d been one of the last human workers in a vanishing profession, retail sales. Drones loaded all of the goods in the giant warehouses where orders came in from all over the world now, as the entire retail process had become automated. Orders came in electronically, robots sorted and loaded the orders onto auto-trucks, and aerial drones completed the delivery by flying the merchandise directly to the customers’ home. Aside from repair work, humans weren’t needed at all. And repair bots were on the verge of taking most of those jobs too. Seeing the end she’d quit her job to focus on running.
She’d won race after race through sheer determination, earning the chance to compete for winnings through the quantum relay. Inside every worker an athlete, artist, and warrior was waiting to be freed. She had found her calling. Running was more than physical; for her it was spiritual.
Now she was running an ultramarathon in 20,000 BC, gliding above the forest canopy in total darkness. And avoiding sabretooth tigers. Gamblers were not above fixing the odds. Sending genetically engineered, enormous predatory cats after runners was not against the rules. There were no rules. And that was why she loved it.
Is(sue) 6
Avant(Poetry)
"There is no universal solution to Y2038"
Roger Bloor, United Kingdom
Roger Bloor, United Kingdom
Avant(Art)
"Dead Cat Grinning 'Farion entos' - Reading In Tongues"
Svein H. Skavern, Norway
Svein H. Skavern, Norway
Avant(Story)
"Math Final"
Jim Meirose, New Jersey
Jim Meirose, New Jersey
Final Exam in Math 424 8 May-Do 15 of these problems.
True or False: Bendixson’s first name was PeeWee. When. Who. Someone stood on something. Chair. Ladder. Slowly the longer hand slides round and round up by the coffeepot. Not. Bullseye black dot at the center of the clock. The pens the paperwork the desks the phones; the edges on top on sides and on bottom all the same. The top edges of the partitions the worn down flat carpet rug or carpet carpet or rug version number three ha ha the whiteshirts go to these desks pluck up their phones and talk to no one. What after the end beyond the wall what on earth is there? My urine is dark Dad take me to a doctor. Using a Lyapunov function of the form V = ax2 +cy2, show that the origin is a stable equilibrium point of the system x 0 = −x 3 + 2y 3, y 0 = −2xy2. Old because the clear plastic is pitted and clouded across but why buy a new one when the old one’s as good as as as? As? Sit. The couch the chair. Piss. See him on the phone over there Madge he must have this deal cut so deep in our favor Madge he will be in trouble at end-of-month with the top cheese of this place cheeses bosses Gods or megamen who danced this business into being hut hut hut into being into being look. Pity the fool gets what they want. What is there was no reason why think think there has to be mon mon! Let there be beets, baby. Write down the equation for a spring with linear restoring force, damping (small, subcritical) proportional to velocity. The cliff edge the cliff edge just wanted to see a view seeing a view though and jumping off are two mon mon different damned thing-things pop! There, that—it’s there drowning thus save the fucker, nitwit! Can you not see the final entry occurs in the alto in bar thirteen? Explain your notation. Rewrite as a 2 × 2 first-order system. Describe the phase portrait of this system. All swathed in clothing. The rule passed after the edenfall. Flush. No not the dogname. Wow the time’s not gone moving, let it go make it move. Books in a pile. See Madge no one here would take anyone for a ride Madge no one here would cause a customer to wobble out stunned with all empty pockets turned out like a mugging victim Madge yes a slashed-down mugging victim robbed of all signs of lifeblood Madge. Gonna guess the brave thing’s to jump and save the doomed submen—open it Father! Father! Father, I have done it—Mousie! Hope you don’t catch fat trout fever over there. Two point masses in the plane move according to the gravitational attraction between them (i.e., inverse-square law; don’t worry about the correct physical constants of proportionality). Formulate as an n × n first-order system. (What is n?). Pile of books. Block of wood. Sawmill. Debarking machines. Forests. Bambi Bambi man is in the forest danger. Each sound is a note. Even if it’s not. In the head hit the words. Found laid out at three am in the neverswept back alley in the deepest dark place within Flamingtown Madge, come up on by a big police times two Madge braking down their big Crown Vic saying, Hey look Jeff; is that a corpse there hey look Jeff; is that a real life dead body hey look Jeff. What have you done this time this time no my God what no no cut him down tell him I aced a math quiz—I aced a math quiz—by all that’s Dandy Dick Landy, drop that sax now there’s no need. Use Lyapunov function of form c(x 2 + y 2) to show that the origin is an asymptotically stable equilibrium point of x 0 = y − xf(x 2 + y 2), y 0 = −x − yf(x 2 + y 2), where f(0) = 0 and f > 0 otherwise. Write down the linearization of this system at the origin. With respect to the linearized system is the origin asymptotically stable? The day. Not the twinkling stars other side of the wall. Woke up. The blue got brushed over. Sparkle glow hidden no difference still; planets and stars planets or stars planet stars stars. Motley Crue. What do you ‘tink yes I ‘tink the hot night chief would want us in deep cover; that makes big sense Jeff let’s do it he would want us is he wants us and we don’t want it to stale up into he used to want us but now no what the hell are Jeff and that kid partner he got good for anyway. It’s as I suspected. Father gripped his head the last thing into it was I aced a Math quiz what’s wrong in the kitchen joy thank God it is over—wait Rutt Hut, it means there’s nothing to me stop right there now eh so what is the point Mouse huh? Let H be a smooth function of two variables. Show that H(x, y) is conserved (not changing with time) under the flow of the system x 0 = ∂H/∂y, y 0 = −∂H/∂x. Planets planetsstars gosh you lost the crowd kind sirs, take a step back or we can’t play on. The concert’s just started and already we can’t play on. Because of you. Thus Jeff and the kid parked the black and white in a conceivably invisible space and remote-bugged the dealer with the help of a billion or two dollar bribe to a greenhorn of a tousled here Lassie style Timmyman barnyard rube wrenchboy of a hound dog. The sax is shut down for one more day—aced a Math quiz Mother happy in the kitchen its over its over until next time tomorrow when then not tomorrow when then? By this dismissal he indicated the charges of sorcery were not proved. State the Poincar´e-Bendixson theorem. Use it to show that the system x 0 = y + x − xr2, y 0 = y − x − yr2 has a cycle about the origin. You and your stripping. Nobody asked you to strip; no shoes no service. What the fuck’s the matter, Chuck? Can’t you fucking read? Okay you asked for it. Hey Gustav. Bounce this fool. And it came down to each day almost a couple or more accurately a few stunned disheveled men with pockets turned out stumbled out from that this very Flamingtown dealer-carman-shippe joint—hey look Jeff yah yah Flamingtown Carman Shippe Motorsdoo dis and dat. Father math did math did math math math so math must be punished—so twitchy my head this minute please I got a bug boring in fast. Prove: Let A be a 2 × 2 constant matrix. If the trace of A (the sum of the diagonal elements) is not zero, then the 2×2 system x 0 = Ax has no cycles. I pity the fool. I fool fool fool, the pity. I-pity-the-fool. Pity. I pity. The fool. Chuck you ought not have tried to kick a hole in our door. Yah yah this place big Madge so big nobody here would rip us a deep one the call to the manager has gone many minutes now; hey Jeff you were quitebright in thinking we should tap the bug-ears in the postage stamp of a huddle room in the after-hours upstairs backcorner of the single-story dealership. Beaten down fought down as in dukes up men! Babypeep! True or false (explain). Consider the nonlinear system SYSTEM1: x 0 = g(x) with g(0) = 0. Let A be the Jacobian matrix of g at 0, and consider the system SYSTEM2: dy/dt = Ay. If the origin is stable with respect to SYSTEM2, then the origin is also stable with respect to SYSTEM1. This is one you can’t turn around my friend. Out out say the clock hands. Food what food? Lunch what lunch? Go how go? Tie left tie right do not hold breath; I need a water. The very room the big genius-master believed to be the best secretly impregnable leadlined no not really but just as safe plotting-spot—yah there they are this very instant attending a pep rally smack down the remember this button on the timetrap as they get yelled up with suchlike as, We must wear the white shirt. He doesn’t even like math—he hates it. He’s over there beating his head against the wall to get to the end and succeed. That’s all he wants—to prove he can make it, is a hot cheap fuck of a fib-lie. Plus here’s a tip; buy Sotex. Consider d 2y/dt2 + p(t)y = q(t). Suppose p has a power-series expansion about t = 0 with radius of convergence 2 and q has a power-series expansion with radius of convergence 1. (a) What can you say about the radius of convergence of the power-series expansion of y in powers of t? (b) What about the series in powers of t − 3? (c) Suppose y(0) = 1 and y 0 (0) = 3. Hut hut hut. Yawn. Find, in terms of p and q, the coefficient of t 2 in this power-series expansion. (d) Same question as (a) but now assume q(t) ≡ 0. Hear that shit? That’s been the problem all these years. Tightstrung sneakerholes. Not a lung sickness. Out three o’clock. Out. The light is bright. Doortap. Oh the nipple-shaped clouds hang. Oh the nipple-shaped fungibloom. Yah we must wear the white shirts the red ties and the short hair. We must each be nothing particular but pure salesman. When they see us we must be car men equaling cars. Who dresses like this no one dresses like this but Flamingtown car men equaling cars. Way up and way down and both sides of the road this neat look grew this business. It spreads across before me, crying again and again and again, Guess the secret word in twenty-nine tries and you will be released! Find a formula for the phase curves (curves in the phase plane) of the system x 0 = −2y, y 0 = 3x. Fungus-mushrooms lay dissolving in a half day of hot. Why bother why bother when it’s all dissolving no matter what. No matter what. Husks will lie bone dry fertilizer for years. Smell the garden department. Oh sorry I’m sorry. This is the reason we can never look different; the superdistinct non-identifiable white shirt short hair glasses and red tie car men who equal nothing but cars. A step further it must go though. Starting immediately after this rally, a step forward we will take, or better yet; a half step, so here. Released—freed—free—free ledgefall never was no—consider the system x 0 = Ax, where the 3 × 3 matrix A has a real eigenvalue −2 and a pair of complex conjugate eigenvalues. Prove there exists a solution x(t) (t ≥ 0) which traces out a straight line segment in threedimensional space. Better said than even this problem, is smell moist nature. Pallet racks orange and green and all browsing multisexual customers therefore I decree should all instantly dissolve. Sorry for the error. Short walk. Thank God for Dr. Scholl and his private formula, Spinal drip tap shoe inserts. See this sales floor sample big fat car man’s face. This car man’s face sadly equals other than cars. Today we change the car man’s face to equal only cars. A moment’s shallow research and a lick at God’s toetip told me a green car man’s face equals nothing but green; does not point out to this that or the other but just to itself. Don’t be a flapping slaphappy fishyfat splattering fishy-fool, no; once more do well at math like he did that day when math killed Stannie. Find general solution to u 00 − u = 2e 4t. Good shoes. Cement up and down all hard cracked one time in a while. Slap yah brought it got it. Wallets never look the way they feel when back behind pocketed the altered mind me babe. Wild the naturebabe. And a car man’s face pointing only to itself equals only cars. So I say to you today, white shirted red tied green faced man what what w-h-a-t super-exclusively equals cars. So the oathnow before we flood out over the selling floor: Mathie killed my daddy-Stan—math math math—killed the daddy-Stan—no shut up shut up s-h-u-t up and focus on finding a general solution to u 00 + u = sin(µt), where µ is a constant. Plus he’s been slapped to make sure. Slap mister wallet to make sure. Not all hereabouts are to be trusted. Good. Not all. Bad. Not all. Stratiform non-convective. Ah no just a cloud. Cumulonimbus. Bat the cloud-scene, Tommy! Bat it now Dad! Then, heat up the breeders! What I said yah.
Brothers in Flamingtown Motors salesforce!
We are the friendless of this earth.
Every man's hand is against us.
Revenge is the cosmic toggle-word click up kills click down resurrects so take revenge revenge flail it down whip it—just shut up and do the case µ = 1. 1 2. Learned that one as a boy. Yah boy. Boy! The air is not that’s how clean it is. Cleanest of all is not there at all. Yearning all yearning they come ‘cause they’re all yearning? Or was it they’re burning you yelled? Oh, shit.
We have been kicked, spat upon—and driven back to our desks, unsealed deals in our hands, again and again like wild things.
My father was a salesman, and he was nearly hanged.
Baby baby you’re condemned. Find a continuously differentiable particular solution to d 2u dt2 + u = (0 t < 0 1 t ≥ 0). Where do they come. No not that. No guesses. No go figure. Truck of noise. Car swishes. Exceed your allotment and they switch to silent. Silent gliding. Sugar gliders. Domino the sugar glider. Yonder the slathering babypeep blows. Oh—I put that in the big anus across the room.
His father was fired for lack of great monthly numbers.
And what of your kinsmen, your fathers and their fathers, and their fathers' fathers before them?
My brothers in sales, a new day is at hand.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal. Solve y 0 + 2xy = p(x), y(0) = 1, first for p(x) = x, then for p(x) = x 2 . Squirrel hop hop. Elephant burial ground. Squirrel burial ground. One as stupid and silly as the next. That car color must be popular this season. But how the fuck. Bursts of shit. Man oh man, I always knew deep in my heart they sucked. Yah I said it—you’re a fuckup of a natureboy! So what? I have read the specs and suggested prices for the new models, and they are good.
Three nights ago, a great sedan’s horn blared from the cloud way out up the left.
Another answered from the cloud way out up the right, in reply.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower. Find general solution of tdx/dt = x. That is just a flickin’ flameflick of an imaginary lie. Spit. It’s a good day not a lot of phlegm. Phlegmflow passing sticking drying hacking coughing and spitting creates the classical prototypical sore throat; like there’s lumpy dead dry hens stuck down there. What does that mean, my sales force children?
It means that Mother Big-Auto, in her palace Detroit, with all her arms outstretched, hugs us to her bosom, welcoming us back as hot salesmen—hot salesman awakened from a sleep of another full model year.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter. Explain why phase curves of an autonomous 2 × 2 system can’t cross, whereas those of a nonautonomous system can. Can phase curves of a 3 × 3 autonomous system cross? The syndrome. Veils and veils of crisscrossing diaphanous vocal chords red and raw are part of the bargain. Stomach acid. Color. Nodule. Kill all the Rivers. Gone is that side of the road all of a sudden fill the can with small nails and shake well; that will surely wake the dogs. Let the neophytes and their teachers draw near.
Where are the hot as shit quicktalking negotiators?
Give them their clipboards sharp pencils wide desks and phones.
Give them their new model literature spec sheets and floormobiles.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes. Predator-prey system: dx/dt = x − xy, dy/dt = −2y + xy. Find approximate formula for the period of the cycles very near the equilibrium point (2, 1) in the x-y plane. So must have crossed over after looking both ways safely. Small children in each hand. Keep small children safe no matter whose. It’s the instinct. Up the curb on the grass the door comes. Turn down that crappy music immediately, Kent. Swear by our Mother Big-Auto up in Detroit to be thrice faithful to her and to me and to our pure-white-shirt red tie order, and to all of us.
Rise, white shirted red tie short hair in glasses Flamingtown brothers.
Stick on your spectacles! Rise and sell!
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he. Prove: If C is a cycle then the line integral Z C dy xy − 2y is equal to the period of the cycle. Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right. Cirrostratus. Up the curb on the grass the door comes. Altostratus. Up the curb on the grass the door comes Mister Wipeout in the flesh. Large piles of flesh-dump fill raw material bins in the meat factory. Sell, lest you be sold yourselves!
Sell for the love of Selling!
Sell for the love of Big-Auto the great Mother!
Sell!
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t. A basin contains 100 gallons of pure water. At time zero, a saline solution (containing 2 grams of salt per gallon) is introduced to the basin at the rate of 5 gallons per minute. The well-mixed solution is pumped out at the same rate. What is the concentration of salt (in grams per gallon) of the solution in the basin t minutes later? And, it’s right the sign says Math Final. Stratocumulus. Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right the sign says Math Final mister punch-in-the-gut. Cumulonimbus. Hot clouds! Sell!
Sell!
By all that’s big-dawg shirt ass ‘da monkeycut, sell-men!
Sell, sell; yah sell sell right now!
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t what you want Maalox okay we’ll bring some. Find two solutions to y 0 = p |y|, y(0) = 0. In the general case y 0 = f(y), what aspect of f is related to this failure of uniqueness? Extra credit: Find a 3rd solution. Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right the sign says Math Final mister punch-in-the-gut but there’s ages ages like that Russian scripto-guy said. Nimbostratus. Okay you dragged me all the way down here to watch. So shut up and let’s fucking watch! Madge he put the phone down. Madge he really be all herecomin’! Excitement’s-R-Us this bright moment! Okay Jeff I heard enough call this in. The whiteshirt pushed back the desk the chair and everyplace really spun-turned around to the nibbly fishpair. Quick quick quick they are all up there tight one swat and we’ll have them. Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t what you want Maalox okay we’ll bring some here you go. Be sure to shake well. Write down the Picard iteration for dy/dx = xy2, y(0) = 1. (Calculate first few iterates.) Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right the sign says Math Final mister punch-in-the-gut but there’s ages ages like that Russian scripto-guy said so be cool. Madge this is it. I spoke to the manager. Hey precinct desk pappy, put down the gaslit night news. Swing your feet off the desk sit up pay attention we are really really goin’ in! He’s okayed the deal; congratulations. Jeff led the way across the road. I knew that when we crossed the sill this’d be a live one. Time must have a stop. Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t what you want Maalox okay we’ll bring some here you go okay come on no it’s not possible without the handcuffs. Give example of an equation dx/dt = f(x) for which some solutions are defined for all t and some are not. Thank God I know my fucking clouds or I’d most likely never have the balls to go in but here I am there it is there they are find one sit down the seat pushes up my butt. Close in close in. Penflash. Inklines. Squirrely but still legal. Hold back hold. Need a good bust now—be careful. Where the hell’s our bullhorn? That’s it, all done. Rising and grinning and shaking hands. They’re up; go go go all shouting like it’s some coppy-cop swat-show. Stick on your spectacles! Rise and sell! The pens the paperwork the desks the phones. No it’s not possible come on its time. Find by one step of Euler’s method an approximation to x(.1), where x 0 = x − 3y and y 0 = x + 2y, x(0) = y(0) = 1. But don’t touch yet. No not. No don’t touch. Yet. Because; homospheric types include the ten tropospheric genera and two additional major types above the troposphere—and lastly I do know as the answer to this one that is nonsense. Sell, lest you be sold yourselves! Hands up get down why do you mug? Take delivery next week same day same time. Madge you free? Yah free. Sell for the love of Selling! The edges on top on sides and on bottom all the same are all free. Why do you mug why do you sell? The top edges of the partitions. No it’s not possible without the handcuffs; stop asking just come it’s time. Estimate the rate of temperature decay (explain what is meant by ‘rate’) for large time in a heat-conducting rod of length 4, if the temperature satisfies the heat equation ut = 2uxx, with the boundaries maintained at zero temperature. Are there exceptional solutions with faster decay? The cumulus genus includes three species as defined by vertical size. So I am not so stupid as generally known and felt. Felt that is produced by matting, condensing and pressing fibers. Sell for the love of Big-Auto the great Mother; and for the sake of them plucky-chickens chicken-scratching at the worn down super-seedy flat carpet rug or carpet. See you then Thanks again bye bye carpet or rug version number three; Sell! Yes then carpet or rug version number four; Sell! Jeff carpet or rug version number five. No it’s not possible come it’s time. Find first 5 terms of the power series (about t = 0) of the solution to y 00 + cos(t)y = 1, y(0) = 1, y0 (0) = 2. For what t does this series converge? The butt presses down all is in balance and my God yes—nothing like the smell of a pair of brand new supersharp number two’s. What is the number of three-digit multiples of twenty-nine? Sell! Number six Jeff, Sell! Number Jeff seven, Sell! Jeff eight, Sell! Nine Sell! Ten—aha—good work Jeff. Good bust Jeff. Yeh good Jeff good Jeff. Yes me pat yo’ head yo’ head lil’ Jeff. And we all go home in one piece tonight, stated safe Madge to the greenfaced whiteshirt when they finally left. For the last time; no it is not possible without the handcuffs. If A a is real symmetric 3×3 matrix with eigenvalues −1, −3, −5, and x(t) is a solution to dx/dt = Ax, describe the behavior of x(t) for large t > 0. Together see I know that too I can ace this so bring it on. The pencils feel cold. Sorry, stop asking. Come on keep moving its time. Pity those who never come to life before they die.
True or False: Bendixson’s first name was PeeWee. When. Who. Someone stood on something. Chair. Ladder. Slowly the longer hand slides round and round up by the coffeepot. Not. Bullseye black dot at the center of the clock. The pens the paperwork the desks the phones; the edges on top on sides and on bottom all the same. The top edges of the partitions the worn down flat carpet rug or carpet carpet or rug version number three ha ha the whiteshirts go to these desks pluck up their phones and talk to no one. What after the end beyond the wall what on earth is there? My urine is dark Dad take me to a doctor. Using a Lyapunov function of the form V = ax2 +cy2, show that the origin is a stable equilibrium point of the system x 0 = −x 3 + 2y 3, y 0 = −2xy2. Old because the clear plastic is pitted and clouded across but why buy a new one when the old one’s as good as as as? As? Sit. The couch the chair. Piss. See him on the phone over there Madge he must have this deal cut so deep in our favor Madge he will be in trouble at end-of-month with the top cheese of this place cheeses bosses Gods or megamen who danced this business into being hut hut hut into being into being look. Pity the fool gets what they want. What is there was no reason why think think there has to be mon mon! Let there be beets, baby. Write down the equation for a spring with linear restoring force, damping (small, subcritical) proportional to velocity. The cliff edge the cliff edge just wanted to see a view seeing a view though and jumping off are two mon mon different damned thing-things pop! There, that—it’s there drowning thus save the fucker, nitwit! Can you not see the final entry occurs in the alto in bar thirteen? Explain your notation. Rewrite as a 2 × 2 first-order system. Describe the phase portrait of this system. All swathed in clothing. The rule passed after the edenfall. Flush. No not the dogname. Wow the time’s not gone moving, let it go make it move. Books in a pile. See Madge no one here would take anyone for a ride Madge no one here would cause a customer to wobble out stunned with all empty pockets turned out like a mugging victim Madge yes a slashed-down mugging victim robbed of all signs of lifeblood Madge. Gonna guess the brave thing’s to jump and save the doomed submen—open it Father! Father! Father, I have done it—Mousie! Hope you don’t catch fat trout fever over there. Two point masses in the plane move according to the gravitational attraction between them (i.e., inverse-square law; don’t worry about the correct physical constants of proportionality). Formulate as an n × n first-order system. (What is n?). Pile of books. Block of wood. Sawmill. Debarking machines. Forests. Bambi Bambi man is in the forest danger. Each sound is a note. Even if it’s not. In the head hit the words. Found laid out at three am in the neverswept back alley in the deepest dark place within Flamingtown Madge, come up on by a big police times two Madge braking down their big Crown Vic saying, Hey look Jeff; is that a corpse there hey look Jeff; is that a real life dead body hey look Jeff. What have you done this time this time no my God what no no cut him down tell him I aced a math quiz—I aced a math quiz—by all that’s Dandy Dick Landy, drop that sax now there’s no need. Use Lyapunov function of form c(x 2 + y 2) to show that the origin is an asymptotically stable equilibrium point of x 0 = y − xf(x 2 + y 2), y 0 = −x − yf(x 2 + y 2), where f(0) = 0 and f > 0 otherwise. Write down the linearization of this system at the origin. With respect to the linearized system is the origin asymptotically stable? The day. Not the twinkling stars other side of the wall. Woke up. The blue got brushed over. Sparkle glow hidden no difference still; planets and stars planets or stars planet stars stars. Motley Crue. What do you ‘tink yes I ‘tink the hot night chief would want us in deep cover; that makes big sense Jeff let’s do it he would want us is he wants us and we don’t want it to stale up into he used to want us but now no what the hell are Jeff and that kid partner he got good for anyway. It’s as I suspected. Father gripped his head the last thing into it was I aced a Math quiz what’s wrong in the kitchen joy thank God it is over—wait Rutt Hut, it means there’s nothing to me stop right there now eh so what is the point Mouse huh? Let H be a smooth function of two variables. Show that H(x, y) is conserved (not changing with time) under the flow of the system x 0 = ∂H/∂y, y 0 = −∂H/∂x. Planets planetsstars gosh you lost the crowd kind sirs, take a step back or we can’t play on. The concert’s just started and already we can’t play on. Because of you. Thus Jeff and the kid parked the black and white in a conceivably invisible space and remote-bugged the dealer with the help of a billion or two dollar bribe to a greenhorn of a tousled here Lassie style Timmyman barnyard rube wrenchboy of a hound dog. The sax is shut down for one more day—aced a Math quiz Mother happy in the kitchen its over its over until next time tomorrow when then not tomorrow when then? By this dismissal he indicated the charges of sorcery were not proved. State the Poincar´e-Bendixson theorem. Use it to show that the system x 0 = y + x − xr2, y 0 = y − x − yr2 has a cycle about the origin. You and your stripping. Nobody asked you to strip; no shoes no service. What the fuck’s the matter, Chuck? Can’t you fucking read? Okay you asked for it. Hey Gustav. Bounce this fool. And it came down to each day almost a couple or more accurately a few stunned disheveled men with pockets turned out stumbled out from that this very Flamingtown dealer-carman-shippe joint—hey look Jeff yah yah Flamingtown Carman Shippe Motorsdoo dis and dat. Father math did math did math math math so math must be punished—so twitchy my head this minute please I got a bug boring in fast. Prove: Let A be a 2 × 2 constant matrix. If the trace of A (the sum of the diagonal elements) is not zero, then the 2×2 system x 0 = Ax has no cycles. I pity the fool. I fool fool fool, the pity. I-pity-the-fool. Pity. I pity. The fool. Chuck you ought not have tried to kick a hole in our door. Yah yah this place big Madge so big nobody here would rip us a deep one the call to the manager has gone many minutes now; hey Jeff you were quitebright in thinking we should tap the bug-ears in the postage stamp of a huddle room in the after-hours upstairs backcorner of the single-story dealership. Beaten down fought down as in dukes up men! Babypeep! True or false (explain). Consider the nonlinear system SYSTEM1: x 0 = g(x) with g(0) = 0. Let A be the Jacobian matrix of g at 0, and consider the system SYSTEM2: dy/dt = Ay. If the origin is stable with respect to SYSTEM2, then the origin is also stable with respect to SYSTEM1. This is one you can’t turn around my friend. Out out say the clock hands. Food what food? Lunch what lunch? Go how go? Tie left tie right do not hold breath; I need a water. The very room the big genius-master believed to be the best secretly impregnable leadlined no not really but just as safe plotting-spot—yah there they are this very instant attending a pep rally smack down the remember this button on the timetrap as they get yelled up with suchlike as, We must wear the white shirt. He doesn’t even like math—he hates it. He’s over there beating his head against the wall to get to the end and succeed. That’s all he wants—to prove he can make it, is a hot cheap fuck of a fib-lie. Plus here’s a tip; buy Sotex. Consider d 2y/dt2 + p(t)y = q(t). Suppose p has a power-series expansion about t = 0 with radius of convergence 2 and q has a power-series expansion with radius of convergence 1. (a) What can you say about the radius of convergence of the power-series expansion of y in powers of t? (b) What about the series in powers of t − 3? (c) Suppose y(0) = 1 and y 0 (0) = 3. Hut hut hut. Yawn. Find, in terms of p and q, the coefficient of t 2 in this power-series expansion. (d) Same question as (a) but now assume q(t) ≡ 0. Hear that shit? That’s been the problem all these years. Tightstrung sneakerholes. Not a lung sickness. Out three o’clock. Out. The light is bright. Doortap. Oh the nipple-shaped clouds hang. Oh the nipple-shaped fungibloom. Yah we must wear the white shirts the red ties and the short hair. We must each be nothing particular but pure salesman. When they see us we must be car men equaling cars. Who dresses like this no one dresses like this but Flamingtown car men equaling cars. Way up and way down and both sides of the road this neat look grew this business. It spreads across before me, crying again and again and again, Guess the secret word in twenty-nine tries and you will be released! Find a formula for the phase curves (curves in the phase plane) of the system x 0 = −2y, y 0 = 3x. Fungus-mushrooms lay dissolving in a half day of hot. Why bother why bother when it’s all dissolving no matter what. No matter what. Husks will lie bone dry fertilizer for years. Smell the garden department. Oh sorry I’m sorry. This is the reason we can never look different; the superdistinct non-identifiable white shirt short hair glasses and red tie car men who equal nothing but cars. A step further it must go though. Starting immediately after this rally, a step forward we will take, or better yet; a half step, so here. Released—freed—free—free ledgefall never was no—consider the system x 0 = Ax, where the 3 × 3 matrix A has a real eigenvalue −2 and a pair of complex conjugate eigenvalues. Prove there exists a solution x(t) (t ≥ 0) which traces out a straight line segment in threedimensional space. Better said than even this problem, is smell moist nature. Pallet racks orange and green and all browsing multisexual customers therefore I decree should all instantly dissolve. Sorry for the error. Short walk. Thank God for Dr. Scholl and his private formula, Spinal drip tap shoe inserts. See this sales floor sample big fat car man’s face. This car man’s face sadly equals other than cars. Today we change the car man’s face to equal only cars. A moment’s shallow research and a lick at God’s toetip told me a green car man’s face equals nothing but green; does not point out to this that or the other but just to itself. Don’t be a flapping slaphappy fishyfat splattering fishy-fool, no; once more do well at math like he did that day when math killed Stannie. Find general solution to u 00 − u = 2e 4t. Good shoes. Cement up and down all hard cracked one time in a while. Slap yah brought it got it. Wallets never look the way they feel when back behind pocketed the altered mind me babe. Wild the naturebabe. And a car man’s face pointing only to itself equals only cars. So I say to you today, white shirted red tied green faced man what what w-h-a-t super-exclusively equals cars. So the oathnow before we flood out over the selling floor: Mathie killed my daddy-Stan—math math math—killed the daddy-Stan—no shut up shut up s-h-u-t up and focus on finding a general solution to u 00 + u = sin(µt), where µ is a constant. Plus he’s been slapped to make sure. Slap mister wallet to make sure. Not all hereabouts are to be trusted. Good. Not all. Bad. Not all. Stratiform non-convective. Ah no just a cloud. Cumulonimbus. Bat the cloud-scene, Tommy! Bat it now Dad! Then, heat up the breeders! What I said yah.
Brothers in Flamingtown Motors salesforce!
We are the friendless of this earth.
Every man's hand is against us.
Revenge is the cosmic toggle-word click up kills click down resurrects so take revenge revenge flail it down whip it—just shut up and do the case µ = 1. 1 2. Learned that one as a boy. Yah boy. Boy! The air is not that’s how clean it is. Cleanest of all is not there at all. Yearning all yearning they come ‘cause they’re all yearning? Or was it they’re burning you yelled? Oh, shit.
We have been kicked, spat upon—and driven back to our desks, unsealed deals in our hands, again and again like wild things.
My father was a salesman, and he was nearly hanged.
Baby baby you’re condemned. Find a continuously differentiable particular solution to d 2u dt2 + u = (0 t < 0 1 t ≥ 0). Where do they come. No not that. No guesses. No go figure. Truck of noise. Car swishes. Exceed your allotment and they switch to silent. Silent gliding. Sugar gliders. Domino the sugar glider. Yonder the slathering babypeep blows. Oh—I put that in the big anus across the room.
His father was fired for lack of great monthly numbers.
And what of your kinsmen, your fathers and their fathers, and their fathers' fathers before them?
My brothers in sales, a new day is at hand.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal. Solve y 0 + 2xy = p(x), y(0) = 1, first for p(x) = x, then for p(x) = x 2 . Squirrel hop hop. Elephant burial ground. Squirrel burial ground. One as stupid and silly as the next. That car color must be popular this season. But how the fuck. Bursts of shit. Man oh man, I always knew deep in my heart they sucked. Yah I said it—you’re a fuckup of a natureboy! So what? I have read the specs and suggested prices for the new models, and they are good.
Three nights ago, a great sedan’s horn blared from the cloud way out up the left.
Another answered from the cloud way out up the right, in reply.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower. Find general solution of tdx/dt = x. That is just a flickin’ flameflick of an imaginary lie. Spit. It’s a good day not a lot of phlegm. Phlegmflow passing sticking drying hacking coughing and spitting creates the classical prototypical sore throat; like there’s lumpy dead dry hens stuck down there. What does that mean, my sales force children?
It means that Mother Big-Auto, in her palace Detroit, with all her arms outstretched, hugs us to her bosom, welcoming us back as hot salesmen—hot salesman awakened from a sleep of another full model year.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter. Explain why phase curves of an autonomous 2 × 2 system can’t cross, whereas those of a nonautonomous system can. Can phase curves of a 3 × 3 autonomous system cross? The syndrome. Veils and veils of crisscrossing diaphanous vocal chords red and raw are part of the bargain. Stomach acid. Color. Nodule. Kill all the Rivers. Gone is that side of the road all of a sudden fill the can with small nails and shake well; that will surely wake the dogs. Let the neophytes and their teachers draw near.
Where are the hot as shit quicktalking negotiators?
Give them their clipboards sharp pencils wide desks and phones.
Give them their new model literature spec sheets and floormobiles.
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes. Predator-prey system: dx/dt = x − xy, dy/dt = −2y + xy. Find approximate formula for the period of the cycles very near the equilibrium point (2, 1) in the x-y plane. So must have crossed over after looking both ways safely. Small children in each hand. Keep small children safe no matter whose. It’s the instinct. Up the curb on the grass the door comes. Turn down that crappy music immediately, Kent. Swear by our Mother Big-Auto up in Detroit to be thrice faithful to her and to me and to our pure-white-shirt red tie order, and to all of us.
Rise, white shirted red tie short hair in glasses Flamingtown brothers.
Stick on your spectacles! Rise and sell!
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he. Prove: If C is a cycle then the line integral Z C dy xy − 2y is equal to the period of the cycle. Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right. Cirrostratus. Up the curb on the grass the door comes. Altostratus. Up the curb on the grass the door comes Mister Wipeout in the flesh. Large piles of flesh-dump fill raw material bins in the meat factory. Sell, lest you be sold yourselves!
Sell for the love of Selling!
Sell for the love of Big-Auto the great Mother!
Sell!
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t. A basin contains 100 gallons of pure water. At time zero, a saline solution (containing 2 grams of salt per gallon) is introduced to the basin at the rate of 5 gallons per minute. The well-mixed solution is pumped out at the same rate. What is the concentration of salt (in grams per gallon) of the solution in the basin t minutes later? And, it’s right the sign says Math Final. Stratocumulus. Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right the sign says Math Final mister punch-in-the-gut. Cumulonimbus. Hot clouds! Sell!
Sell!
By all that’s big-dawg shirt ass ‘da monkeycut, sell-men!
Sell, sell; yah sell sell right now!
Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t what you want Maalox okay we’ll bring some. Find two solutions to y 0 = p |y|, y(0) = 0. In the general case y 0 = f(y), what aspect of f is related to this failure of uniqueness? Extra credit: Find a 3rd solution. Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right the sign says Math Final mister punch-in-the-gut but there’s ages ages like that Russian scripto-guy said. Nimbostratus. Okay you dragged me all the way down here to watch. So shut up and let’s fucking watch! Madge he put the phone down. Madge he really be all herecomin’! Excitement’s-R-Us this bright moment! Okay Jeff I heard enough call this in. The whiteshirt pushed back the desk the chair and everyplace really spun-turned around to the nibbly fishpair. Quick quick quick they are all up there tight one swat and we’ll have them. Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t what you want Maalox okay we’ll bring some here you go. Be sure to shake well. Write down the Picard iteration for dy/dx = xy2, y(0) = 1. (Calculate first few iterates.) Up the curb on the grass the door comes and it’s right the sign says Math Final mister punch-in-the-gut but there’s ages ages like that Russian scripto-guy said so be cool. Madge this is it. I spoke to the manager. Hey precinct desk pappy, put down the gaslit night news. Swing your feet off the desk sit up pay attention we are really really goin’ in! He’s okayed the deal; congratulations. Jeff led the way across the road. I knew that when we crossed the sill this’d be a live one. Time must have a stop. Baby baby you’re condemned last meal please last meal take shower put on these sharp new duds so what the tags are still on it don’t matter go in there sit until your time comes we’ll let you know if the governor calls but he won’t what you want Maalox okay we’ll bring some here you go okay come on no it’s not possible without the handcuffs. Give example of an equation dx/dt = f(x) for which some solutions are defined for all t and some are not. Thank God I know my fucking clouds or I’d most likely never have the balls to go in but here I am there it is there they are find one sit down the seat pushes up my butt. Close in close in. Penflash. Inklines. Squirrely but still legal. Hold back hold. Need a good bust now—be careful. Where the hell’s our bullhorn? That’s it, all done. Rising and grinning and shaking hands. They’re up; go go go all shouting like it’s some coppy-cop swat-show. Stick on your spectacles! Rise and sell! The pens the paperwork the desks the phones. No it’s not possible come on its time. Find by one step of Euler’s method an approximation to x(.1), where x 0 = x − 3y and y 0 = x + 2y, x(0) = y(0) = 1. But don’t touch yet. No not. No don’t touch. Yet. Because; homospheric types include the ten tropospheric genera and two additional major types above the troposphere—and lastly I do know as the answer to this one that is nonsense. Sell, lest you be sold yourselves! Hands up get down why do you mug? Take delivery next week same day same time. Madge you free? Yah free. Sell for the love of Selling! The edges on top on sides and on bottom all the same are all free. Why do you mug why do you sell? The top edges of the partitions. No it’s not possible without the handcuffs; stop asking just come it’s time. Estimate the rate of temperature decay (explain what is meant by ‘rate’) for large time in a heat-conducting rod of length 4, if the temperature satisfies the heat equation ut = 2uxx, with the boundaries maintained at zero temperature. Are there exceptional solutions with faster decay? The cumulus genus includes three species as defined by vertical size. So I am not so stupid as generally known and felt. Felt that is produced by matting, condensing and pressing fibers. Sell for the love of Big-Auto the great Mother; and for the sake of them plucky-chickens chicken-scratching at the worn down super-seedy flat carpet rug or carpet. See you then Thanks again bye bye carpet or rug version number three; Sell! Yes then carpet or rug version number four; Sell! Jeff carpet or rug version number five. No it’s not possible come it’s time. Find first 5 terms of the power series (about t = 0) of the solution to y 00 + cos(t)y = 1, y(0) = 1, y0 (0) = 2. For what t does this series converge? The butt presses down all is in balance and my God yes—nothing like the smell of a pair of brand new supersharp number two’s. What is the number of three-digit multiples of twenty-nine? Sell! Number six Jeff, Sell! Number Jeff seven, Sell! Jeff eight, Sell! Nine Sell! Ten—aha—good work Jeff. Good bust Jeff. Yeh good Jeff good Jeff. Yes me pat yo’ head yo’ head lil’ Jeff. And we all go home in one piece tonight, stated safe Madge to the greenfaced whiteshirt when they finally left. For the last time; no it is not possible without the handcuffs. If A a is real symmetric 3×3 matrix with eigenvalues −1, −3, −5, and x(t) is a solution to dx/dt = Ax, describe the behavior of x(t) for large t > 0. Together see I know that too I can ace this so bring it on. The pencils feel cold. Sorry, stop asking. Come on keep moving its time. Pity those who never come to life before they die.
Is(sue) 7
Avant(Poetry)
"Koan"
Kon Markogiannis, Greece
Kon Markogiannis, Greece
Avant(Art)
"Fragment"
Kon Markogiannis, Greece
Kon Markogiannis, Greece
Avant(Story)
"Crazy This Doctor Was For Me Mother"
Jim Meirose, New Jersey
Jim Meirose, New Jersey
The pure office flowers sent out down and around the Doctor’s office and then low back down and gone away but coming back underthrough again and back and again until; the session clock kept ticking and now right now, it’s over to Sonboy, sitting and saying fast, Ma’s the one needs mind help, not me. My mind is fine.
Why do you say that Sonboy? said smooth Dr. Grundig.
I’m just here ‘cause she said to. To just come here seems easier than an argument.
Really? That’s good. You feel well then. Right?
Yes, I do.
Totally well?
Are you sure? Think about it. We don’t want to forget anything.
I’m sure. I don’t forget things much.
That’s great—but then why’d your Mother tell me you have a bad case of insomnia?
What?
You can’t sleep at night. Insomnia. Why’d she say that Sonboy?
I, oh—I just forgot about that. Sorry. But that doesn’t seem to be something that talking to you for an hour will help.
So if I said that you just lied to me about that, you’d agree you did. Right?
Lied? Ah I—no. I just forgot.
Seems pretty hard to forget such a big problem. Don’t you think so? I don’t believe you forgot. You lied.
No, I did not. I just forgot. About the insomnia. You know.
A quiet nightlike flow spread deepening between them. The Doctor’s eyes held Sonboy’s tight as he slowly said, Sonboy, hey. Relax. We just made a breakthrough. See how you talked yourself into a corner and got yourself stuck?
What are you talking about? This is not all complicated. I forgot something. So what?
Doctor Grundig pushed himself taller and inhaled massively so that his answer would be heard clearly up in the highest farthest rows of students in the jam-packed holy high roundy-headed totally accredited super-dissection and completely thorough Cranial Restoration To Full Health Ltd. College’s grandest in the western hemisphere as well as in his own mind, chintzy-slick fully chromed overly super-enormous gigantic and most impressive highly hazardous but still fully usable as long as extreme care is exercised and seat belts are kept securely fastened, Amphitheatre. He said; That’s fine, my young hippo, shit happens, my sweet, you know—dear d-d-d-darlin’ o’ mine, lots of people lie these little lies and never think of them as lies. Most do it because humans have the tendency to arrange people they interact with every day into little groups organized by their thoughts interests and beliefs. They talk in a slightly different way to each group of people. When they’re talking to one they block out all the others. For example—just think back on the last five minutes. You were honestly telling me you were fine with no qualms at all that you know it’s a fact, that if your Mother were here, you would be lying to her face. You didn’t even think one instant about what the right answer should be. You don’t know this Sonboy, that a machine in your head that you never dreamed was there. shuffled and dealt and shuffled and dealt and again and again until it found the most comfortable answer and click, bang, it told you to say it and you obeyed, Sonboy. And you only learned your answer consciously by listening in the moment as I was. Like a bottom line receipt spit out of a monstrous cash registering machine at the end of the latest of your phony transactions. And had I not questions you, you’d have cruised along leaving that lie on the floor behind. You’re just like most people rolling along dropping lie after lie after lie to so many people the machine commanded you to, simply because each lie makes that particular conversation simple and comfortable and very, very short. You’d have moved on perfectly happy and ready to drop as many similar lies during the rest of this session to get you to the end and out the door and wiping your hands of me butt—I saw inside you, Sonboy. I saw into you and spotted the machine that controls you and threw a lug wrench between the gears, and you woke up. All jarred and woozy from the hit in the head with the proverbial ton of bricks, telling you hadn’t had a clue of what you’d been saying. You probably hardly knew what question you’d been asked—or what the lie had been about. That’s how tight a grip lying has on you—for people like you it’s analogous to the kind of grip illicit drugs have on poor souls who deep down are so terribly deluded unhappy and sick--
No, wait, stop, said Sonboy, rising in the topmost row. This is ridiculous. I knew exactly what I was saying. How could I say it before I even thought up what to say? Come on.
Doctor Grundig waved off Sonboy’s weakly put rabble-rot, simply stating, You, be careful, another disruption and I will have you removed by my henchmen. All twenty-eight words you just said are just desperate moves to claw back away from the truth I hit you in the face with. Do you see this? The rest of the students must. They are not blinking or flinching all weakly like you. Learn from this all learning is hard—and that means to absorb the wisdom, every student must be that much harder—so let me continue let’s see. Where was I?
All right but I don’t get you at all, Doc.
There you go again, Sonboy—my God, there’s no slowing or stopping your headcrew. What, you got them scared to death? You might but they’re getting soft, Sonboy. The words they just forced you to ooze out toward me is just one more cheap made in China band-aid knockoff to keep stupid and ignorant of the fact they fucked up and let me get your gears all jammed. The gang in your top floor control room are in panic mode—your Captain who long ago you lazily and stupidly delegated total control of your behavior to has called general stations—but they better hold back cut out and retreat before the engine at the heart of you, Sonboy, burns out and away. Worse yet, let it go too far and it might burn you to the ground. By the way the class might be interested in knowing that this is the cause of the unexplained historical phenomenon of spontaneous human combustion, but—I digress. There’s no fire brigades in your head, Sonboy. Most fuckups made in your control room end up being fatal. There’s no EMTs 911 service EMS or police of any kind on patrol. The crew in your head answers to no government oversight agency. In your head there’s no FAA OSHA Bureau of Standards UL Approvals Public Works building code overseers no Standards Development Organizations Trade Associations Conformity Assessment Bodies IEEE no defined or documented U.S. Standards Strategy, U.S Conformity Assessment Principles, or Inspector General’s offices of any kind. In your skull rages the wild west. It’s always High Noon in your head Sonboy. There’s hot murderous shootouts in behind your face every day. Spaghetti-Western style conflicts rage incessantly up there. There are no liberating marines to storm your Omaha Sonboy. It’s only by the grace of your inch-thick bone-dome stifling the screams the gunfire the general hellish chaos that rage in your head all day and all night. So; okay and with me still, Sonboy? How’s it feel getting a mirror pushed in your face slapping you down with finally knowing what you really are?
The visible space before Sonboy shimmered and blurred and sharpened and shimmered, blurred sharply all shimmery onward huh gone some more no point in saying no more no point in trying to make sense no use. No matter what he said he would lose—just pretend it’s in the kitchen with Ma railing and ranting on some imaginary problem. Pretend this quack is Ma she’ll do like she always does wind down sit tight sit quiet until she goes on and she went on, saying, in some uncannily male sounding strained out near to breaking dry-rotted rubber-band of a voice, So. You see, Sonboy, you are in need of fixing. Inside yourself you’re all stuck nearly dead. I have to fix you Sonboy. Someone needs to do it. I to you have fix Sonboy you to have fix Sonboy you. To. Have fix, Yes no, my Sonboy. You owe it to your Mother Sonboy. Whirlybirds! You owe it to your Mother after all you are her son. Eh, Sonboy? Whirly! Named like that you ought to know nothing else. Birds! Tell me something will you please? Whirlybirds! Whirlybirds! Whirlybirds are--
What? What? What? What?
Are whirlybirds!
This is what! This fact; you hate your Mother Sonboy. Why do you hate your Mother Sonboy? You live because of her. Surely you should treat her like a saint. Not the opposite like you do. When you got her safely filed tight away behind your face. But—hey. Hey. How ‘bout this? How ‘bout we spend the last twenty minutes talking about your insomnia? Up for that? Let’s do insomnia now—class, turn your workbooks to page three thousand thirty-eight what the hell to the sixteenth power is he saying what I will give you thirty three seconds to find it who is he talking to those with no books look on with a neighbor—neighbor what neighbor and still for no reason Sonboy could see Dr. Grundig stepped back from the sudden dome of rustling murmuring preparation washing down on him from up down crisscrossing around the packed tight imaginary amphitheater towering over and back of Sonboy who asked himself what is this what’s going on what students what workbooks what class again and again tweaking and tuning the question he would next ask—what’s going on what students what class what students what what class what class what—and in the exact pinpointed instant that Sonboy’d pared all possible questions down to the solid belief that it’s best to say nothing, the Doctor stepped up gripped the sides of an imaginary podium, focused his face out over past Sonboy and began speaking louder than necessary words aiming up over and out back past Sonboy’s head, All right—insomnia, all right. We will tackle insomnia. The best way is to look at it up from the bottom. There’s much more to it than just can’t sleep. I learned this the day a radiator hose went pumping my big Ford dry and so I pulled over. Under the hood thank God for me a clamp had worked loose and I corrected that easily but had to walk miles on miles buy jugs of water had to walk miles on miles to the car to fill her back up. No choice, so; the road treadmilled—my God what the hell is this crazy he is no Doctor I will not listen—under me and I walked the road walking. A dot ahead formed to three guys milling around busy with this that and ten other things—my throat halted me up before them and said, Hi do you guys have any water I am from miles back and got miles to go and; a few chugs of water will charge me up fresh—got any at all, first; and if so, could you turn one or two bottles over to me—said as a pointed statement lined with a hard command but but—they did not seem to notice me—no no no Mother I will get Mother for this I will brain her brain her I’m enduring this madman’s ravings because of her—let alone say sure here you go—and if you one for the road too, aw shucks, no problem either but hold on let me drive these dozen or more last final nails into this table I’m making I’m holding its position with one hand while nailing with the other so it won’t be more than around three hours or ten you’ll have to kill ‘till I check our truck for your water I really got to finish this here big bronze bowl hammering out the shape does not allow my pausing halfway I got to get home before dawn—No! No! No I will not crack I will hang on yes I will because I need to get home and brain her I do—I got to shower and shave and see my day train off that siding before I hit the sack—so; when I finish up, sanding down this here tall pillar, then we will go see about you—and his face buried back down in the black basalt basin he was shaping. I would wait for him sure but thought what the hell ask these two others, and the second took a similar stand the only thing different was he had to grow claws enough to climb some fat oak up to his day-nest to get in before sunup which if he didn’t reach it in time—she did this on purpose she hates me she does time and time again shit like this I think she can’t really be my mother but; my will is stronger—well, he said all spiky-haired hysterical he simply had no idea what he’d face if he failed but it would not could not never would be pretty—so I tried the third. But he. Was different. But yes he was different. When asked for the water he just said I am their boss and I can see nothing other. I said oh, thanks—but my voice it seems triggered another I am their boss and I can see nothing other, but this one went on as I have no idea who they are where they are or—no surrender she cannot win the end is coming I will it to come ah—what they are doing, but yet I am made responsible for their success under pain of worse than death—I cannot look even twelve hairs at what’s right or left or above below or behind. I can’t spare that power since my power is limited so—go way leave me be stay back from them also there’s nothing to see go back toward them and I will spring on you grab you round muscle you down and smother you out I can do it you know so don’t try me. Have a good day may you—sweet Lord oh Jesus, Praise God I am out of here—reach your destination successfully—clap Praise God run now run go get her go get clap but class, the bell is waiting to hammer itself loudly all louder so clap clap bell hidden someplace hammer-clanged goosing Sonboy half-awake clap clap clap that is it for today class so until same time tomorrow clap clap clap clap and he moved to rise clap brood on where this may go next clap clap clap clap clap bye bye—class dismissed clap clap clap Mother you better pray you’re not home when I get there clap clap clap clap clap crazy this Doctor was for me Mother clap his whack-zany story had nothing do with insomnia Mother clap clap clap clap this day’s shot through with rips rends and holes making no sense Mother clap clap he told me I’m a liar who doesn’t value telling the truth Mother clap clap clap clap clap that could be true he had me thinking but if so it’s clap your fault Mother clap I do not want to be talked to this way Mother clap clap clap clap you told him to treat me this way didn’t you Mother clap you set me up Mother clap clap clap clap clap I am going to give you the what for Mother clap clap maybe I won’t come home at all Mother clap clap clap clap how about that Mother is that what you want clap clap clap clap want me out of your life Mother clap clap clap say that to my face Mother clap clap clap tell me get out of your life and I’m a liar Mother clap clap clap Mother clap Mother Mother clap clap Mother Mother Mother I clap clap clap can’t think no more Mother clap clap I can’t think Mother clap clap clap clap clap I can’t think Mother clap clap clap clap did you make me this way Mother clap clap you made me this way Mother how else clap clap clap clap am I like this Mother it’s time you were told what you don’t want to know about yourself Mother clap Pop! Po! P! Oh my Mother. Mother. Please. God, to be home.
Why do you say that Sonboy? said smooth Dr. Grundig.
I’m just here ‘cause she said to. To just come here seems easier than an argument.
Really? That’s good. You feel well then. Right?
Yes, I do.
Totally well?
Are you sure? Think about it. We don’t want to forget anything.
I’m sure. I don’t forget things much.
That’s great—but then why’d your Mother tell me you have a bad case of insomnia?
What?
You can’t sleep at night. Insomnia. Why’d she say that Sonboy?
I, oh—I just forgot about that. Sorry. But that doesn’t seem to be something that talking to you for an hour will help.
So if I said that you just lied to me about that, you’d agree you did. Right?
Lied? Ah I—no. I just forgot.
Seems pretty hard to forget such a big problem. Don’t you think so? I don’t believe you forgot. You lied.
No, I did not. I just forgot. About the insomnia. You know.
A quiet nightlike flow spread deepening between them. The Doctor’s eyes held Sonboy’s tight as he slowly said, Sonboy, hey. Relax. We just made a breakthrough. See how you talked yourself into a corner and got yourself stuck?
What are you talking about? This is not all complicated. I forgot something. So what?
Doctor Grundig pushed himself taller and inhaled massively so that his answer would be heard clearly up in the highest farthest rows of students in the jam-packed holy high roundy-headed totally accredited super-dissection and completely thorough Cranial Restoration To Full Health Ltd. College’s grandest in the western hemisphere as well as in his own mind, chintzy-slick fully chromed overly super-enormous gigantic and most impressive highly hazardous but still fully usable as long as extreme care is exercised and seat belts are kept securely fastened, Amphitheatre. He said; That’s fine, my young hippo, shit happens, my sweet, you know—dear d-d-d-darlin’ o’ mine, lots of people lie these little lies and never think of them as lies. Most do it because humans have the tendency to arrange people they interact with every day into little groups organized by their thoughts interests and beliefs. They talk in a slightly different way to each group of people. When they’re talking to one they block out all the others. For example—just think back on the last five minutes. You were honestly telling me you were fine with no qualms at all that you know it’s a fact, that if your Mother were here, you would be lying to her face. You didn’t even think one instant about what the right answer should be. You don’t know this Sonboy, that a machine in your head that you never dreamed was there. shuffled and dealt and shuffled and dealt and again and again until it found the most comfortable answer and click, bang, it told you to say it and you obeyed, Sonboy. And you only learned your answer consciously by listening in the moment as I was. Like a bottom line receipt spit out of a monstrous cash registering machine at the end of the latest of your phony transactions. And had I not questions you, you’d have cruised along leaving that lie on the floor behind. You’re just like most people rolling along dropping lie after lie after lie to so many people the machine commanded you to, simply because each lie makes that particular conversation simple and comfortable and very, very short. You’d have moved on perfectly happy and ready to drop as many similar lies during the rest of this session to get you to the end and out the door and wiping your hands of me butt—I saw inside you, Sonboy. I saw into you and spotted the machine that controls you and threw a lug wrench between the gears, and you woke up. All jarred and woozy from the hit in the head with the proverbial ton of bricks, telling you hadn’t had a clue of what you’d been saying. You probably hardly knew what question you’d been asked—or what the lie had been about. That’s how tight a grip lying has on you—for people like you it’s analogous to the kind of grip illicit drugs have on poor souls who deep down are so terribly deluded unhappy and sick--
No, wait, stop, said Sonboy, rising in the topmost row. This is ridiculous. I knew exactly what I was saying. How could I say it before I even thought up what to say? Come on.
Doctor Grundig waved off Sonboy’s weakly put rabble-rot, simply stating, You, be careful, another disruption and I will have you removed by my henchmen. All twenty-eight words you just said are just desperate moves to claw back away from the truth I hit you in the face with. Do you see this? The rest of the students must. They are not blinking or flinching all weakly like you. Learn from this all learning is hard—and that means to absorb the wisdom, every student must be that much harder—so let me continue let’s see. Where was I?
All right but I don’t get you at all, Doc.
There you go again, Sonboy—my God, there’s no slowing or stopping your headcrew. What, you got them scared to death? You might but they’re getting soft, Sonboy. The words they just forced you to ooze out toward me is just one more cheap made in China band-aid knockoff to keep stupid and ignorant of the fact they fucked up and let me get your gears all jammed. The gang in your top floor control room are in panic mode—your Captain who long ago you lazily and stupidly delegated total control of your behavior to has called general stations—but they better hold back cut out and retreat before the engine at the heart of you, Sonboy, burns out and away. Worse yet, let it go too far and it might burn you to the ground. By the way the class might be interested in knowing that this is the cause of the unexplained historical phenomenon of spontaneous human combustion, but—I digress. There’s no fire brigades in your head, Sonboy. Most fuckups made in your control room end up being fatal. There’s no EMTs 911 service EMS or police of any kind on patrol. The crew in your head answers to no government oversight agency. In your head there’s no FAA OSHA Bureau of Standards UL Approvals Public Works building code overseers no Standards Development Organizations Trade Associations Conformity Assessment Bodies IEEE no defined or documented U.S. Standards Strategy, U.S Conformity Assessment Principles, or Inspector General’s offices of any kind. In your skull rages the wild west. It’s always High Noon in your head Sonboy. There’s hot murderous shootouts in behind your face every day. Spaghetti-Western style conflicts rage incessantly up there. There are no liberating marines to storm your Omaha Sonboy. It’s only by the grace of your inch-thick bone-dome stifling the screams the gunfire the general hellish chaos that rage in your head all day and all night. So; okay and with me still, Sonboy? How’s it feel getting a mirror pushed in your face slapping you down with finally knowing what you really are?
The visible space before Sonboy shimmered and blurred and sharpened and shimmered, blurred sharply all shimmery onward huh gone some more no point in saying no more no point in trying to make sense no use. No matter what he said he would lose—just pretend it’s in the kitchen with Ma railing and ranting on some imaginary problem. Pretend this quack is Ma she’ll do like she always does wind down sit tight sit quiet until she goes on and she went on, saying, in some uncannily male sounding strained out near to breaking dry-rotted rubber-band of a voice, So. You see, Sonboy, you are in need of fixing. Inside yourself you’re all stuck nearly dead. I have to fix you Sonboy. Someone needs to do it. I to you have fix Sonboy you to have fix Sonboy you. To. Have fix, Yes no, my Sonboy. You owe it to your Mother Sonboy. Whirlybirds! You owe it to your Mother after all you are her son. Eh, Sonboy? Whirly! Named like that you ought to know nothing else. Birds! Tell me something will you please? Whirlybirds! Whirlybirds! Whirlybirds are--
What? What? What? What?
Are whirlybirds!
This is what! This fact; you hate your Mother Sonboy. Why do you hate your Mother Sonboy? You live because of her. Surely you should treat her like a saint. Not the opposite like you do. When you got her safely filed tight away behind your face. But—hey. Hey. How ‘bout this? How ‘bout we spend the last twenty minutes talking about your insomnia? Up for that? Let’s do insomnia now—class, turn your workbooks to page three thousand thirty-eight what the hell to the sixteenth power is he saying what I will give you thirty three seconds to find it who is he talking to those with no books look on with a neighbor—neighbor what neighbor and still for no reason Sonboy could see Dr. Grundig stepped back from the sudden dome of rustling murmuring preparation washing down on him from up down crisscrossing around the packed tight imaginary amphitheater towering over and back of Sonboy who asked himself what is this what’s going on what students what workbooks what class again and again tweaking and tuning the question he would next ask—what’s going on what students what class what students what what class what class what—and in the exact pinpointed instant that Sonboy’d pared all possible questions down to the solid belief that it’s best to say nothing, the Doctor stepped up gripped the sides of an imaginary podium, focused his face out over past Sonboy and began speaking louder than necessary words aiming up over and out back past Sonboy’s head, All right—insomnia, all right. We will tackle insomnia. The best way is to look at it up from the bottom. There’s much more to it than just can’t sleep. I learned this the day a radiator hose went pumping my big Ford dry and so I pulled over. Under the hood thank God for me a clamp had worked loose and I corrected that easily but had to walk miles on miles buy jugs of water had to walk miles on miles to the car to fill her back up. No choice, so; the road treadmilled—my God what the hell is this crazy he is no Doctor I will not listen—under me and I walked the road walking. A dot ahead formed to three guys milling around busy with this that and ten other things—my throat halted me up before them and said, Hi do you guys have any water I am from miles back and got miles to go and; a few chugs of water will charge me up fresh—got any at all, first; and if so, could you turn one or two bottles over to me—said as a pointed statement lined with a hard command but but—they did not seem to notice me—no no no Mother I will get Mother for this I will brain her brain her I’m enduring this madman’s ravings because of her—let alone say sure here you go—and if you one for the road too, aw shucks, no problem either but hold on let me drive these dozen or more last final nails into this table I’m making I’m holding its position with one hand while nailing with the other so it won’t be more than around three hours or ten you’ll have to kill ‘till I check our truck for your water I really got to finish this here big bronze bowl hammering out the shape does not allow my pausing halfway I got to get home before dawn—No! No! No I will not crack I will hang on yes I will because I need to get home and brain her I do—I got to shower and shave and see my day train off that siding before I hit the sack—so; when I finish up, sanding down this here tall pillar, then we will go see about you—and his face buried back down in the black basalt basin he was shaping. I would wait for him sure but thought what the hell ask these two others, and the second took a similar stand the only thing different was he had to grow claws enough to climb some fat oak up to his day-nest to get in before sunup which if he didn’t reach it in time—she did this on purpose she hates me she does time and time again shit like this I think she can’t really be my mother but; my will is stronger—well, he said all spiky-haired hysterical he simply had no idea what he’d face if he failed but it would not could not never would be pretty—so I tried the third. But he. Was different. But yes he was different. When asked for the water he just said I am their boss and I can see nothing other. I said oh, thanks—but my voice it seems triggered another I am their boss and I can see nothing other, but this one went on as I have no idea who they are where they are or—no surrender she cannot win the end is coming I will it to come ah—what they are doing, but yet I am made responsible for their success under pain of worse than death—I cannot look even twelve hairs at what’s right or left or above below or behind. I can’t spare that power since my power is limited so—go way leave me be stay back from them also there’s nothing to see go back toward them and I will spring on you grab you round muscle you down and smother you out I can do it you know so don’t try me. Have a good day may you—sweet Lord oh Jesus, Praise God I am out of here—reach your destination successfully—clap Praise God run now run go get her go get clap but class, the bell is waiting to hammer itself loudly all louder so clap clap bell hidden someplace hammer-clanged goosing Sonboy half-awake clap clap clap that is it for today class so until same time tomorrow clap clap clap clap and he moved to rise clap brood on where this may go next clap clap clap clap clap bye bye—class dismissed clap clap clap Mother you better pray you’re not home when I get there clap clap clap clap clap crazy this Doctor was for me Mother clap his whack-zany story had nothing do with insomnia Mother clap clap clap clap this day’s shot through with rips rends and holes making no sense Mother clap clap he told me I’m a liar who doesn’t value telling the truth Mother clap clap clap clap clap that could be true he had me thinking but if so it’s clap your fault Mother clap I do not want to be talked to this way Mother clap clap clap clap you told him to treat me this way didn’t you Mother clap you set me up Mother clap clap clap clap clap I am going to give you the what for Mother clap clap maybe I won’t come home at all Mother clap clap clap clap how about that Mother is that what you want clap clap clap clap want me out of your life Mother clap clap clap say that to my face Mother clap clap clap tell me get out of your life and I’m a liar Mother clap clap clap Mother clap Mother Mother clap clap Mother Mother Mother I clap clap clap can’t think no more Mother clap clap I can’t think Mother clap clap clap clap clap I can’t think Mother clap clap clap clap did you make me this way Mother clap clap you made me this way Mother how else clap clap clap clap am I like this Mother it’s time you were told what you don’t want to know about yourself Mother clap Pop! Po! P! Oh my Mother. Mother. Please. God, to be home.
Is(sue) 8
Avant(Poetry)
"Fireman Down. For Two Voices"1
Stephen Scott Whitaker, Virginia
1. How to read: The second voice is the primary speaker, speaker one is the chorus, so to speak. The Chorus uses nonce words, or idioglossia to mimic the sounds of fire, or resuscitation. Stage directions are given with ( ).
1. 2.
(inhale--pause--exhale)
Licolett, licolett,
ah, ah, O-----
Cackle, cackle, o,
cackle kay, licolett,
licolett.
(exhale)
Driving a dark so deep, in silence, speeding,
the roads descent and ascent, rising, falling,
becomes a dream road where we barrel against
physics, our silence holding the illusion that up
and down are the same. Unmoored,
air damp with adrenaline, a charge so crisp
a snap would set it off.
(inhale, pause, exhale)
Fire tattled, wood crackled
and made a dragon of his house.
Dragon teeth, the jagged junipers
above the eaves in shadows looked.
Wings of heat pulling up orange over orange over red
Licolett, licolett,
fire tattle. Crinkle
uh, Tattle ah, tattle.
Ah, fire ah, licolett.
Fire, fah.
(softly)
Push Push No more lips, just a bloody hole, his eyes melted
Push Push shut, his body swollen, heart exploded.
Push Push
Push Push Dragon teeth, the jagged junipers
Push Push above the eaves in shadows looked.
Push Push Fire tattled, wood crackled and made a dragon
Push Push of his house. Wings of heat
Push Push pulling up orange over orange over red.
Push Push
Unmoored, air damp with adrenaline, a charge
so crisp a snap would set it off. Driving
a dark so deep, in silence, speeding,
the roads descent and ascent, rising, falling,
becomes a dream road where we barrel against
physics, our silence holding the illusion that up
and down are the same.
(inhale, pause, exhale)
tatle, ah The exhalations were not the breaths of a dying man.
tattle, ah Rat scratch, rat scratch, rat scratch, it sounded, from the inside
tattle, ah of his throat.
tattle, ah a wet and hollow, wet
tattle, ah and hollow noise.
tattle, ah
tattle, ah. His burned tissue expanding
and cooling, his body no longer a body
but spent scorch.
Close, come
closer calls the flicker
& ash. It beckons
with bright fingers.
1. 2.
(inhale--pause--exhale)
Licolett, licolett,
ah, ah, O-----
Cackle, cackle, o,
cackle kay, licolett,
licolett.
(exhale)
Driving a dark so deep, in silence, speeding,
the roads descent and ascent, rising, falling,
becomes a dream road where we barrel against
physics, our silence holding the illusion that up
and down are the same. Unmoored,
air damp with adrenaline, a charge so crisp
a snap would set it off.
(inhale, pause, exhale)
Fire tattled, wood crackled
and made a dragon of his house.
Dragon teeth, the jagged junipers
above the eaves in shadows looked.
Wings of heat pulling up orange over orange over red
Licolett, licolett,
fire tattle. Crinkle
uh, Tattle ah, tattle.
Ah, fire ah, licolett.
Fire, fah.
(softly)
Push Push No more lips, just a bloody hole, his eyes melted
Push Push shut, his body swollen, heart exploded.
Push Push
Push Push Dragon teeth, the jagged junipers
Push Push above the eaves in shadows looked.
Push Push Fire tattled, wood crackled and made a dragon
Push Push of his house. Wings of heat
Push Push pulling up orange over orange over red.
Push Push
Unmoored, air damp with adrenaline, a charge
so crisp a snap would set it off. Driving
a dark so deep, in silence, speeding,
the roads descent and ascent, rising, falling,
becomes a dream road where we barrel against
physics, our silence holding the illusion that up
and down are the same.
(inhale, pause, exhale)
tatle, ah The exhalations were not the breaths of a dying man.
tattle, ah Rat scratch, rat scratch, rat scratch, it sounded, from the inside
tattle, ah of his throat.
tattle, ah a wet and hollow, wet
tattle, ah and hollow noise.
tattle, ah
tattle, ah. His burned tissue expanding
and cooling, his body no longer a body
but spent scorch.
Close, come
closer calls the flicker
& ash. It beckons
with bright fingers.
Avant(Art)
"The Portal - Diptera (true flies) - Chironomidae (non-biting midges) - black posterior proleg claws"
Misty Hamilton, Kentucky
Avant(Story)
"Yellow Nose"
Stephen Scott Johnson, Georgia
The tall Native American stood in silence as the flames crackled, lengthened and engulfed his brother’s house. He watched as his brother kneeled beside a fallen son, chanting and weeping. The attack lasted only a few minutes, but now the ground lapped up the blood which drained from the lifeless body. The small streams snaked around leaves and debris, carrying them to nearby depressions.
The raging fire reflected off the bloody pools. Black smoke filled and overshadowed the scene like a dark spirit. Beaver Tail's wife and two daughters left their hiding place to join him, and together, they mourned over their loss.
Another casualty, a white man, lay contorted, skewered to the ground with a large knife. His two partners had retreated and fled back to town. As they galloped off, the men cursed and pledged they'd be back with the rest of the Hounds. This gang of vile, unruly men had constantly taunted and terrorized the Cherokee, attempting to push them off the land.
Beaver Tail sighed deeply and wiped the tears from his eyes. "There was no sign of their coming."
"I know. The birds gave us no warning.” The tall man wrapped Beaver Tail's son up in his blanket. He then handed Beaver Tail a beautiful eagle feather which he had pulled from his white bandana.
"I'm glad you were here, Cloud Walker," said Beaver Tail. "You saved my life. I will return the blanket."
"Keep it. I'm sorry I could not protect Crazy Bear. He fought bravely and will live on in the memories of our people. Even now, he nourishes the ground, and his spirit travels on the wind."
"A great son, he was. But how many more of our sons must fall?"
Cloud Walker walked over and knelt beside the white man. "No more. Too many have died already." He studied the cold, pale body for a while and then noticed the shiny stone still clutched within the stiffening hand of the thief. “I remember when the white men first discovered the yellow stone.”
“Ah, yes,” said Beaver Tail. “Seems like yesterday. When was it: ’28 or ’29?
“It was 1829. I remember it distinctly. A decade later they still can’t get enough of it.”
“It seems to have cast a spell on them,” said Beaver Tail.
“It is a beautiful stone,” said Cloud Walker. He freed the gold nugget from the dead man’s hand and stuffed it back into Beaver Tail’s pouch, where it belonged.
"What now?" asked Beaver Tail as he picked up his son's body.
Cloud Walker pulled his knife from the white man's chest and wiped the blade. He then stuffed it in his ornamental sash. "Go. Bury your son. Take your family to the caves. I will meet you there."
Beaver Tail stared at the wrapped-up corpse. "And what about avenging my son? These murderers must pay. This is our father's land, our land."
"It is time to be moving on brother. The white men grow in numbers and strength. We can no longer trust them. A way has opened to the West and, we must step through it."
**********************
The cabin door creaked open, releasing the aroma of simmering beans and freshly baked cornbread. The porch decking squeaked and buckled under the weight of Tom Simmons as he moved toward his favorite rocking chair. His hand slid along the smooth porch rail, the remnant of an old tree branch. Next to the chair, a boy sat atop a wooden pail and whittled on a small stick, bringing it to a sharp point. Tom concealed something in his right hand.
"What ya making there, Son?"
"A spear," said the boy. "I'm goin' frog giggin' down by the river."
"You don't look very excited. What's with the sad face?" Jimmy Simmons worked on the stick more aggressively. Chips were flying now a good four or five feet.
"Pa, why couldn't Uncle Bill take me with him up Castle Mountain?" He flung his knife hard into the porch plank.
"Son, we've talked about this before. Your uncle Bill's on a dangerous journey. The mountain's not a safe place to be right now. There's been an incident, you know. Bill's going to try and patch things up."
Jimmy eyed his father's right hand. Tom noticed this and concealed it under his left armpit.
"What happened up there, Pa?"
"Well, I don't rightly know. I reckon Cloud Walker had something to do with it. That Indian's no good. Don't know what your uncle sees in him."
The boy's eyes lit up when Tom mentioned the Cherokee’s name. "Tell me about Cloud Walker. What's he done?"
"All I know is that Indian is trouble. Hope your uncle knows what he's doing. They just won't listen to him."
Jimmy set the spear down and buttoned up one of the straps on his raggedy overalls. "Why won't the Cherokee listen, Pa?”
Tom slowly moved his right hand down to his side. Then, he wrapped it around the back of the rocking chair. Jimmy craned his neck a bit to peer around the chair.
"Not sure why. First, he tried to save their rights to the land. That didn't work. Now, he's trying to tell them to get while the gettin's good. The government's making them move west. Cloud Walker's been the most stubborn of the lot. He won't budge."
"But what about the mission?" asked Jimmy.
Tom looked out over the compound. The schoolhouse was empty due to his brother's absence. Bill was the schoolmaster, and he ran the mission. The Cherokee-donated land had been in his possession for nearly a decade.
"Pa, did you hear me?"
Tom looked back to his son. "I heard ya. You see, times are changing. Some people just don't want the Cherokee here anymore. The greedy buzzards want their land. Think they're going to find more gold, I guess."
Jimmy's eyes ratcheted wider. The mere mention of that four-letter word brought a tingling sensation over his whole body. The same sensation one feels when about to open birthday or Christmas gifts, only this was a hundred times stronger.
"I wish we could find gold," said the boy. “So we can be rich!” The overall strap had come loose again and flopped down across Jimmy’s stomach. Jimmy’s father couldn’t help but notice his son’s protruding ribs.
"Jimmy, I know times is tough right now. But God'll provide. He always has. Don't put your faith in riches. What would your mom—God rest her soul—say if she heard you saying such?"
Tom's mustache would develop a peculiar twitch anytime he talked of his late wife. Slowly, he moved his right hand from behind the chair to his lap.
"Pa, don't you think Mom would've wanted us to live a better life? Just look at this place. My shoes have holes and my stomach does too. That wasn't thunder you just heard. Couldn't God just see fit to give us a little more?"
Tom lifted his hand and slowly unfurled his fingers. "Look here, Son. Five little corn seeds. Look at them. I’m gonna put them in the ground and watch God do his magic. But we're going to need more. Your uncle's been blessed with some fertile land. With his missionary duties and all, he hasn't had time to work it. I see cornstalks and ears of corn all over the place. The only gold we need."
The young boy frowned at the kernels, but his mind kept wondering about Castle Mountain. He thought about the adventures he was missing and what other parts of the world he hadn’t seen. Where would farming get him? Those five kernels—nothing magical about them.
"Jimmy, I need you to do something for me. Take a few of our best laying hens to town, sell them and buy some more corn seed."
Jimmy's eyes shot from the kernels to his father's smiling face. Deep down inside, a flame had been lit, and he could feel his excitement growing. "You mean you want me to go by myself?" asked Jimmy.
"You betcha. At sunup, you take Old Tut and the wagon. Keep your eyes and ears open. And stay clear of any troublemakers. Now let's get some supper into ya so ya can go about your frog giggin'."
********************
The road to Dahlonega jolted and shook the wagon something fierce. Jimmy's hind end took a beating. His face destroyed numerous spider webs, and he shook off that creepy, crawly sensation with each encounter. However, this didn't stop his whistling. His glee even drowned out the hen's cackles which erupted each time the wheel found the next hole.
An hour later, Jimmy pulled into Dahlonega and stopped in front of Roger's General Store. An old toothless miner passed by, his wagon piled high with supplies: pickaxes, gun powder, tobacco, food and whiskey. The hammering of the blacksmith competed with the chorus of dance hall girls in an adjacent saloon. Across the way, the town sheriff leaned against a post and lit his pipe. The lawman jumped to attention and made his way toward two men who had just started a fist fight. Probably over a girl or a poker game gone bad.
Out of curiosity, Jimmy walked over to join a gathering crowd of spectators. The sheriff jogged toward the two men with his right hand on his pistol. He quickly broke up the fight.
"You folks go about your business! Nothing to see here," said the sheriff. He then proceeded to scold the two drunken miners.
On his way back to the store, Jimmy noticed that the old church was still boarded up. Weeds were pushing their way through the steps. His father had tried to start a congregation there, but with little success. No, it wasn't for a lack of trying, or because of a scandal, or due to incompetence—Tom Simmons outshined most preachers of that area. Mainly, it was from a lack of interest. People were obsessed with another god, the yellowish, shiny one. Naturally, the miners spent the little gold they did find on women and whiskey. They lived it up on Saturday night. That amounted to just a few sober people at church Sunday morning. Just try preaching to a grand total of ten people each week.
"What can I do for ya, young man?" Mr. Rogers, the store owner, smiled as the ten-year-old stepped into the building.
"Pa needs some corn seed. I got six hens in back of the wagon. How much will that fetch?"
"Oh, I s'pose that'll be enough to fund a mighty nice cornfield. You come all that way by yourself?"
"Yessir, all the way!"
Mr. Rogers stepped to the back room to get the seed. With hungry eyes, Jimmy scanned the food supplies behind the counter. He wasn’t great at reading, but he knew very well the shape and contents of one container in particular. Ah, there it is and right in front of him on the counter—a licorice jar. He loved the red ones, the sweet flavor and chewy texture. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.
Jimmy's stomach growled and broke the spell. "The hens," he whispered.
As Jimmy walked to the back of the wagon, he looked over again to find the two men and the sheriff, but they were gone. Jimmy's eyes then fell on Guy Jackson talking to his mother in front of the City Hall building. Jimmy stared long and hard at the man. He admired Jackson's polished shoes and white silk shirt. He also admired Jackson's hat and striped three-piece suit. So much so, that he accidentally let one hen escape.
The bird headed straight for the Jacksons. Ms. Jackson gasped as the hen squawked and scurried between her and her son.
"Sorry ma'am." Jimmy rushed by the lady and pinned the hen against the wall. Dust and feathers hovered about as he picked up the bird.
"Boy, what's the meaning of this? Keep your distance with that foul creature! One speck of dirt on this dress, and I'll be paying your father a visit." Guy Jackson folded his arms and sneered at Jimmy. The businessman stood there like a chiseled statue.
Jimmy swallowed hard. "Sorry, Ms. Jackson. Didn't mean no harm. I'll be goin' now."
Jimmy tucked his chin down and headed back to the store. As he did, he couldn't help but overhear the mother and son finish their conversation.
"Mother, I'm not sure we need him anymore," said Guy. "Besides, it only worked that one time. No guarantees he'll do it again." Guy worked on rolling up a smoke. He rarely met his mother's eyes. They always bore into him with a devilish scorn.
"You don't know that for sure," said Ms. Jackson. “If you've hurt him in any way, I swear ... I swear you'll pay dearly. I've seen how you treat him. What happened with you keeping him locked up?”
"I told you, Mother. He gave me the slip and ran off. It’s just been two days. Don't worry. He'll remember the hand that feeds him." Jackson wasn’t telling his mom the full story. He rarely did.
"What about my idea?" asked Ms. Jackson. "All we have to do is find a good, honest soul. Someone he’ll trust at first. You know how it works. Then our little luck charm might just lead us to the mother lode."
"Too risky. Do that too many times, and our luck charm won't be a secret anymore. Then what if Cloud Walker finds out?"
"You might be right, but maybe it's worth trying once," said Ms. Jackson. "Anyway, see to it that you get him back. Or else ...” She poked her finger firmly into her son's shoulder and then glanced over at Jimmy. Jimmy turned his head forward and picked up his pace to the store.
********************
The back-jarring ride home was a lot less exciting. Jimmy thought more about the weird exchange between mother and son Jackson. Those thoughts were soon replaced as he reflected on their stately appearance and their lifestyle. He pictured himself in an expensive hat, wearing a fancy silk shirt. He was now riding a shiny sleek carriage, packed with cases of licorice. Young ladies swooned as he rode by. Young men saluted him. Presently, the whole town cheered his name and showered him with roses.
When he opened his eyes, the harsh reality lay bare. The young ladies had become trees, and the cheers were only the calls of birds. The roses—spider webs.
He looked down to his overalls and the mosaic of patches running down the legs. He thought about his future and wondered if he would ever be more than the son of a poor preacher turned farmer.
Seconds later, the woods fell silent. Old Tut came to a halt as they rounded a bend in the road. A steady throbbing worked on Jimmy's eardrums. He slowly reached for his knife, only to remember it was still stuck in the cabin porch. "Who's there?" asked Jimmy.
There, he heard it again, only a little louder. Jimmy watched the mule for signs of panic. The animal stood frozen, head fixed straight forward.
The sound came a third time. Jimmy strained to look around Old Tut. Heaped in the middle of the road was an ant pile, one that moved. Upon further inspection, Jimmy determined it was an animal—no, a small dog. Just a little bigger than a Beagle, the black and tan struggled to slide his body forward, inching his way to who knows where.
Jimmy leaped from the wagon and crouched over the dog. He examined him, but no clue what to do next. The left hind leg was bloodied, as was the right foreleg. A goose-egg knot crowned his forehead. One eye shut, badly swollen.
"Poor, boy. What ... who did this to you?" He tried stroking the dog, which brought the poor animal more pain. He rushed to the back of the wagon and grabbed an old blanket.
"I'm sorry, boy. This is goin' to hurt, but there's no other way." Jimmy wrapped the dog up, cuddling him back to the wagon. The dog wailed as Jimmy lowered him in. He wedged things around the dog so he wouldn't slide about the bed.
"You'll be okay, boy. We'll get ya back home and take care of ya."
Old Tut pressed on, back to the mission nestled deep in the North Georgia hills. At least for now, Jimmy had abandoned his earlier dreams of fame and fortune. But— another dream had come true. Rural Georgia was a lonely place for a young boy. That day, Jimmy found his new best friend.
****************
"Jimmy! That dog's going to eat up all our food," said Mr. Simmons. "I can barely keep your mouth fed. Is he well enough to do any hunting?"
"It's been three weeks, Pa. I thought about takin' him rabbit huntin' tomorrow. He sure seems to be gettin' around well."
"Good! Then he can earn his keep. Fresh rabbit meat sounds mighty good!"
When Speckled Snake, one of the old chiefs at the mission, saw the dog, he started spouting something in Cherokee—dalonige kayvsoli. The words translated to English meant Yellow Nose. In his excitement, Speckled Snake almost passed out. Word quickly spread, and just about all the Cherokee from the mission gathered to see the injured dog.
Speckled Snake chanted a prayer for Yellow Nose and treated his wounds with a special ointment. Another chief walked around Yellow Nose, smoked a long pipe and shouted out different Cherokee phrases. What seemed like a ceremony ended with the crowd singing. The song’s tones were hopeful and celebratory.
When Tom Simmons asked Speckled Snake about the proceedings, the chief remained silent. Tom didn't push the matter.
About that same time, Uncle Bill returned, but he wouldn't say much about the trip to Castle Mountain. A miserable mood had replaced his normal optimism and humor. Hope for the Cherokee was dying out. Under law, they were being forced to leave Georgia and move west.
Tom and Bill shared some whispered conversations about Cloud Walker and the incident. All Jimmy could make out was that a white man had been killed during an attempt to take over some Cherokee land. Beaver Tail's son was also killed. And somehow the Hounds were involved.
"Uncle Bill, why can't you tell me more about Cloud Walker and what happened?"
"Cloud Walker's a complicated man. The whole situation is pretty complex. Might bore you.”
“Is he a troublemaker like Pa says?”
“Well, I think the trouble finds him. He’s something of a legend around these parts. A very stubborn man. Wealthy too. Some say he's got a stockpile of gold in that fort they call a castle."
Jimmy's face glowed. "A castle. So that's why they call it Castle Mountain?"
"You guessed it. But it's more like a fort, built with logs. Up on the very peak of the mountain. When the clouds come around, it looks like it’s floating up there.”
"You've seen it?" asked Jimmy.
The clean-shaven missionary folded his arms and leaned over his lesson plans. "I've not only seen it, I've been in it."
Jimmy basked in his uncle's attention. "I heard he's a giant!"
Uncle Bill leaned forward with a curious squint. "Who told you that?"
"I'm not stupid. I've heard the Cherokee talk about him." He was referring mainly to Speckled Snake.
Bill leaned back in his chair and removed his spectacles. His bushy eyebrows lifted with the furrowed brow. "Oh, and what else have they told you?"
"They say he hunts the bad white men down and kidnaps their wives and children."
Bill erupted with a laugh. "Hogwash! Can't you see they're just messing with you?"
Jimmy squirmed in his chair and avoided his uncle's eyes. "You mean he's not a giant?"
Uncle Bill smiled and leaned forward again. "Well, that part’s true. You see, he's about 7 ft., 5, which is a giant in my book. But Jimmy, you should really watch out for a couple other giants who roam these hills."
Jimmy's eyes opened wider.
"Yes sir, two mean, nasty giants! I call them prejudice and greed. These two are hard to stop. So be on the lookout!"
Now Bill was messing with him. Jimmy threw his hat at his uncle, and they both laughed. He was relieved the giants weren't real, physical giants, but how quickly he’d brushed aside his uncle’s metaphor.
***************
The next morning, Jimmy took Yellow Nose hunting. For two hours they meandered through the woods, looking for rabbits, squirrels or whatever they could scare up. He walked with his chest out and chin up. This was important work—foraging for his family. He felt grown up and alive.
"Okay, boy, we've been huntin' a while now. I need ya to push somethin' out. We can't go back empty-handed.” Yellow Nose looked at Jimmy and tilted his head sideways.
"I know, I know. But that last one didn't count. He was out of sight before I could get a bead on him." Their first rabbit of the day was quick on the jump. Jimmy thought it was strange though that the hound didn't take chase. After all, that's what hound dogs are supposed to do.
Jimmy stroked the dog's head and picked burrs from the long, droopy ears. Yellow Nose returned the kind gesture by licking Jimmy's hand. Jimmy poured some water into his hand from the canteen, and Yellow Nose lapped it up. He slid his finger over one of the scabbed over wounds. Then he smiled at Yellow Nose, like a mother doting on her child.
"Come on now. Let's follow this trail into the ravine. Plenty of rabbits down there. And if not, we'll take us a swim."
Halfway into the ravine, Yellow Nose let loose a deafening howl. The howl turned into a steady bay, and Yellow Nose raced down the hill towards the creek. Jimmy followed behind and often stopped to see if the game would circle back. The excited hound continued to move farther away.
Jimmy walked the creek trail for nearly two miles. Overhead, a flock of crows cawed. They had been chasing a Red-shouldered Hawk. Jimmy sat down and listened to the hawk's cries in the distance. He then began to worry. What if Yellow Nose had given up and ran off? What if he couldn't find his dog?
Jimmy waited quietly, cupping his hands behind his ears, trying to pinpoint Yellow Nose's location. As the calls of the crows faded, he then heard a new and different noise. It sounded like scratching and occasional debris flying through the woods. Then came a whine, followed by breathing—no, sniffing. Then more scratching. Then more debris. Then more sniffing.
"What is that?" Jimmy cocked the hammer on the smoothbore.
He tiptoed toward the strange sounds. They seemed to be just over the rise in front of him. Must be next to the creek. Out of nowhere, objects began to fly by him. Something hit his cheek, and then a rock bounced off a nearby tree. Jimmy belly crawled up the small hill and peered over the crest.
He smiled.
"There you are. What do you have, boy?" Jimmy was relieved to find Yellow Nose digging beside a bend in the stream. Behind the dog lay a massive pile of dirt. Yellow Nose continued to dig, sniff and whine. Seconds later, he stopped.
"What're you doin', Yellow Nose? Where's the rabbit?" Jimmy eased over to the hole and dropped to his knees. His eyes bulged toward the bottom of the hole.
"What? It can't be!" Jimmy reached into the hole and pulled out a yellow rock—a gold nugget!
He couldn't believe what was happening. Soon, his whole body began to quiver, and he broke out into a dance. "Whoopee! We're rich! We're rich!" The nugget was no bigger than his index finger, but it had latched onto his soul.
Jimmy gently cradled Yellow Nose's muzzle between his hands. "How...," he paused and looked deeper into the hound's hazel-colored eyes. "How did you do that?"
Yellow Nose sneezed and began rubbing his nose against some nearby grass. He rolled over on his back and wiggled his whole body back and forth. Then the nose came up. Yellow Nose stood at attention, in a point-like stance.
"You aren't just any ole hound dog. It must be magic. What else can you do?"
Before he could question the dog further, Yellow Nose had left the scene in another unusual chase. Then followed another and another and another, until Jimmy possessed five shiny rocks. His cup of joy spilled all over him. The nuggets took on a magical quality as they rested in the palm of his hand. Much better than a few measly corn seeds. Jimmy’s eyes stayed glued to the nuggets for some time. He had never smiled so greatly on anything in his life.
***************
Jimmy's father sat dumbfounded on the cabin porch, looking down on the five shiny nuggets. He picked up one from Jimmy's hand and examined it like an elderly man reading a pill bottle. He'd never seen one before. Like Jimmy, this was his first encounter with what many might call a "game changer." He scratched his chin. "Tell me again—how did you find them?"
"I told ya, Pa. Swindling Creek. Yellow Nose found 'em. He can smell gold a mile away. It's magic I tell ya! Magic!"
Uncle Bill heard the excitement as he left the schoolhouse and scrambled across the road to see what the commotion was about. Jimmy repeated the story to his uncle.
Bill studied one of the nuggets. His blue eyes showed a hint of trouble. He knew what those nuggets meant to a lot of folks. "Where along Swindling Creek?" he asked.
Jimmy remained silent and snatched the nugget back from his uncle's hand.
"Tell him, Son. Whereabouts did you find these on the creek?"
"I don't know. Somewhere passed the big bend. Maybe two, three miles downstream, I reckon. Pretty close to the Turkey Roost Mine."
"That's some of the Jackson's land," said Uncle Bill. "I can tell you, it wouldn't be good for him to hear about this. Never have liked that man."
Tom took all the nuggets from Jimmy's hand and placed them in a burlap sack. "We can't keep 'em, Jimmy. They ain't rightfully ours."
"But I found 'em! Don't that count for anythin'?"
"Son, it ain't our property. That's stealing."
"Look, Tom," said Bill, "Jackson's a thief and you know it. He took that land from some of the very people who live on this mission. He even snookered Cloud Walker out of some of his land. I'd say they have some rights to those nuggets."
Tom dumped three of the nuggets back into his hand. As he looked at them more intently, he could see a reflection of himself. He then began to see a man in nice preacher cloths, a big, beautiful white church, a new parish and a pretty wife. Tom rubbed his eyes and quickly stuffed the nuggets back into the sack.
"Now Bill, Jimmy and I didn't move here to stir up any trouble. Word gets out that we kept these rocks, and we'll all pay for it. Our reputation will be ruined. You watch and see. No sir, I don't want no part of it.”
Tom stopped, collected his thoughts and looked at Yellow Nose. "And what's this story about Yellow Nose? I've never heard about a dog who could find gold. Is there something you're not telling us?"
"Pa, I'm tellin' the truth. We didn't just stumble across 'em. Yellow Nose sniffed ‘em out and dug 'em up. I seen it with my own eyes."
Tom Simmons smiled and tied a knot in the sack. "Well, if you say so, I believe ya. But that’s a huckleberry above my persimmon. Yellow Nose will just have to find gold on your uncle's property."
"Pa, we can be rich! You wanna live here forever? Growin' corn and growin' poorer by the minute? You know how much those nuggets will fetch?"
"Well, I ain't gonna get rich being a thief. No sir. This gold belongs to the Jacksons. There's been enough thieving and pillaging around these parts," said Tom Simmons.
Jimmy slapped his dusty hat against his pants and stormed off.
"Where you going?" hollered Uncle Bill.
"I'm going to find more gold nuggets. Come on Yellow Nose," said Jimmy.
Jimmy headed straight to the back end of his uncle’s lot. "Come on, boy. We're goin' to find us some gold we can keep."
They scoured the creeks and even some abandoned mines. The determined boy searched all afternoon and even until dark. For the next few days, Jimmy continued his quest for instant riches. Who knows how many acres they covered? Nothing. Not a peep out of Yellow Nose.
Every time he sat down for a break, Jimmy's eyelids would droop shut. The prospects of finding gold had exhausted him physically and emotionally. He couldn't think straight. Even worse, he hadn't collected any meat for an evening meal.
********************
That next evening, Jimmy slowly dragged himself into the cabin. He propped his smoothbore in the corner and hung up his hat. Soup simmered in a kettle above the fire, but Jimmy was too tired to eat.
"Well. What did you bring us?" asked Uncle Bill. "Rocks or rabbits? I think I'd be pleased with a rabbit right now."
"It's not working. There's gotta be more gold out there. There's gotta." Jimmy paused and released a heavy sigh. "Oh, forget it—I'm beat."
Uncle Bill smiled. "Get some rest, Jimmy. You're going to work yourself sick."
He rubbed Jimmy's neck and roughed up the boy's hair. "I'm sure Yellow Nose will prove himself soon. That must be one special dog. I see how the Cherokee look at him. You want to hear something Speckled Snake told me?”
"What … What'd he say?" asked Jimmy.
"Something about Yellow Nose being good medicine."
"What do you mean by good medicine?" asked Jimmy.
"He told me how Yellow Nose led Cloud Walker to a remote cave. That cave contained some of the purest gold in these parts. Cloud Walker intends to use the gold to help his people move west.”
“Yellow Nose did all that?”
“Yes sir. You’ve got a one-of-a-kind dog right there.
"You shoulda seen him, Uncle Bill. Diggin' them holes. Findin' that gold. I never seen anthin' like it. But why can't he find more?"
"I don't know," said Uncle Bill. "Maybe he can't always control the gift."
The cabin door opened and Tom Simmons stepped in. He looked at Yellow Nose and turned a sad gaze towards his son. The kind of expression you give when someone in the family has died. He then tossed something to Bill.
"What's this? I thought you were going to return the nuggets to Jackson," said Bill.
"I did, and he was grateful. He up and gave us one back. I thought you might could use it for the mission. By the way, I heard some news on Cloud Walker. The Hounds raided his fort and chased him into the hills.”
“Did he get away?”
“That’s what I gathered,” said Tom. “Sounded like some of the other Indians headed north and hid in the mountains.”
Tom sat down across from Jimmy and slowly tapped on the table. "Jimmy, your find has caused quite a stir in town. Nuggets like that haven't been found in these creek bottoms in years. Jackson was curious. He knows about the dog."
"What?" asked Jimmy.
"He knows about Yellow Nose. Described exactly how he looks. Seems the dog belongs to him." Tom shut up and gave the boy time to take it in. A red hue began to move up into Jimmy's face.
"He wants him back, Jimmy. I'm sorry. That's one reason he let me keep the nugget. For all our trouble of taking care of the dog," said Tom.
Jimmy sat down beside Yellow Nose. "Why would a man like Guy Jackson want Yellow Nose? He’s rich. Could have as many dogs as he wants.”
“That’s kinda what I was thinking,” said Tom. “But the dog seems to be special to him.”
“Unless ... unless he knows the secret,” said Bill “That's got to be it. Don't you see?"
"What secret?" asked Tom.
"You, know. He wants Yellow Nose so he can find more gold,” said Bill.
"I suppose that’s a possibility." Tom paused and fiddled with his hat. "Look, I know the dog is special, but the fact stands—he belongs to Jackson. Besides, having a dog with a gift like that—you’re just inviting trouble.”
“But I love ‘im, Pa! God gave ‘im to me. Could you talk to Mr. Jackson one more time? Maybe he’ll understand. You know I met him one time—and his mom. They may be high class, but they seemed like decent folks.”
Tom sat in silence for a minute and then thought out loud. “Maybe I can buy the dog back. Maybe when the corn comes in we can do a trade.”
"Jackson’s not going to trade for any corn,” said Bill. “Jimmy, the Jacksons aren’t the good and respectable people you may think them to be. I’ve known Guy for quite a while now. The fact that he had the dog probably means he stole Yellow Nose from the Cherokee. Cloud Walker used to take care of the dog. I’d be willing to bet you Jackson’s the one that beat Yellow Nose to a pulp.”
Jimmy buried his head beneath his hands and looked down at the table. Those last few comments filled in the missing gaps from the conversation he had overheard between Guy and his mother. Now it made sense. His opinions of the Jacksons were making a full turn.
"What do you say, Tom? Why don’t you let me take Yellow Nose away from here? I’ll figure out a way so Jimmy can visit him.”
"Bill, I promised Jackson. I'm a man of my word. If we don't give him the dog, we're gonna pay dearly. He strikes me as the kinda man who'll do anything to get what he wants. Jackson told me he'd be here around sunup to fetch the dog.”
"Pa, I won’t let you do that! I’ll fight if I have to!" Jimmy grabbed Yellow Nose around the neck and squeezed hard. Then and there, Jimmy resolved never to turn the dog over to Jackson.
******************
The log cabin shook as someone rapped violently on the front door. It was 3 a.m. An unusual time for visitors.
"Open up, Simmons!" said the stranger. "Open up, now!"
Tom Simmons grabbed his musket and slowly moved towards the door.
"Who's there?"
"It's Guy Jackson. I've come to get the dog."
Tom laid the rifle down and began unlatching the door. "We weren't expecting you until daylight."
"I decided I couldn't wait. I need the dog now!" barked Jackson.
As Tom released the latch, the door flew open, making him stagger backwards. In marched Jackson, led by his pistol. "Give him to me, Simmons!" ordered Jackson. "And the nugget!"
Tom turned toward Jimmy's cot. His heart sank. No hat, no smoothbore, no Yellow Nose, and no Jimmy. Sometime during the night, the boy quietly slipped out. It was the only answer. He just couldn't give Yellow Nose up.
"Where's the dog?" asked Jackson.
"Jackson, I'm afraid you've come too early. My boy's not back from his coon hunting trip. Why don't you come back later?"
"Don't lie to me, Simmons. Now, where are they?"
Hearing the commotion, Bill came out of his room. Jackson fanned his pistol back and forth between Tom and Bill.
"What's going on here? Put that gun down! I won't have bloodshed on this mission!"
Jackson ignored Bill's demand. "I came to get that dog, and I mean to get him back."
"Why the show of force over a little hound dog? And this hour of the morning! He is just a dog—right? Or is he something more?" asked Bill.
"It's none of your business, Bill." Uneasiness churned in Guy's gut. From Tom's earlier account, he knew the two men had heard about the dog’s special gift. Had they believed the story, and had it spread?
"That dog's been mine for years." Jackson sighed and glanced toward the floor, trying to work up a sad, sentimental wave of emotion. He turned toward the cabin window and hung his head low. All this followed by a quickly fabricated story about his history with Yellow Nose. Only, it didn't sound very convincing.
"Let me get this straight," said Bill, "so, you gave the dog a Cherokee name? Tell me, do you make it a practice of beating your pets? Come on, I know this dog’s been with the Cherokee long before you got a hold of him!"
"Shut up! Both of you! I told you, it's none of your concern why I want the dog," said Guy.
Guy reached for Tom's rifle lying on the table and then lobbed it to one of his men standing on the porch. Both of Jackson's men made their way into the cabin. "You boys stay here and stand guard. Don't let them leave this place. I'm going after the dog."
Tom stepped forward. Jackson's thug rested the rifle's muzzle on Tom's chest. "Jackson, if you harm a hair on my boy's head, I'll put aside my nice manners. I swear! You’ll get no mercy from me!”
Jackson slowly holstered his pistol. "I won't harm the boy if he gives me what I want. If he doesn't, then I make no promises."
Tom Simmons pressed hard into the gun barrel, making Jackson's man step back. The fiery stare he made into Jackson's eyes left no doubt about Tom Simmons’s resolve. "I'll make you this promise," said Tom. "You harm my boy and nothing stops me from killing you."
Jackson whispered something in his men’s ears and walked out to his horse. From the yard, he grabbed an axe lodged in a chopping block. He mounted his horse, grimly tipped his hat and rode off.
**************
Jimmy stumbled and staggered now with each step. He and Yellow Nose had been hiking into the hills for the past six hours. His legs felt like noodles, and the smoothbore grew heavier with each step. The worn-out hunting boots offered very little comfort, and he soon realized the beginnings of two nice blisters.
The full moon had faithfully guided the way along some rarely traveled trails. Now the sun began to creep up behind the trees. Barred Owls announced the morning with their, who-cooks-for-you, songs, and wild turkeys scurried about the landscape. Except for the wildlife, the mountains seemed deserted. And they seemed to stretch on endlessly. A person could hide in these parts for years—so Jimmy thought.
"Good boy, Yellow Nose. I'm not gonna let that Guy Jackson hurt you anymore. We're goin' far away from him. We'll live off the land. Course you probably need to learn how to chase some rabbits." Jimmy chuckled and rubbed behind Yellow Nose's ears.
It was a beautiful thing—a boy and his dog, an ancient and tried match. Yellow Nose slobbered all over Jimmy’s face. Though he possessed a primitive mind, he somehow knew that his gift could ruin the boy. He also knew that Jimmy loved him dearly. Through the wall of greed that cloaks every human heart he could sense something different about Jimmy. Something inside the dog began to swell. He then unleashed a joyous long howl. The sound spread up the mountains and echoed across the valley.
Seconds later, a strange whistle, barely perceptible to the human ear, came flowing through the woods. Yellow Nose's ears lifted. In a flash, the dog disappeared into the lush greenness of the forest.
"Wait! Yellow Nose! Come back!” Jimmy ran after the dog. The boy stopped periodically and released his own whistles, but each time, the sounds of the baying dog seemed farther, and farther away.
After a mile or two of running, Jimmy spotted a high outcropping of rocks. As he neared the rocks, he smelled smoke which suggested a campsite. Who would possibly camp out here in the middle of nowhere?
Jimmy crept closer to the smoke. He thought he could make out the form of a horse. It moved. Yes, definitely a horse. What should he do? What if these were robbers hiding out, or what if it's the Hounds? Fear gripped him hard; his heart pounded.
Jimmy followed his inner urgings and turned. When he did, he found himself staring into the chest of a giant. The terror clamped his feet to the ground. Then the tall man brought down his fist on the boy's head, and Jimmy’s world went dark.
********************
A warm, wet sensation swept over the boy’s face. His eye's cracked open and his surroundings slowly fell into focus again. Yellow Nose lavished Jimmy's cheeks with loyal licks and kisses. Jimmy rewarded the dog with a bear hug.
"He likes you," said a deep voice. A huge man sat across the campfire, staring at Jimmy while sharpening his knife. The sound of grinding metal was unnerving yet calculated.
Jimmy roused himself and finally worked up the courage to say something. "What happened? Did you hit me?"
"Yes, and I could have done it a lot harder. What did you expect, sneaking up on my camp like that?"
“Sorry, Mister. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You like that dog, do you?" asked the stranger.
Jimmy rubbed the top of his sore head. "Well he ... he is my dog, Mister. Now, if ... if you don't mind, we'll be goin'."
"Yellow Nose belongs to no one. He's a gift from the World beyond."
Jimmy studied the man for some time. What stood out the most was the man's golden cross necklace. After a long silence, Jimmy asked the question: "Who are you?"
"I'm Cloud Walker."
The name shot through Jimmy's heart like an arrow. He tried to churn out some words, but the excitement had struck him mute.
"What is it, young man? Did you lose your tongue?"
"No ... no sir. You mean you're Cloud ... Cloud Walker ... from ... from Castle Mountain?" The words began to awkwardly trickle out. Jimmy's expression changed from surprise to delight to utter confusion.
"Not what you were expecting? What were you expecting—a half-naked savage? A blood-thirsty outlaw?" Cloud Walker raked the knife across his arm, taking off several hairs.
"But you killed that white man. Or at least that's what I heard." Jimmy wished he had kept his mouth shut on that last piece of information.
Cloud Walker took a gulp of water and then set the cup down. "Self-defense. He was trying to murder my brother and me. He wanted our land."
Cloud Walker slowly stood up and stuffed his knife behind a very wide turquoise-colored belt. Jimmy stared at the man’s exquisite moccasins and worked his way up to the fine bandana which crowned Cloud Walker’s head. Sort of looked like a dignitary from another country—Europe, maybe.
"You must be young Jimmy Simmons." Cloud Walker smiled and lit a small, black pipe.
Jimmy looked even more perplexed. "You know me?"
"Don't look so surprised. The trees have whispered messages, and the birds have brought me news. You took care of Yellow Nose and for that, I'm eternally grateful."
Yellow Nose rubbed his body against the Cherokee’s leg. Not only did the tail wag, the dog's whole body wagged. And it looked as if Yellow Nose were grinning—in a dog, kind of way. Cloud Walker stooped and affectionately rubbed under the dog's chin and then kissed him on the head.
Jimmy looked over to Cloud Walker with an unshakable dread. "So Yellow Nose does belong to you."
"No, Jimmy. I thought I had set the record straight on that. This dog belongs to no man. Surely you know his ability. Don't tell me that the trees have lied." Cloud Walker lifted the gold necklace and smiled. Jimmy nodded; the two understood each other perfectly.
"Let me be honest with you now," said Cloud Walker. "My people have told me how you found the dog and nurtured him back to health. You are part of a great family. Your uncle is the only white man I ever trusted. That is why I gave him the land for the mission."
"So you're the chief who gave him the land."
"The land belongs to the Great Spirit. We all just get to take care of it from time to time. Same way with Yellow Nose. We all get to enjoy his loyalty and love. He’s unlike any other dog in the world.”
"So how does he do it?" asked Jimmy.
"First things first. Why are you here? Are you and Yellow Nose on a treasure hunt?" Cloud Walker smiled.
"No sir. There's this man who knows what Yellow Nose can do. He's tryin' to steal Yellow Nose back. But I won't let 'im."
Cloud Walker began spreading out the coals in the campfire. "This man, does he go by the name of Jackson?"
"Yes sir! You know 'im?"
"Oh yes, I'm afraid I do. So when was the last time Yellow Nose found a nugget for you?"
Jimmy responded with a frown. "It's been a couple days. He found five nuggets to start, but we're having a dry spell."
Cloud Walker puffed on the pipe and reached down to fondle his cross necklace. "I see. A dry spell you say. So you want to know Yellow Nose's secret?"
"I just want to know if I'm doing anything wrong. Does his ability come and go?"
"Jimmy, only the Great Spirit knows these things. But I believe he has fitted Yellow Nose for these times. This miracle dog is an answer to my prayers—my people’s prayers."
"What do you mean by that?"
Cloud Walker stuffed the necklace back into his shirt. "In due time, young man. In due time."
Jimmy persisted with his previous question. "So what's the trick? How do you get him to find more gold?"
Cloud Walker erupted into a hearty laugh. "It doesn't work that way. You have it—don't you? Look at you. It's written in your eyes."
"Have what? What're ya talkin' about?" asked Jimmy. He began to chuckle, not fully getting Cloud Walker’s meaning.
"The fever. Obviously, you have the fever." He started another round of laughter.
"What's so funny?" Jimmy had stopped laughing. "Is it so bad to wanna be rich? It don't look like you're hurtin' none yourself."
Cloud Walker's light-hearted mood left him, and he glared at Jimmy so that the boy had to look away. "You know nothing about me, Jimmy. You have no right to judge. What I have and what I do is for my people. It's for their survival. And because of that Yellow Nose has been my friend."
"I don't understand," said Jimmy.
Cloud Walker sniffed the air, turned and sneered at the woods. His right hand now rested on the knife still tucked away in his belt. Not wanting to alarm Jimmy, he turned back around, brought his hand down to his side and continued to address the young man.
"Why should I trust you with this?” said Cloud Walker.
Yellow Nose walked over to Jimmy and rested his head against the boy's chest.
"What I'm about to tell you, you must never repeat to any man. You understand me? I don't know why I'm telling you this, but you seem to have won Yellow Nose's friendship."
Jimmy nodded and stroked the dog's head.
"Yellow Nose only finds gold for those with pure motives and a generous heart. I didn't understand it myself at first. But when greed and the fever come, he knows. He always knows, Jimmy."
"But I'm not greedy! I only want a better life! What's so wrong with that?"
"You have the look," said Cloud Walker. "I've seen that look for the past decade. That look has harmed my people in countless ways."
Jimmy stood, turning his back on the giant Cherokee. The boy buried his hands into his pockets and hung his head low, exhaling a soft sigh.
Cloud Walker peered once again into the forest but kept talking. His hand again rested on the knife. "It's not too late, Jimmy. I see a bond between you and Yellow Nose. He must see something greater in your heart."
"I'm so tired of being poor. That’s all my family’s ever been," said Jimmy.
"Take courage my young friend. There's more than one way to be rich."
Yellow Nose unleashed a menacing growl. Jimmy wheeled around to find that Guy Jackson had slinked into the camp. Cloud Walker took two steps back. Jackson's savage grin and pistol ruled the moment.
*******************
"Well, well what do we have here?" said Guy.
"I smelled your stench when you were but a mile off," said Cloud Walker, calmly. "What are you doing here? Why the gun?"
"I was looking for my dog but looks like I’ve found more than that. You out here in the middle of nowhere can mean only one thing: The hiding place. It must be close by."
"Haven't you taken enough? You and those despicable Hounds. My people need supplies to make this trip. You got your wish. The land is yours. Now, let us leave in peace."
Guy pointed the gun toward Jimmy. "Does he know about the gold?"
Cloud Walker shook his finger at Guy. "Keep the boy out of this! No need for him to get involved."
"Oh, I don't think so. I need all the bargaining chips I can get. See, I know about the gold and your grand plan to help your brothers move west. Now take me to your stash or the boy and the dog get it."
Cloud Walker stepped sideways, deliberately placing himself between Guy and Jimmy. “Stop and think. You kill me and you'll never find that gold. Yellow Nose will never help you. Jimmy doesn't know."
"I won’t be trifled with," said Guy. Thinking he no longer needed the dog, he aimed his pistol toward Yellow Nose and squeezed the trigger. A faulty cap caused the gun not to fire.
Cloud Walker grinned. "It looks like we will have to settle this my way."
Cloud Walker slowly drew his knife and motioned Guy to a fight. Guy in turn dropped his pistol and rolled up his sleeves. "Okay, you want to settle this the hard way. You always were a stubborn one," said Guy. He stepped over to his former hiding spot behind a large virgin pine and retrieved Tom Simmons’s axe. Yellow Nose stood behind Cloud Walker, fur bristling, teeth displayed.
"Look familiar, Jimmy?" Jackson cast an evil smile at Jimmy and slid his thumb along the smooth, shiny blade. With a swinging and chopping motion, he attempted to cut his tall opponent in half. The two pivoted slowly around the smoldering campfire. Jimmy tried to keep Cloud Walker between him and Jackson. Jimmy also managed to grab Yellow Nose by the scruff of the neck, keeping the dog from joining the fight.
Cloud Walker dodged another swing but stayed calm. "I never took you for a thief in the beginning. You thought Yellow Nose would be your ticket to riches. But surely you know by now—he won't find gold for a greedy heart."
"I'll find the gold, with or without the dog!" Guy breathed harder now. Sweat trickled down his forehead and neck. Some of his swings came close to the Cherokee’s upper torso.
Cloud Walker sliced into Jackson's face and shoulder with his razor-sharp knife. This took Guy off guard, allowing Cloud Walker to plow his gigantic fist into Guy's ribs. Guy cursed and sprang back, swinging the axe furiously. "I'm going to kill you, Cloud Walker!"
Jimmy listened intently to the two men. The tense exchange quickly moved into a bloody brawl. He saw himself in that man swinging the axe, and it frightened him. The fine silk shirt had now become torn and soiled.
Jimmy tried to follow the movements of his Cherokee shield, but he overlooked a tree stump and tripped. This misstep caused him to loosen his grip on Yellow Nose, giving the dog the opportunity he'd been waiting for. The dog darted around Cloud Walker and latched onto Jackson’s ankle. Jackson brought the axe down, smacking Yellow Nose with a hard blow. Yellow Nose yelped loudly. Though not a mortal wound, the axe mutilated the dog's hind leg.
Cloud Walker had the advantage on size and strength, but Guy was very nimble. Twice, Guy cut into Cloud Walker's left arm, rendering it almost useless. The giant was growing impatient and tired. Despite the pain, Yellow Nose attempted to move back into the fight, and Jackson brought the axe head up to finish him off.
"Enough!" yelled Cloud Walker. With a final burst of strength, Cloud Walker blocked the swing of the axe handle and bare-fisted Guy across the face, knocking him to the ground. Guy held the handle tightly and fell in between Cloud Walker’s legs. Seeing an opportunity, Guy reared both his legs back and kicked Cloud Walker's knees outward. This was enough to break both of them and send him to the ground, reeling in pain. Guy stood and took control of the axe; he then plunged it into the giant’s chest. Blood spewed everywhere as Cloud Walker gasped for air. Guy released the handle and retrieved his gun.
As Cloud Walker struggled for his life, Guy placed a fresh cap on the hammer of his pistol. Jackson then walked back over to Cloud Walker and pointed the gun toward the fallen giant’s forehead. A large boom sounded through the forest. Cloud Walker stared into the barrel of the pistol, but where was the smoke? He did, however, notice a growing, red stain on Guy's sweat-drenched shirt. Jackson brought his hand up to the stain and looked on it in disbelief. He toppled over like a felled tree to Cloud Walker's side and died.
Shaking all over, Jimmy lowered the smoothbore rifle to his side. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks. He had shot Jackson at close range, but what else could he have done. The big question remained: Had he acted in time?
Yellow Nose cleaned Cloud Walker's face with his gracious tongue. He smiled at the dog and yearned to pet him one last time but lacked sufficient strength in his arms. At a loss for how to help his friend, Jimmy kneeled to Cloud Walker's side. With a final struggle, the dying Cherokee whispered in the boy’s ear.
"Jimmy ... Not too late, my friend. Help ... help my people. The gold is theirs. I leave it to your charge." He fixed his eyes on a huge rock overhang. “In the mountain, Jimmy. Go into the mountain.” Though he had just met the young man and didn't know if he could completely trust him, he knew this was the closing chance to help his people.
Cloud Walker stared at Yellow Nose one last time and then turned his eyes to Jimmy. "He knows, Jimmy. He knows." With that, the great Cloud Walker breathed his last and joined his fathers.
********************
The gold was a mere hundred yards from Cloud Walker's camp, deep in the bowels of a well-hidden cave. Jimmy and his Uncle Bill brought the gold back to the mission and distributed it to Cloud Walker's family members and friends. This meant money for supplies, horses and wagons, and a less tortuous journey west for some. Thousands still died along the tear-stained trail.
Bill Simmons followed the Cherokee west, and Tom turned the mission into an orphanage. He was right about the fertile land. Cornfields now flourished and fed about thirty orphaned boys.
"You have everything ya need?" asked Tom. "You know it may take weeks to find them."
"I'll be okay, Pa. I’ve lived with ‘em enough to know how to find their camps." Jimmy looked behind him. In the wagon, Yellow Nose stood on three legs, his body oscillating with joy. "It will probably be spring when I get back."
A secret compartment filled with gold lay beneath the wagon floor. Jimmy was headed north to a small band of Cherokee who had traveled to and hidden in the Smoky Mountains. Yellow Nose had been busy over the last couple of years. Gold nuggets were getting harder and harder to find, but the Cherokee had left behind a few caches.
The Simmons never kept any of the gold for themselves. Jimmy had found his fortune in friendships, and no one could take that away from him. Yellow Nose's special gift had finally played out, but Jimmy wanted his Cherokee friends to have this last remaining treasure.
"This is for you." His Pa handed him a small leather pouch.
Jimmy emptied the contents into his hand. Five corn kernels tumbled out. "What's this for?"
"Don't you remember that day at the cabin? I told you that God would do his magic. I decided to save them as a reminder."
"Thanks, Pa. You were right. I wonder though: Will Yellow Nose ever get his gift back?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Jimmy smiled and grabbed Yellow Nose around the neck. The hound worked his tongue back and forth across Jimmy's face; the tail pounded on the seat.
The wagon set off, creaking and rocking down the dusty country road. The young boy and his dog rode away, swallowed whole by the mountain’s cool and inviting shadows.
The End
The raging fire reflected off the bloody pools. Black smoke filled and overshadowed the scene like a dark spirit. Beaver Tail's wife and two daughters left their hiding place to join him, and together, they mourned over their loss.
Another casualty, a white man, lay contorted, skewered to the ground with a large knife. His two partners had retreated and fled back to town. As they galloped off, the men cursed and pledged they'd be back with the rest of the Hounds. This gang of vile, unruly men had constantly taunted and terrorized the Cherokee, attempting to push them off the land.
Beaver Tail sighed deeply and wiped the tears from his eyes. "There was no sign of their coming."
"I know. The birds gave us no warning.” The tall man wrapped Beaver Tail's son up in his blanket. He then handed Beaver Tail a beautiful eagle feather which he had pulled from his white bandana.
"I'm glad you were here, Cloud Walker," said Beaver Tail. "You saved my life. I will return the blanket."
"Keep it. I'm sorry I could not protect Crazy Bear. He fought bravely and will live on in the memories of our people. Even now, he nourishes the ground, and his spirit travels on the wind."
"A great son, he was. But how many more of our sons must fall?"
Cloud Walker walked over and knelt beside the white man. "No more. Too many have died already." He studied the cold, pale body for a while and then noticed the shiny stone still clutched within the stiffening hand of the thief. “I remember when the white men first discovered the yellow stone.”
“Ah, yes,” said Beaver Tail. “Seems like yesterday. When was it: ’28 or ’29?
“It was 1829. I remember it distinctly. A decade later they still can’t get enough of it.”
“It seems to have cast a spell on them,” said Beaver Tail.
“It is a beautiful stone,” said Cloud Walker. He freed the gold nugget from the dead man’s hand and stuffed it back into Beaver Tail’s pouch, where it belonged.
"What now?" asked Beaver Tail as he picked up his son's body.
Cloud Walker pulled his knife from the white man's chest and wiped the blade. He then stuffed it in his ornamental sash. "Go. Bury your son. Take your family to the caves. I will meet you there."
Beaver Tail stared at the wrapped-up corpse. "And what about avenging my son? These murderers must pay. This is our father's land, our land."
"It is time to be moving on brother. The white men grow in numbers and strength. We can no longer trust them. A way has opened to the West and, we must step through it."
**********************
The cabin door creaked open, releasing the aroma of simmering beans and freshly baked cornbread. The porch decking squeaked and buckled under the weight of Tom Simmons as he moved toward his favorite rocking chair. His hand slid along the smooth porch rail, the remnant of an old tree branch. Next to the chair, a boy sat atop a wooden pail and whittled on a small stick, bringing it to a sharp point. Tom concealed something in his right hand.
"What ya making there, Son?"
"A spear," said the boy. "I'm goin' frog giggin' down by the river."
"You don't look very excited. What's with the sad face?" Jimmy Simmons worked on the stick more aggressively. Chips were flying now a good four or five feet.
"Pa, why couldn't Uncle Bill take me with him up Castle Mountain?" He flung his knife hard into the porch plank.
"Son, we've talked about this before. Your uncle Bill's on a dangerous journey. The mountain's not a safe place to be right now. There's been an incident, you know. Bill's going to try and patch things up."
Jimmy eyed his father's right hand. Tom noticed this and concealed it under his left armpit.
"What happened up there, Pa?"
"Well, I don't rightly know. I reckon Cloud Walker had something to do with it. That Indian's no good. Don't know what your uncle sees in him."
The boy's eyes lit up when Tom mentioned the Cherokee’s name. "Tell me about Cloud Walker. What's he done?"
"All I know is that Indian is trouble. Hope your uncle knows what he's doing. They just won't listen to him."
Jimmy set the spear down and buttoned up one of the straps on his raggedy overalls. "Why won't the Cherokee listen, Pa?”
Tom slowly moved his right hand down to his side. Then, he wrapped it around the back of the rocking chair. Jimmy craned his neck a bit to peer around the chair.
"Not sure why. First, he tried to save their rights to the land. That didn't work. Now, he's trying to tell them to get while the gettin's good. The government's making them move west. Cloud Walker's been the most stubborn of the lot. He won't budge."
"But what about the mission?" asked Jimmy.
Tom looked out over the compound. The schoolhouse was empty due to his brother's absence. Bill was the schoolmaster, and he ran the mission. The Cherokee-donated land had been in his possession for nearly a decade.
"Pa, did you hear me?"
Tom looked back to his son. "I heard ya. You see, times are changing. Some people just don't want the Cherokee here anymore. The greedy buzzards want their land. Think they're going to find more gold, I guess."
Jimmy's eyes ratcheted wider. The mere mention of that four-letter word brought a tingling sensation over his whole body. The same sensation one feels when about to open birthday or Christmas gifts, only this was a hundred times stronger.
"I wish we could find gold," said the boy. “So we can be rich!” The overall strap had come loose again and flopped down across Jimmy’s stomach. Jimmy’s father couldn’t help but notice his son’s protruding ribs.
"Jimmy, I know times is tough right now. But God'll provide. He always has. Don't put your faith in riches. What would your mom—God rest her soul—say if she heard you saying such?"
Tom's mustache would develop a peculiar twitch anytime he talked of his late wife. Slowly, he moved his right hand from behind the chair to his lap.
"Pa, don't you think Mom would've wanted us to live a better life? Just look at this place. My shoes have holes and my stomach does too. That wasn't thunder you just heard. Couldn't God just see fit to give us a little more?"
Tom lifted his hand and slowly unfurled his fingers. "Look here, Son. Five little corn seeds. Look at them. I’m gonna put them in the ground and watch God do his magic. But we're going to need more. Your uncle's been blessed with some fertile land. With his missionary duties and all, he hasn't had time to work it. I see cornstalks and ears of corn all over the place. The only gold we need."
The young boy frowned at the kernels, but his mind kept wondering about Castle Mountain. He thought about the adventures he was missing and what other parts of the world he hadn’t seen. Where would farming get him? Those five kernels—nothing magical about them.
"Jimmy, I need you to do something for me. Take a few of our best laying hens to town, sell them and buy some more corn seed."
Jimmy's eyes shot from the kernels to his father's smiling face. Deep down inside, a flame had been lit, and he could feel his excitement growing. "You mean you want me to go by myself?" asked Jimmy.
"You betcha. At sunup, you take Old Tut and the wagon. Keep your eyes and ears open. And stay clear of any troublemakers. Now let's get some supper into ya so ya can go about your frog giggin'."
********************
The road to Dahlonega jolted and shook the wagon something fierce. Jimmy's hind end took a beating. His face destroyed numerous spider webs, and he shook off that creepy, crawly sensation with each encounter. However, this didn't stop his whistling. His glee even drowned out the hen's cackles which erupted each time the wheel found the next hole.
An hour later, Jimmy pulled into Dahlonega and stopped in front of Roger's General Store. An old toothless miner passed by, his wagon piled high with supplies: pickaxes, gun powder, tobacco, food and whiskey. The hammering of the blacksmith competed with the chorus of dance hall girls in an adjacent saloon. Across the way, the town sheriff leaned against a post and lit his pipe. The lawman jumped to attention and made his way toward two men who had just started a fist fight. Probably over a girl or a poker game gone bad.
Out of curiosity, Jimmy walked over to join a gathering crowd of spectators. The sheriff jogged toward the two men with his right hand on his pistol. He quickly broke up the fight.
"You folks go about your business! Nothing to see here," said the sheriff. He then proceeded to scold the two drunken miners.
On his way back to the store, Jimmy noticed that the old church was still boarded up. Weeds were pushing their way through the steps. His father had tried to start a congregation there, but with little success. No, it wasn't for a lack of trying, or because of a scandal, or due to incompetence—Tom Simmons outshined most preachers of that area. Mainly, it was from a lack of interest. People were obsessed with another god, the yellowish, shiny one. Naturally, the miners spent the little gold they did find on women and whiskey. They lived it up on Saturday night. That amounted to just a few sober people at church Sunday morning. Just try preaching to a grand total of ten people each week.
"What can I do for ya, young man?" Mr. Rogers, the store owner, smiled as the ten-year-old stepped into the building.
"Pa needs some corn seed. I got six hens in back of the wagon. How much will that fetch?"
"Oh, I s'pose that'll be enough to fund a mighty nice cornfield. You come all that way by yourself?"
"Yessir, all the way!"
Mr. Rogers stepped to the back room to get the seed. With hungry eyes, Jimmy scanned the food supplies behind the counter. He wasn’t great at reading, but he knew very well the shape and contents of one container in particular. Ah, there it is and right in front of him on the counter—a licorice jar. He loved the red ones, the sweet flavor and chewy texture. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.
Jimmy's stomach growled and broke the spell. "The hens," he whispered.
As Jimmy walked to the back of the wagon, he looked over again to find the two men and the sheriff, but they were gone. Jimmy's eyes then fell on Guy Jackson talking to his mother in front of the City Hall building. Jimmy stared long and hard at the man. He admired Jackson's polished shoes and white silk shirt. He also admired Jackson's hat and striped three-piece suit. So much so, that he accidentally let one hen escape.
The bird headed straight for the Jacksons. Ms. Jackson gasped as the hen squawked and scurried between her and her son.
"Sorry ma'am." Jimmy rushed by the lady and pinned the hen against the wall. Dust and feathers hovered about as he picked up the bird.
"Boy, what's the meaning of this? Keep your distance with that foul creature! One speck of dirt on this dress, and I'll be paying your father a visit." Guy Jackson folded his arms and sneered at Jimmy. The businessman stood there like a chiseled statue.
Jimmy swallowed hard. "Sorry, Ms. Jackson. Didn't mean no harm. I'll be goin' now."
Jimmy tucked his chin down and headed back to the store. As he did, he couldn't help but overhear the mother and son finish their conversation.
"Mother, I'm not sure we need him anymore," said Guy. "Besides, it only worked that one time. No guarantees he'll do it again." Guy worked on rolling up a smoke. He rarely met his mother's eyes. They always bore into him with a devilish scorn.
"You don't know that for sure," said Ms. Jackson. “If you've hurt him in any way, I swear ... I swear you'll pay dearly. I've seen how you treat him. What happened with you keeping him locked up?”
"I told you, Mother. He gave me the slip and ran off. It’s just been two days. Don't worry. He'll remember the hand that feeds him." Jackson wasn’t telling his mom the full story. He rarely did.
"What about my idea?" asked Ms. Jackson. "All we have to do is find a good, honest soul. Someone he’ll trust at first. You know how it works. Then our little luck charm might just lead us to the mother lode."
"Too risky. Do that too many times, and our luck charm won't be a secret anymore. Then what if Cloud Walker finds out?"
"You might be right, but maybe it's worth trying once," said Ms. Jackson. "Anyway, see to it that you get him back. Or else ...” She poked her finger firmly into her son's shoulder and then glanced over at Jimmy. Jimmy turned his head forward and picked up his pace to the store.
********************
The back-jarring ride home was a lot less exciting. Jimmy thought more about the weird exchange between mother and son Jackson. Those thoughts were soon replaced as he reflected on their stately appearance and their lifestyle. He pictured himself in an expensive hat, wearing a fancy silk shirt. He was now riding a shiny sleek carriage, packed with cases of licorice. Young ladies swooned as he rode by. Young men saluted him. Presently, the whole town cheered his name and showered him with roses.
When he opened his eyes, the harsh reality lay bare. The young ladies had become trees, and the cheers were only the calls of birds. The roses—spider webs.
He looked down to his overalls and the mosaic of patches running down the legs. He thought about his future and wondered if he would ever be more than the son of a poor preacher turned farmer.
Seconds later, the woods fell silent. Old Tut came to a halt as they rounded a bend in the road. A steady throbbing worked on Jimmy's eardrums. He slowly reached for his knife, only to remember it was still stuck in the cabin porch. "Who's there?" asked Jimmy.
There, he heard it again, only a little louder. Jimmy watched the mule for signs of panic. The animal stood frozen, head fixed straight forward.
The sound came a third time. Jimmy strained to look around Old Tut. Heaped in the middle of the road was an ant pile, one that moved. Upon further inspection, Jimmy determined it was an animal—no, a small dog. Just a little bigger than a Beagle, the black and tan struggled to slide his body forward, inching his way to who knows where.
Jimmy leaped from the wagon and crouched over the dog. He examined him, but no clue what to do next. The left hind leg was bloodied, as was the right foreleg. A goose-egg knot crowned his forehead. One eye shut, badly swollen.
"Poor, boy. What ... who did this to you?" He tried stroking the dog, which brought the poor animal more pain. He rushed to the back of the wagon and grabbed an old blanket.
"I'm sorry, boy. This is goin' to hurt, but there's no other way." Jimmy wrapped the dog up, cuddling him back to the wagon. The dog wailed as Jimmy lowered him in. He wedged things around the dog so he wouldn't slide about the bed.
"You'll be okay, boy. We'll get ya back home and take care of ya."
Old Tut pressed on, back to the mission nestled deep in the North Georgia hills. At least for now, Jimmy had abandoned his earlier dreams of fame and fortune. But— another dream had come true. Rural Georgia was a lonely place for a young boy. That day, Jimmy found his new best friend.
****************
"Jimmy! That dog's going to eat up all our food," said Mr. Simmons. "I can barely keep your mouth fed. Is he well enough to do any hunting?"
"It's been three weeks, Pa. I thought about takin' him rabbit huntin' tomorrow. He sure seems to be gettin' around well."
"Good! Then he can earn his keep. Fresh rabbit meat sounds mighty good!"
When Speckled Snake, one of the old chiefs at the mission, saw the dog, he started spouting something in Cherokee—dalonige kayvsoli. The words translated to English meant Yellow Nose. In his excitement, Speckled Snake almost passed out. Word quickly spread, and just about all the Cherokee from the mission gathered to see the injured dog.
Speckled Snake chanted a prayer for Yellow Nose and treated his wounds with a special ointment. Another chief walked around Yellow Nose, smoked a long pipe and shouted out different Cherokee phrases. What seemed like a ceremony ended with the crowd singing. The song’s tones were hopeful and celebratory.
When Tom Simmons asked Speckled Snake about the proceedings, the chief remained silent. Tom didn't push the matter.
About that same time, Uncle Bill returned, but he wouldn't say much about the trip to Castle Mountain. A miserable mood had replaced his normal optimism and humor. Hope for the Cherokee was dying out. Under law, they were being forced to leave Georgia and move west.
Tom and Bill shared some whispered conversations about Cloud Walker and the incident. All Jimmy could make out was that a white man had been killed during an attempt to take over some Cherokee land. Beaver Tail's son was also killed. And somehow the Hounds were involved.
"Uncle Bill, why can't you tell me more about Cloud Walker and what happened?"
"Cloud Walker's a complicated man. The whole situation is pretty complex. Might bore you.”
“Is he a troublemaker like Pa says?”
“Well, I think the trouble finds him. He’s something of a legend around these parts. A very stubborn man. Wealthy too. Some say he's got a stockpile of gold in that fort they call a castle."
Jimmy's face glowed. "A castle. So that's why they call it Castle Mountain?"
"You guessed it. But it's more like a fort, built with logs. Up on the very peak of the mountain. When the clouds come around, it looks like it’s floating up there.”
"You've seen it?" asked Jimmy.
The clean-shaven missionary folded his arms and leaned over his lesson plans. "I've not only seen it, I've been in it."
Jimmy basked in his uncle's attention. "I heard he's a giant!"
Uncle Bill leaned forward with a curious squint. "Who told you that?"
"I'm not stupid. I've heard the Cherokee talk about him." He was referring mainly to Speckled Snake.
Bill leaned back in his chair and removed his spectacles. His bushy eyebrows lifted with the furrowed brow. "Oh, and what else have they told you?"
"They say he hunts the bad white men down and kidnaps their wives and children."
Bill erupted with a laugh. "Hogwash! Can't you see they're just messing with you?"
Jimmy squirmed in his chair and avoided his uncle's eyes. "You mean he's not a giant?"
Uncle Bill smiled and leaned forward again. "Well, that part’s true. You see, he's about 7 ft., 5, which is a giant in my book. But Jimmy, you should really watch out for a couple other giants who roam these hills."
Jimmy's eyes opened wider.
"Yes sir, two mean, nasty giants! I call them prejudice and greed. These two are hard to stop. So be on the lookout!"
Now Bill was messing with him. Jimmy threw his hat at his uncle, and they both laughed. He was relieved the giants weren't real, physical giants, but how quickly he’d brushed aside his uncle’s metaphor.
***************
The next morning, Jimmy took Yellow Nose hunting. For two hours they meandered through the woods, looking for rabbits, squirrels or whatever they could scare up. He walked with his chest out and chin up. This was important work—foraging for his family. He felt grown up and alive.
"Okay, boy, we've been huntin' a while now. I need ya to push somethin' out. We can't go back empty-handed.” Yellow Nose looked at Jimmy and tilted his head sideways.
"I know, I know. But that last one didn't count. He was out of sight before I could get a bead on him." Their first rabbit of the day was quick on the jump. Jimmy thought it was strange though that the hound didn't take chase. After all, that's what hound dogs are supposed to do.
Jimmy stroked the dog's head and picked burrs from the long, droopy ears. Yellow Nose returned the kind gesture by licking Jimmy's hand. Jimmy poured some water into his hand from the canteen, and Yellow Nose lapped it up. He slid his finger over one of the scabbed over wounds. Then he smiled at Yellow Nose, like a mother doting on her child.
"Come on now. Let's follow this trail into the ravine. Plenty of rabbits down there. And if not, we'll take us a swim."
Halfway into the ravine, Yellow Nose let loose a deafening howl. The howl turned into a steady bay, and Yellow Nose raced down the hill towards the creek. Jimmy followed behind and often stopped to see if the game would circle back. The excited hound continued to move farther away.
Jimmy walked the creek trail for nearly two miles. Overhead, a flock of crows cawed. They had been chasing a Red-shouldered Hawk. Jimmy sat down and listened to the hawk's cries in the distance. He then began to worry. What if Yellow Nose had given up and ran off? What if he couldn't find his dog?
Jimmy waited quietly, cupping his hands behind his ears, trying to pinpoint Yellow Nose's location. As the calls of the crows faded, he then heard a new and different noise. It sounded like scratching and occasional debris flying through the woods. Then came a whine, followed by breathing—no, sniffing. Then more scratching. Then more debris. Then more sniffing.
"What is that?" Jimmy cocked the hammer on the smoothbore.
He tiptoed toward the strange sounds. They seemed to be just over the rise in front of him. Must be next to the creek. Out of nowhere, objects began to fly by him. Something hit his cheek, and then a rock bounced off a nearby tree. Jimmy belly crawled up the small hill and peered over the crest.
He smiled.
"There you are. What do you have, boy?" Jimmy was relieved to find Yellow Nose digging beside a bend in the stream. Behind the dog lay a massive pile of dirt. Yellow Nose continued to dig, sniff and whine. Seconds later, he stopped.
"What're you doin', Yellow Nose? Where's the rabbit?" Jimmy eased over to the hole and dropped to his knees. His eyes bulged toward the bottom of the hole.
"What? It can't be!" Jimmy reached into the hole and pulled out a yellow rock—a gold nugget!
He couldn't believe what was happening. Soon, his whole body began to quiver, and he broke out into a dance. "Whoopee! We're rich! We're rich!" The nugget was no bigger than his index finger, but it had latched onto his soul.
Jimmy gently cradled Yellow Nose's muzzle between his hands. "How...," he paused and looked deeper into the hound's hazel-colored eyes. "How did you do that?"
Yellow Nose sneezed and began rubbing his nose against some nearby grass. He rolled over on his back and wiggled his whole body back and forth. Then the nose came up. Yellow Nose stood at attention, in a point-like stance.
"You aren't just any ole hound dog. It must be magic. What else can you do?"
Before he could question the dog further, Yellow Nose had left the scene in another unusual chase. Then followed another and another and another, until Jimmy possessed five shiny rocks. His cup of joy spilled all over him. The nuggets took on a magical quality as they rested in the palm of his hand. Much better than a few measly corn seeds. Jimmy’s eyes stayed glued to the nuggets for some time. He had never smiled so greatly on anything in his life.
***************
Jimmy's father sat dumbfounded on the cabin porch, looking down on the five shiny nuggets. He picked up one from Jimmy's hand and examined it like an elderly man reading a pill bottle. He'd never seen one before. Like Jimmy, this was his first encounter with what many might call a "game changer." He scratched his chin. "Tell me again—how did you find them?"
"I told ya, Pa. Swindling Creek. Yellow Nose found 'em. He can smell gold a mile away. It's magic I tell ya! Magic!"
Uncle Bill heard the excitement as he left the schoolhouse and scrambled across the road to see what the commotion was about. Jimmy repeated the story to his uncle.
Bill studied one of the nuggets. His blue eyes showed a hint of trouble. He knew what those nuggets meant to a lot of folks. "Where along Swindling Creek?" he asked.
Jimmy remained silent and snatched the nugget back from his uncle's hand.
"Tell him, Son. Whereabouts did you find these on the creek?"
"I don't know. Somewhere passed the big bend. Maybe two, three miles downstream, I reckon. Pretty close to the Turkey Roost Mine."
"That's some of the Jackson's land," said Uncle Bill. "I can tell you, it wouldn't be good for him to hear about this. Never have liked that man."
Tom took all the nuggets from Jimmy's hand and placed them in a burlap sack. "We can't keep 'em, Jimmy. They ain't rightfully ours."
"But I found 'em! Don't that count for anythin'?"
"Son, it ain't our property. That's stealing."
"Look, Tom," said Bill, "Jackson's a thief and you know it. He took that land from some of the very people who live on this mission. He even snookered Cloud Walker out of some of his land. I'd say they have some rights to those nuggets."
Tom dumped three of the nuggets back into his hand. As he looked at them more intently, he could see a reflection of himself. He then began to see a man in nice preacher cloths, a big, beautiful white church, a new parish and a pretty wife. Tom rubbed his eyes and quickly stuffed the nuggets back into the sack.
"Now Bill, Jimmy and I didn't move here to stir up any trouble. Word gets out that we kept these rocks, and we'll all pay for it. Our reputation will be ruined. You watch and see. No sir, I don't want no part of it.”
Tom stopped, collected his thoughts and looked at Yellow Nose. "And what's this story about Yellow Nose? I've never heard about a dog who could find gold. Is there something you're not telling us?"
"Pa, I'm tellin' the truth. We didn't just stumble across 'em. Yellow Nose sniffed ‘em out and dug 'em up. I seen it with my own eyes."
Tom Simmons smiled and tied a knot in the sack. "Well, if you say so, I believe ya. But that’s a huckleberry above my persimmon. Yellow Nose will just have to find gold on your uncle's property."
"Pa, we can be rich! You wanna live here forever? Growin' corn and growin' poorer by the minute? You know how much those nuggets will fetch?"
"Well, I ain't gonna get rich being a thief. No sir. This gold belongs to the Jacksons. There's been enough thieving and pillaging around these parts," said Tom Simmons.
Jimmy slapped his dusty hat against his pants and stormed off.
"Where you going?" hollered Uncle Bill.
"I'm going to find more gold nuggets. Come on Yellow Nose," said Jimmy.
Jimmy headed straight to the back end of his uncle’s lot. "Come on, boy. We're goin' to find us some gold we can keep."
They scoured the creeks and even some abandoned mines. The determined boy searched all afternoon and even until dark. For the next few days, Jimmy continued his quest for instant riches. Who knows how many acres they covered? Nothing. Not a peep out of Yellow Nose.
Every time he sat down for a break, Jimmy's eyelids would droop shut. The prospects of finding gold had exhausted him physically and emotionally. He couldn't think straight. Even worse, he hadn't collected any meat for an evening meal.
********************
That next evening, Jimmy slowly dragged himself into the cabin. He propped his smoothbore in the corner and hung up his hat. Soup simmered in a kettle above the fire, but Jimmy was too tired to eat.
"Well. What did you bring us?" asked Uncle Bill. "Rocks or rabbits? I think I'd be pleased with a rabbit right now."
"It's not working. There's gotta be more gold out there. There's gotta." Jimmy paused and released a heavy sigh. "Oh, forget it—I'm beat."
Uncle Bill smiled. "Get some rest, Jimmy. You're going to work yourself sick."
He rubbed Jimmy's neck and roughed up the boy's hair. "I'm sure Yellow Nose will prove himself soon. That must be one special dog. I see how the Cherokee look at him. You want to hear something Speckled Snake told me?”
"What … What'd he say?" asked Jimmy.
"Something about Yellow Nose being good medicine."
"What do you mean by good medicine?" asked Jimmy.
"He told me how Yellow Nose led Cloud Walker to a remote cave. That cave contained some of the purest gold in these parts. Cloud Walker intends to use the gold to help his people move west.”
“Yellow Nose did all that?”
“Yes sir. You’ve got a one-of-a-kind dog right there.
"You shoulda seen him, Uncle Bill. Diggin' them holes. Findin' that gold. I never seen anthin' like it. But why can't he find more?"
"I don't know," said Uncle Bill. "Maybe he can't always control the gift."
The cabin door opened and Tom Simmons stepped in. He looked at Yellow Nose and turned a sad gaze towards his son. The kind of expression you give when someone in the family has died. He then tossed something to Bill.
"What's this? I thought you were going to return the nuggets to Jackson," said Bill.
"I did, and he was grateful. He up and gave us one back. I thought you might could use it for the mission. By the way, I heard some news on Cloud Walker. The Hounds raided his fort and chased him into the hills.”
“Did he get away?”
“That’s what I gathered,” said Tom. “Sounded like some of the other Indians headed north and hid in the mountains.”
Tom sat down across from Jimmy and slowly tapped on the table. "Jimmy, your find has caused quite a stir in town. Nuggets like that haven't been found in these creek bottoms in years. Jackson was curious. He knows about the dog."
"What?" asked Jimmy.
"He knows about Yellow Nose. Described exactly how he looks. Seems the dog belongs to him." Tom shut up and gave the boy time to take it in. A red hue began to move up into Jimmy's face.
"He wants him back, Jimmy. I'm sorry. That's one reason he let me keep the nugget. For all our trouble of taking care of the dog," said Tom.
Jimmy sat down beside Yellow Nose. "Why would a man like Guy Jackson want Yellow Nose? He’s rich. Could have as many dogs as he wants.”
“That’s kinda what I was thinking,” said Tom. “But the dog seems to be special to him.”
“Unless ... unless he knows the secret,” said Bill “That's got to be it. Don't you see?"
"What secret?" asked Tom.
"You, know. He wants Yellow Nose so he can find more gold,” said Bill.
"I suppose that’s a possibility." Tom paused and fiddled with his hat. "Look, I know the dog is special, but the fact stands—he belongs to Jackson. Besides, having a dog with a gift like that—you’re just inviting trouble.”
“But I love ‘im, Pa! God gave ‘im to me. Could you talk to Mr. Jackson one more time? Maybe he’ll understand. You know I met him one time—and his mom. They may be high class, but they seemed like decent folks.”
Tom sat in silence for a minute and then thought out loud. “Maybe I can buy the dog back. Maybe when the corn comes in we can do a trade.”
"Jackson’s not going to trade for any corn,” said Bill. “Jimmy, the Jacksons aren’t the good and respectable people you may think them to be. I’ve known Guy for quite a while now. The fact that he had the dog probably means he stole Yellow Nose from the Cherokee. Cloud Walker used to take care of the dog. I’d be willing to bet you Jackson’s the one that beat Yellow Nose to a pulp.”
Jimmy buried his head beneath his hands and looked down at the table. Those last few comments filled in the missing gaps from the conversation he had overheard between Guy and his mother. Now it made sense. His opinions of the Jacksons were making a full turn.
"What do you say, Tom? Why don’t you let me take Yellow Nose away from here? I’ll figure out a way so Jimmy can visit him.”
"Bill, I promised Jackson. I'm a man of my word. If we don't give him the dog, we're gonna pay dearly. He strikes me as the kinda man who'll do anything to get what he wants. Jackson told me he'd be here around sunup to fetch the dog.”
"Pa, I won’t let you do that! I’ll fight if I have to!" Jimmy grabbed Yellow Nose around the neck and squeezed hard. Then and there, Jimmy resolved never to turn the dog over to Jackson.
******************
The log cabin shook as someone rapped violently on the front door. It was 3 a.m. An unusual time for visitors.
"Open up, Simmons!" said the stranger. "Open up, now!"
Tom Simmons grabbed his musket and slowly moved towards the door.
"Who's there?"
"It's Guy Jackson. I've come to get the dog."
Tom laid the rifle down and began unlatching the door. "We weren't expecting you until daylight."
"I decided I couldn't wait. I need the dog now!" barked Jackson.
As Tom released the latch, the door flew open, making him stagger backwards. In marched Jackson, led by his pistol. "Give him to me, Simmons!" ordered Jackson. "And the nugget!"
Tom turned toward Jimmy's cot. His heart sank. No hat, no smoothbore, no Yellow Nose, and no Jimmy. Sometime during the night, the boy quietly slipped out. It was the only answer. He just couldn't give Yellow Nose up.
"Where's the dog?" asked Jackson.
"Jackson, I'm afraid you've come too early. My boy's not back from his coon hunting trip. Why don't you come back later?"
"Don't lie to me, Simmons. Now, where are they?"
Hearing the commotion, Bill came out of his room. Jackson fanned his pistol back and forth between Tom and Bill.
"What's going on here? Put that gun down! I won't have bloodshed on this mission!"
Jackson ignored Bill's demand. "I came to get that dog, and I mean to get him back."
"Why the show of force over a little hound dog? And this hour of the morning! He is just a dog—right? Or is he something more?" asked Bill.
"It's none of your business, Bill." Uneasiness churned in Guy's gut. From Tom's earlier account, he knew the two men had heard about the dog’s special gift. Had they believed the story, and had it spread?
"That dog's been mine for years." Jackson sighed and glanced toward the floor, trying to work up a sad, sentimental wave of emotion. He turned toward the cabin window and hung his head low. All this followed by a quickly fabricated story about his history with Yellow Nose. Only, it didn't sound very convincing.
"Let me get this straight," said Bill, "so, you gave the dog a Cherokee name? Tell me, do you make it a practice of beating your pets? Come on, I know this dog’s been with the Cherokee long before you got a hold of him!"
"Shut up! Both of you! I told you, it's none of your concern why I want the dog," said Guy.
Guy reached for Tom's rifle lying on the table and then lobbed it to one of his men standing on the porch. Both of Jackson's men made their way into the cabin. "You boys stay here and stand guard. Don't let them leave this place. I'm going after the dog."
Tom stepped forward. Jackson's thug rested the rifle's muzzle on Tom's chest. "Jackson, if you harm a hair on my boy's head, I'll put aside my nice manners. I swear! You’ll get no mercy from me!”
Jackson slowly holstered his pistol. "I won't harm the boy if he gives me what I want. If he doesn't, then I make no promises."
Tom Simmons pressed hard into the gun barrel, making Jackson's man step back. The fiery stare he made into Jackson's eyes left no doubt about Tom Simmons’s resolve. "I'll make you this promise," said Tom. "You harm my boy and nothing stops me from killing you."
Jackson whispered something in his men’s ears and walked out to his horse. From the yard, he grabbed an axe lodged in a chopping block. He mounted his horse, grimly tipped his hat and rode off.
**************
Jimmy stumbled and staggered now with each step. He and Yellow Nose had been hiking into the hills for the past six hours. His legs felt like noodles, and the smoothbore grew heavier with each step. The worn-out hunting boots offered very little comfort, and he soon realized the beginnings of two nice blisters.
The full moon had faithfully guided the way along some rarely traveled trails. Now the sun began to creep up behind the trees. Barred Owls announced the morning with their, who-cooks-for-you, songs, and wild turkeys scurried about the landscape. Except for the wildlife, the mountains seemed deserted. And they seemed to stretch on endlessly. A person could hide in these parts for years—so Jimmy thought.
"Good boy, Yellow Nose. I'm not gonna let that Guy Jackson hurt you anymore. We're goin' far away from him. We'll live off the land. Course you probably need to learn how to chase some rabbits." Jimmy chuckled and rubbed behind Yellow Nose's ears.
It was a beautiful thing—a boy and his dog, an ancient and tried match. Yellow Nose slobbered all over Jimmy’s face. Though he possessed a primitive mind, he somehow knew that his gift could ruin the boy. He also knew that Jimmy loved him dearly. Through the wall of greed that cloaks every human heart he could sense something different about Jimmy. Something inside the dog began to swell. He then unleashed a joyous long howl. The sound spread up the mountains and echoed across the valley.
Seconds later, a strange whistle, barely perceptible to the human ear, came flowing through the woods. Yellow Nose's ears lifted. In a flash, the dog disappeared into the lush greenness of the forest.
"Wait! Yellow Nose! Come back!” Jimmy ran after the dog. The boy stopped periodically and released his own whistles, but each time, the sounds of the baying dog seemed farther, and farther away.
After a mile or two of running, Jimmy spotted a high outcropping of rocks. As he neared the rocks, he smelled smoke which suggested a campsite. Who would possibly camp out here in the middle of nowhere?
Jimmy crept closer to the smoke. He thought he could make out the form of a horse. It moved. Yes, definitely a horse. What should he do? What if these were robbers hiding out, or what if it's the Hounds? Fear gripped him hard; his heart pounded.
Jimmy followed his inner urgings and turned. When he did, he found himself staring into the chest of a giant. The terror clamped his feet to the ground. Then the tall man brought down his fist on the boy's head, and Jimmy’s world went dark.
********************
A warm, wet sensation swept over the boy’s face. His eye's cracked open and his surroundings slowly fell into focus again. Yellow Nose lavished Jimmy's cheeks with loyal licks and kisses. Jimmy rewarded the dog with a bear hug.
"He likes you," said a deep voice. A huge man sat across the campfire, staring at Jimmy while sharpening his knife. The sound of grinding metal was unnerving yet calculated.
Jimmy roused himself and finally worked up the courage to say something. "What happened? Did you hit me?"
"Yes, and I could have done it a lot harder. What did you expect, sneaking up on my camp like that?"
“Sorry, Mister. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You like that dog, do you?" asked the stranger.
Jimmy rubbed the top of his sore head. "Well he ... he is my dog, Mister. Now, if ... if you don't mind, we'll be goin'."
"Yellow Nose belongs to no one. He's a gift from the World beyond."
Jimmy studied the man for some time. What stood out the most was the man's golden cross necklace. After a long silence, Jimmy asked the question: "Who are you?"
"I'm Cloud Walker."
The name shot through Jimmy's heart like an arrow. He tried to churn out some words, but the excitement had struck him mute.
"What is it, young man? Did you lose your tongue?"
"No ... no sir. You mean you're Cloud ... Cloud Walker ... from ... from Castle Mountain?" The words began to awkwardly trickle out. Jimmy's expression changed from surprise to delight to utter confusion.
"Not what you were expecting? What were you expecting—a half-naked savage? A blood-thirsty outlaw?" Cloud Walker raked the knife across his arm, taking off several hairs.
"But you killed that white man. Or at least that's what I heard." Jimmy wished he had kept his mouth shut on that last piece of information.
Cloud Walker took a gulp of water and then set the cup down. "Self-defense. He was trying to murder my brother and me. He wanted our land."
Cloud Walker slowly stood up and stuffed his knife behind a very wide turquoise-colored belt. Jimmy stared at the man’s exquisite moccasins and worked his way up to the fine bandana which crowned Cloud Walker’s head. Sort of looked like a dignitary from another country—Europe, maybe.
"You must be young Jimmy Simmons." Cloud Walker smiled and lit a small, black pipe.
Jimmy looked even more perplexed. "You know me?"
"Don't look so surprised. The trees have whispered messages, and the birds have brought me news. You took care of Yellow Nose and for that, I'm eternally grateful."
Yellow Nose rubbed his body against the Cherokee’s leg. Not only did the tail wag, the dog's whole body wagged. And it looked as if Yellow Nose were grinning—in a dog, kind of way. Cloud Walker stooped and affectionately rubbed under the dog's chin and then kissed him on the head.
Jimmy looked over to Cloud Walker with an unshakable dread. "So Yellow Nose does belong to you."
"No, Jimmy. I thought I had set the record straight on that. This dog belongs to no man. Surely you know his ability. Don't tell me that the trees have lied." Cloud Walker lifted the gold necklace and smiled. Jimmy nodded; the two understood each other perfectly.
"Let me be honest with you now," said Cloud Walker. "My people have told me how you found the dog and nurtured him back to health. You are part of a great family. Your uncle is the only white man I ever trusted. That is why I gave him the land for the mission."
"So you're the chief who gave him the land."
"The land belongs to the Great Spirit. We all just get to take care of it from time to time. Same way with Yellow Nose. We all get to enjoy his loyalty and love. He’s unlike any other dog in the world.”
"So how does he do it?" asked Jimmy.
"First things first. Why are you here? Are you and Yellow Nose on a treasure hunt?" Cloud Walker smiled.
"No sir. There's this man who knows what Yellow Nose can do. He's tryin' to steal Yellow Nose back. But I won't let 'im."
Cloud Walker began spreading out the coals in the campfire. "This man, does he go by the name of Jackson?"
"Yes sir! You know 'im?"
"Oh yes, I'm afraid I do. So when was the last time Yellow Nose found a nugget for you?"
Jimmy responded with a frown. "It's been a couple days. He found five nuggets to start, but we're having a dry spell."
Cloud Walker puffed on the pipe and reached down to fondle his cross necklace. "I see. A dry spell you say. So you want to know Yellow Nose's secret?"
"I just want to know if I'm doing anything wrong. Does his ability come and go?"
"Jimmy, only the Great Spirit knows these things. But I believe he has fitted Yellow Nose for these times. This miracle dog is an answer to my prayers—my people’s prayers."
"What do you mean by that?"
Cloud Walker stuffed the necklace back into his shirt. "In due time, young man. In due time."
Jimmy persisted with his previous question. "So what's the trick? How do you get him to find more gold?"
Cloud Walker erupted into a hearty laugh. "It doesn't work that way. You have it—don't you? Look at you. It's written in your eyes."
"Have what? What're ya talkin' about?" asked Jimmy. He began to chuckle, not fully getting Cloud Walker’s meaning.
"The fever. Obviously, you have the fever." He started another round of laughter.
"What's so funny?" Jimmy had stopped laughing. "Is it so bad to wanna be rich? It don't look like you're hurtin' none yourself."
Cloud Walker's light-hearted mood left him, and he glared at Jimmy so that the boy had to look away. "You know nothing about me, Jimmy. You have no right to judge. What I have and what I do is for my people. It's for their survival. And because of that Yellow Nose has been my friend."
"I don't understand," said Jimmy.
Cloud Walker sniffed the air, turned and sneered at the woods. His right hand now rested on the knife still tucked away in his belt. Not wanting to alarm Jimmy, he turned back around, brought his hand down to his side and continued to address the young man.
"Why should I trust you with this?” said Cloud Walker.
Yellow Nose walked over to Jimmy and rested his head against the boy's chest.
"What I'm about to tell you, you must never repeat to any man. You understand me? I don't know why I'm telling you this, but you seem to have won Yellow Nose's friendship."
Jimmy nodded and stroked the dog's head.
"Yellow Nose only finds gold for those with pure motives and a generous heart. I didn't understand it myself at first. But when greed and the fever come, he knows. He always knows, Jimmy."
"But I'm not greedy! I only want a better life! What's so wrong with that?"
"You have the look," said Cloud Walker. "I've seen that look for the past decade. That look has harmed my people in countless ways."
Jimmy stood, turning his back on the giant Cherokee. The boy buried his hands into his pockets and hung his head low, exhaling a soft sigh.
Cloud Walker peered once again into the forest but kept talking. His hand again rested on the knife. "It's not too late, Jimmy. I see a bond between you and Yellow Nose. He must see something greater in your heart."
"I'm so tired of being poor. That’s all my family’s ever been," said Jimmy.
"Take courage my young friend. There's more than one way to be rich."
Yellow Nose unleashed a menacing growl. Jimmy wheeled around to find that Guy Jackson had slinked into the camp. Cloud Walker took two steps back. Jackson's savage grin and pistol ruled the moment.
*******************
"Well, well what do we have here?" said Guy.
"I smelled your stench when you were but a mile off," said Cloud Walker, calmly. "What are you doing here? Why the gun?"
"I was looking for my dog but looks like I’ve found more than that. You out here in the middle of nowhere can mean only one thing: The hiding place. It must be close by."
"Haven't you taken enough? You and those despicable Hounds. My people need supplies to make this trip. You got your wish. The land is yours. Now, let us leave in peace."
Guy pointed the gun toward Jimmy. "Does he know about the gold?"
Cloud Walker shook his finger at Guy. "Keep the boy out of this! No need for him to get involved."
"Oh, I don't think so. I need all the bargaining chips I can get. See, I know about the gold and your grand plan to help your brothers move west. Now take me to your stash or the boy and the dog get it."
Cloud Walker stepped sideways, deliberately placing himself between Guy and Jimmy. “Stop and think. You kill me and you'll never find that gold. Yellow Nose will never help you. Jimmy doesn't know."
"I won’t be trifled with," said Guy. Thinking he no longer needed the dog, he aimed his pistol toward Yellow Nose and squeezed the trigger. A faulty cap caused the gun not to fire.
Cloud Walker grinned. "It looks like we will have to settle this my way."
Cloud Walker slowly drew his knife and motioned Guy to a fight. Guy in turn dropped his pistol and rolled up his sleeves. "Okay, you want to settle this the hard way. You always were a stubborn one," said Guy. He stepped over to his former hiding spot behind a large virgin pine and retrieved Tom Simmons’s axe. Yellow Nose stood behind Cloud Walker, fur bristling, teeth displayed.
"Look familiar, Jimmy?" Jackson cast an evil smile at Jimmy and slid his thumb along the smooth, shiny blade. With a swinging and chopping motion, he attempted to cut his tall opponent in half. The two pivoted slowly around the smoldering campfire. Jimmy tried to keep Cloud Walker between him and Jackson. Jimmy also managed to grab Yellow Nose by the scruff of the neck, keeping the dog from joining the fight.
Cloud Walker dodged another swing but stayed calm. "I never took you for a thief in the beginning. You thought Yellow Nose would be your ticket to riches. But surely you know by now—he won't find gold for a greedy heart."
"I'll find the gold, with or without the dog!" Guy breathed harder now. Sweat trickled down his forehead and neck. Some of his swings came close to the Cherokee’s upper torso.
Cloud Walker sliced into Jackson's face and shoulder with his razor-sharp knife. This took Guy off guard, allowing Cloud Walker to plow his gigantic fist into Guy's ribs. Guy cursed and sprang back, swinging the axe furiously. "I'm going to kill you, Cloud Walker!"
Jimmy listened intently to the two men. The tense exchange quickly moved into a bloody brawl. He saw himself in that man swinging the axe, and it frightened him. The fine silk shirt had now become torn and soiled.
Jimmy tried to follow the movements of his Cherokee shield, but he overlooked a tree stump and tripped. This misstep caused him to loosen his grip on Yellow Nose, giving the dog the opportunity he'd been waiting for. The dog darted around Cloud Walker and latched onto Jackson’s ankle. Jackson brought the axe down, smacking Yellow Nose with a hard blow. Yellow Nose yelped loudly. Though not a mortal wound, the axe mutilated the dog's hind leg.
Cloud Walker had the advantage on size and strength, but Guy was very nimble. Twice, Guy cut into Cloud Walker's left arm, rendering it almost useless. The giant was growing impatient and tired. Despite the pain, Yellow Nose attempted to move back into the fight, and Jackson brought the axe head up to finish him off.
"Enough!" yelled Cloud Walker. With a final burst of strength, Cloud Walker blocked the swing of the axe handle and bare-fisted Guy across the face, knocking him to the ground. Guy held the handle tightly and fell in between Cloud Walker’s legs. Seeing an opportunity, Guy reared both his legs back and kicked Cloud Walker's knees outward. This was enough to break both of them and send him to the ground, reeling in pain. Guy stood and took control of the axe; he then plunged it into the giant’s chest. Blood spewed everywhere as Cloud Walker gasped for air. Guy released the handle and retrieved his gun.
As Cloud Walker struggled for his life, Guy placed a fresh cap on the hammer of his pistol. Jackson then walked back over to Cloud Walker and pointed the gun toward the fallen giant’s forehead. A large boom sounded through the forest. Cloud Walker stared into the barrel of the pistol, but where was the smoke? He did, however, notice a growing, red stain on Guy's sweat-drenched shirt. Jackson brought his hand up to the stain and looked on it in disbelief. He toppled over like a felled tree to Cloud Walker's side and died.
Shaking all over, Jimmy lowered the smoothbore rifle to his side. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks. He had shot Jackson at close range, but what else could he have done. The big question remained: Had he acted in time?
Yellow Nose cleaned Cloud Walker's face with his gracious tongue. He smiled at the dog and yearned to pet him one last time but lacked sufficient strength in his arms. At a loss for how to help his friend, Jimmy kneeled to Cloud Walker's side. With a final struggle, the dying Cherokee whispered in the boy’s ear.
"Jimmy ... Not too late, my friend. Help ... help my people. The gold is theirs. I leave it to your charge." He fixed his eyes on a huge rock overhang. “In the mountain, Jimmy. Go into the mountain.” Though he had just met the young man and didn't know if he could completely trust him, he knew this was the closing chance to help his people.
Cloud Walker stared at Yellow Nose one last time and then turned his eyes to Jimmy. "He knows, Jimmy. He knows." With that, the great Cloud Walker breathed his last and joined his fathers.
********************
The gold was a mere hundred yards from Cloud Walker's camp, deep in the bowels of a well-hidden cave. Jimmy and his Uncle Bill brought the gold back to the mission and distributed it to Cloud Walker's family members and friends. This meant money for supplies, horses and wagons, and a less tortuous journey west for some. Thousands still died along the tear-stained trail.
Bill Simmons followed the Cherokee west, and Tom turned the mission into an orphanage. He was right about the fertile land. Cornfields now flourished and fed about thirty orphaned boys.
"You have everything ya need?" asked Tom. "You know it may take weeks to find them."
"I'll be okay, Pa. I’ve lived with ‘em enough to know how to find their camps." Jimmy looked behind him. In the wagon, Yellow Nose stood on three legs, his body oscillating with joy. "It will probably be spring when I get back."
A secret compartment filled with gold lay beneath the wagon floor. Jimmy was headed north to a small band of Cherokee who had traveled to and hidden in the Smoky Mountains. Yellow Nose had been busy over the last couple of years. Gold nuggets were getting harder and harder to find, but the Cherokee had left behind a few caches.
The Simmons never kept any of the gold for themselves. Jimmy had found his fortune in friendships, and no one could take that away from him. Yellow Nose's special gift had finally played out, but Jimmy wanted his Cherokee friends to have this last remaining treasure.
"This is for you." His Pa handed him a small leather pouch.
Jimmy emptied the contents into his hand. Five corn kernels tumbled out. "What's this for?"
"Don't you remember that day at the cabin? I told you that God would do his magic. I decided to save them as a reminder."
"Thanks, Pa. You were right. I wonder though: Will Yellow Nose ever get his gift back?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Jimmy smiled and grabbed Yellow Nose around the neck. The hound worked his tongue back and forth across Jimmy's face; the tail pounded on the seat.
The wagon set off, creaking and rocking down the dusty country road. The young boy and his dog rode away, swallowed whole by the mountain’s cool and inviting shadows.
The End
Is(sue) 9
Avant(Poetry)
"Polka Dots: Small Dotted History"
Charles A. Swanson, Virginia
Charles A. Swanson, Virginia
mass textiles dance craze Minnie Mouse smallpox itsy bitsy bikini
Twiggy Frank Sinatra Godey’s Lady’s Polka-Dot Man Miss America
dotted-Swiss Czech peasant the plague N. Smallwood Marilyn Monroe
not formal male virility polka suspenders cheeky Tour de France
Leprosy Desdemona African art quinconce and moonbeams
polka-dotted line taboo Brian Hyland magical person lunares
Czech pulka Carolina Herrara handkerchiefs polkamania Rockabilly
Yayoi Kusama thalertupfen Bob Dylan only feminine? sentence period
Twiggy Frank Sinatra Godey’s Lady’s Polka-Dot Man Miss America
dotted-Swiss Czech peasant the plague N. Smallwood Marilyn Monroe
not formal male virility polka suspenders cheeky Tour de France
Leprosy Desdemona African art quinconce and moonbeams
polka-dotted line taboo Brian Hyland magical person lunares
Czech pulka Carolina Herrara handkerchiefs polkamania Rockabilly
Yayoi Kusama thalertupfen Bob Dylan only feminine? sentence period
Avant(POetry)(Bonus)
"The Isle of Light (for Varavara Rao)"
Gabriel Rosenstock, Ireland
Gabriel Rosenstock, Ireland
Avant(art)
Arturo Reyes Medina, Spain
Avant(Story)
"Epilogue"
Cathy Thomas Brownfield, Ohio
Cathy Thomas Brownfield, Ohio
The room was hardly more than a walk-in closet. Virginia may have said a woman needs a room of her own and her own money in order to freely write, but how many hours had Grandmother spent at that battered desk writing with inadequate financial resources? From all appearances, nobody had disturbed her things; perhaps everything was just as she’d left it. Not even mice had come to clean up the cracker crumbs from the rug under her chair. The spiders weren’t so discriminating, however. Their webs were spun in corners, undisturbed.
Anna Baker sat down to remember the older – never old – woman. Pencils, pens, paper, paper and more paper. Grandmother had always had a plentiful supply. Her writing supplies were her toys. She had entertained herself for hours. Nobody in the family could comprehend why she would isolate herself here. Swiveling the chair, the view from the window caught Anna’s eye. She lifted the lower sash to let in the sounds, the scents and fresh air from the sunny, autumn day. Perhaps Grandmother hadn’t been so isolated as everyone had thought.
A gentle breeze fingered the leaves on the oak tree. Grandmother had loved that tree for some reason. It was tall and straight, and its shade had kept the temperature in the backyard at least ten degrees cooler than in front of the house where concrete sidewalks, the highway and driveways held the heat of the day less than ten feet from her door. Anna could hear the traffic now, including heavy trucks hauling coal and other goods along Lincoln Highway. Grandmother hated U.S. Route 30 above the Canton Bridge. Too many young people had lost their lives there in crashes – most generally with semis loaded for bear. She used to tell Anna’s mother and her aunts to be very careful when they used that stretch of road. Deadman’s Curve, she’d called it. There’d been talk of a Route 30 bypass but it still hadn’t happened so the weight of the heavy loads the eighteen-wheelers transported continued to break down the village’s main drag. But the drivers often stopped to eat at the greasy spoon so someone in town could do a million-dollar business every year. There still were too many empty storefronts. It had been chronic for too many years. But the parks in the middle of the business district looked real nice. Mama said Grandmother held held hope for the economy to get better so people here, friends and neighbors and family, could all afford to live better.
The buzz of a power saw caught her attention. It was somewhere down the street. She couldn’t see it. A lot of people were looking for alternative, cheaper ways to heat their homes because the cost of public utilities had gone much too high to be affordable. It wasn’t uncommon to hear power saws all hours of daylight. Folks had to do what they needed done when they could eke out the time, even as the last light of the day dimmed and went out. There was too much to do and not enough hours in the day for anyone. Busy. Everyone was so busy. In a hurry going nowhere, as if this were the only life they must concern themselves with because there was only the now and not a better place after this one. Still people worked hard from get up to go to sleep.
But not at Grandmother’s house. Grandfather didn’t have much interest in anything since Grandmother was gone. To be honest about it, even before Grandmother was gone, he hadn’t had much interest in anything domestic. Anna didn’t understand why.
Anna heard the voices of children laughing and playing. They were out of sight but Grandmother would have heard them and enjoyed them. They were like critters, she would have said. You could trust children and critters because they just took you as you were instead of having any expectations or plans of exploitation. Neighbors greeted each other over fences and property lines. In the kitchen window of the vacant house across the alley there was a candle, though Anna couldn’t recall seeing it lit and nobody had lived there for, well, she wasn’t sure how long.
Grandmother had had a window on the world, a window populated with people and nature and a way of life. Had she preserved in her scribbling any of those things outside her window? She’d always had paper and pen in hand, more than a computer, even though the finish on her laptop where she’d rested her wrists was rubbed away. The silver finish on the built-in mouse was white where she’d hit it with her thumb so often. The white letters on the “N” and “L” keys and most of the “M,” “S,” and “A” were gone. She had used her computer a lot. What secrets did this room hold, things nobody knew about the woman who had tried so valiantly to hold her family together?
Turning her back to the window, Anna’s eyes fell onto the small bookshelf unit within reach of the desk. Denise Giardina, Harriette Arnow, Sharyn McCrumb, Lee Smith, Appalachian writers, all. The Mack History of Columbiana County, Women Who Run with Wolves, Dr. Zhivago, Madame Bovary, and works of Doris Lessing. And several journals. Journals. Grandmother’s journals! The dust hadn’t been disturbed. Nobody had touched them. They probably hadn’t realized what they were!
She pulled the first one from the shelf. It was bound with a heavy-duty spiral. She opened it and found an envelope simply labeled, “Granddaughter.” The envelope was not sealed, the tab simply tucked inside. She pulled it free and took out the letter.
My dear granddaughter,
This Sunday morning the sky is gray. A few yellow-brown leaves still cling to the branches of the old oak tree outside my window, and they rustle almost constantly, whispering, whispering. If I put in my hearing aids will I be able to detect the message they convey? Or is it possible that I can discern the words in my heart, learned over time, reaffirming who I am and why I am? I strain to listen and hear, but there isn’t a syllable I can translate, not even a bird’s song. Ah! There is one so far distant!
And that oak. It stands sentry between me and the brutal sun of global warming proportions. Across the alley there is a tree. It’s a maple, less than half of the leaves green, yet whose skeleton will soon be exposed. Further away is the wooded hillside that shields the village from the worst of storms – there are no mountains here. Though October is mere days from this moment, there is more summer than autumn in their colors. It is obvious there are few days and nights before gray skies reign through a long hard winter. Short days. Cold. Bitter cold. Hard times. What did Dickens know that I do not?
It seems that my days and months and years might have the same, the look of summer, not quite autumn. I’m rambling. Too much rambling today. My thoughts are like storm clouds hovering over my emotions. It is difficult to digest that someone I love so much would wish to hurt me so irreparably. How will I manage to keep placing one foot in front of the other? How could this be? I would never have dreamed in a lifetime that this – Too, too much rambling. I don’t dare make issue of these happenings. Be strong. Bear my burdens in silence. There are others worse off than me. He could be much worse. He could get drunk and beat me, but he does not. I should be grateful for what I have. I surely don’t want to be labeled a neurotic, old woman, paranoid, lunatic. I am not neurotic. I am experienced. I am not paranoid. I am conditioned. I am not a lunatic. I have learned caution. Too, too, too much rambling.
I write my ramblings in a journal thinking my words will never hold meaning for anyone in the world but me. I suspect that if anyone reads these meaningless lines, it will be you, though at this time you are less than two years old and likely napping. You may find these words, abandoned … forgotten. You may study the faces in the photographs, faces of people you have never met and never will. You will study my handwriting, some days, even and legible, other days rushed scribbling because there wasn’t time to pace the writing. Some days there was so much frustration I couldn’t put down any words at all. I couldn’t find the energy to pick up a pen, to put words to paper to describe the heartbreaks I couldn’t do anything to change.
Will you be able to read between the lines and just know?
It seems I’ve spent a lifetime trying to read between the lines, between the generations ahead of me, and behind; the secrets that couldn’t be shared, the misunderstood oral histories that were passed down in whispers, never recorded in written words.
Amaris Jewett
September 28, 2009
Anna Baker sat down to remember the older – never old – woman. Pencils, pens, paper, paper and more paper. Grandmother had always had a plentiful supply. Her writing supplies were her toys. She had entertained herself for hours. Nobody in the family could comprehend why she would isolate herself here. Swiveling the chair, the view from the window caught Anna’s eye. She lifted the lower sash to let in the sounds, the scents and fresh air from the sunny, autumn day. Perhaps Grandmother hadn’t been so isolated as everyone had thought.
A gentle breeze fingered the leaves on the oak tree. Grandmother had loved that tree for some reason. It was tall and straight, and its shade had kept the temperature in the backyard at least ten degrees cooler than in front of the house where concrete sidewalks, the highway and driveways held the heat of the day less than ten feet from her door. Anna could hear the traffic now, including heavy trucks hauling coal and other goods along Lincoln Highway. Grandmother hated U.S. Route 30 above the Canton Bridge. Too many young people had lost their lives there in crashes – most generally with semis loaded for bear. She used to tell Anna’s mother and her aunts to be very careful when they used that stretch of road. Deadman’s Curve, she’d called it. There’d been talk of a Route 30 bypass but it still hadn’t happened so the weight of the heavy loads the eighteen-wheelers transported continued to break down the village’s main drag. But the drivers often stopped to eat at the greasy spoon so someone in town could do a million-dollar business every year. There still were too many empty storefronts. It had been chronic for too many years. But the parks in the middle of the business district looked real nice. Mama said Grandmother held held hope for the economy to get better so people here, friends and neighbors and family, could all afford to live better.
The buzz of a power saw caught her attention. It was somewhere down the street. She couldn’t see it. A lot of people were looking for alternative, cheaper ways to heat their homes because the cost of public utilities had gone much too high to be affordable. It wasn’t uncommon to hear power saws all hours of daylight. Folks had to do what they needed done when they could eke out the time, even as the last light of the day dimmed and went out. There was too much to do and not enough hours in the day for anyone. Busy. Everyone was so busy. In a hurry going nowhere, as if this were the only life they must concern themselves with because there was only the now and not a better place after this one. Still people worked hard from get up to go to sleep.
But not at Grandmother’s house. Grandfather didn’t have much interest in anything since Grandmother was gone. To be honest about it, even before Grandmother was gone, he hadn’t had much interest in anything domestic. Anna didn’t understand why.
Anna heard the voices of children laughing and playing. They were out of sight but Grandmother would have heard them and enjoyed them. They were like critters, she would have said. You could trust children and critters because they just took you as you were instead of having any expectations or plans of exploitation. Neighbors greeted each other over fences and property lines. In the kitchen window of the vacant house across the alley there was a candle, though Anna couldn’t recall seeing it lit and nobody had lived there for, well, she wasn’t sure how long.
Grandmother had had a window on the world, a window populated with people and nature and a way of life. Had she preserved in her scribbling any of those things outside her window? She’d always had paper and pen in hand, more than a computer, even though the finish on her laptop where she’d rested her wrists was rubbed away. The silver finish on the built-in mouse was white where she’d hit it with her thumb so often. The white letters on the “N” and “L” keys and most of the “M,” “S,” and “A” were gone. She had used her computer a lot. What secrets did this room hold, things nobody knew about the woman who had tried so valiantly to hold her family together?
Turning her back to the window, Anna’s eyes fell onto the small bookshelf unit within reach of the desk. Denise Giardina, Harriette Arnow, Sharyn McCrumb, Lee Smith, Appalachian writers, all. The Mack History of Columbiana County, Women Who Run with Wolves, Dr. Zhivago, Madame Bovary, and works of Doris Lessing. And several journals. Journals. Grandmother’s journals! The dust hadn’t been disturbed. Nobody had touched them. They probably hadn’t realized what they were!
She pulled the first one from the shelf. It was bound with a heavy-duty spiral. She opened it and found an envelope simply labeled, “Granddaughter.” The envelope was not sealed, the tab simply tucked inside. She pulled it free and took out the letter.
My dear granddaughter,
This Sunday morning the sky is gray. A few yellow-brown leaves still cling to the branches of the old oak tree outside my window, and they rustle almost constantly, whispering, whispering. If I put in my hearing aids will I be able to detect the message they convey? Or is it possible that I can discern the words in my heart, learned over time, reaffirming who I am and why I am? I strain to listen and hear, but there isn’t a syllable I can translate, not even a bird’s song. Ah! There is one so far distant!
And that oak. It stands sentry between me and the brutal sun of global warming proportions. Across the alley there is a tree. It’s a maple, less than half of the leaves green, yet whose skeleton will soon be exposed. Further away is the wooded hillside that shields the village from the worst of storms – there are no mountains here. Though October is mere days from this moment, there is more summer than autumn in their colors. It is obvious there are few days and nights before gray skies reign through a long hard winter. Short days. Cold. Bitter cold. Hard times. What did Dickens know that I do not?
It seems that my days and months and years might have the same, the look of summer, not quite autumn. I’m rambling. Too much rambling today. My thoughts are like storm clouds hovering over my emotions. It is difficult to digest that someone I love so much would wish to hurt me so irreparably. How will I manage to keep placing one foot in front of the other? How could this be? I would never have dreamed in a lifetime that this – Too, too much rambling. I don’t dare make issue of these happenings. Be strong. Bear my burdens in silence. There are others worse off than me. He could be much worse. He could get drunk and beat me, but he does not. I should be grateful for what I have. I surely don’t want to be labeled a neurotic, old woman, paranoid, lunatic. I am not neurotic. I am experienced. I am not paranoid. I am conditioned. I am not a lunatic. I have learned caution. Too, too, too much rambling.
I write my ramblings in a journal thinking my words will never hold meaning for anyone in the world but me. I suspect that if anyone reads these meaningless lines, it will be you, though at this time you are less than two years old and likely napping. You may find these words, abandoned … forgotten. You may study the faces in the photographs, faces of people you have never met and never will. You will study my handwriting, some days, even and legible, other days rushed scribbling because there wasn’t time to pace the writing. Some days there was so much frustration I couldn’t put down any words at all. I couldn’t find the energy to pick up a pen, to put words to paper to describe the heartbreaks I couldn’t do anything to change.
Will you be able to read between the lines and just know?
It seems I’ve spent a lifetime trying to read between the lines, between the generations ahead of me, and behind; the secrets that couldn’t be shared, the misunderstood oral histories that were passed down in whispers, never recorded in written words.
Amaris Jewett
September 28, 2009
IS(SUE) 10
AVANT(POETRY)
"synopsized through a paraphrase"
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania
pertinent bellicose becomes dispersed vassals
heeDeD irritant,documentation gout, horrific
] PANG of dual DuRaTioNs [
several inquisitors lecture priorities
rec’d heretical compliance title
clear sense apostolic depravity
;; legal BONDS aforesaid serenity ;;
:: cloak arrests confessor ::
(suffused statis brethren)
acquired
TuToR aDulT PuPiL –
servant assemblies
, Annales d’histoire sociale –
contrast,ed
assistance emerged
UnDeR immunity
,pit,ted,canons,imperial,annexations
] Mediterranean instrument,s of enriched fief [
specificities bequeath swallow,ing serious potents
last shaking sand,storm admirable pilgrim woe,s
all out dissolution arrest,s majority debat,ed
rEsIdUe,
InStRuCtIvE,
BacKgROuNd, >> reproduced
w/o permission
heeDeD irritant,documentation gout, horrific
] PANG of dual DuRaTioNs [
several inquisitors lecture priorities
rec’d heretical compliance title
clear sense apostolic depravity
;; legal BONDS aforesaid serenity ;;
:: cloak arrests confessor ::
(suffused statis brethren)
acquired
TuToR aDulT PuPiL –
servant assemblies
, Annales d’histoire sociale –
contrast,ed
assistance emerged
UnDeR immunity
,pit,ted,canons,imperial,annexations
] Mediterranean instrument,s of enriched fief [
specificities bequeath swallow,ing serious potents
last shaking sand,storm admirable pilgrim woe,s
all out dissolution arrest,s majority debat,ed
rEsIdUe,
InStRuCtIvE,
BacKgROuNd, >> reproduced
w/o permission
Avant(Art)
"The Last Dreamer Climbing the Wind"
Bill Wolak, New Jersey
Bill Wolak, New Jersey
Avant(Story)
"Mirror in the Dark"
Wendy Wilson, North Carolina
Wendy Wilson, North Carolina
Julianne sighed and rubbed the rain darkened window with her handkerchief, trying to clear the fog of her breath from the glass. She succeeded only in smearing the image in the glass from a delicate, dark eyed ingenue into a warped and wrinkled crone. The crone winked and a burst of lightening flashed across the night sky.
"Oh!" She jumped back with her fingers touching her lips before leaning close again to the window. "That was unexpected."
Another flash of lightning and a sharp clap of thunder made her jump again. This time her father’s old hound dog, Blue, lifted his head and whined in worry. Too old and worn out to do more than complain about the noise, he settled back into his basket before the fire with a heavy sigh.
Julianne walked to the chaise, her whale bone corset obliging her to walk erect as one of the Confederate soldiers she had cheered for a few short years ago. She absentmindedly patted Blue’s head and shifted her crinoline skirts, so Blue's runny nose didn't leak onto the hem. The shawl she wore spilled off her shoulders and a shiver ran through her despite the wool fabric of her dress.
She tossed another log into the fireplace and contemplated lighting the oil lamp sitting on the writing desk by the door. Deciding that the evening was early enough to be worthwhile, she took a taper from the holder on the mantle and stuck it in the fire. With that small blaze, she lit the desk lamp and adjusted the flame. The wick light sent curls of black smoke into the room. She opened the door and summoned the maid Daisy.
"You didn't trim the wick like I told you to do, did you?"
Daisy curtsied and hung her head.
"No Miss. I'm sorry. What with Cook gone to visit to her dying sister and the sl-"
"I understand you have had more responsibilities now that the slaves have all run off, but am I supposed to sit in the dark?"
Another curtsy. Daisy looked at the lamp, sputtering but giving off a strong light.
"No Miss. Do you want me to get another lamp? I think the one in the pantry is fine."
"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know what I want!" Julianne's fingers twisted a ring on her finger. "Where is he? Why isn't he here?" She collapsed upon the chaise and sobbed into her hands. Daisy shifted from foot to foot not knowing if she should leave and get the lamp or comfort her mistress. She decided to soothe Julianne and knelt before the distraught woman.
"I'm sure it's just the weather Miss. It's pure buckets comin' down out there. Even deaf Ole Blue here can hear the lightnin' and thunder in his sleep it's that loud. Maybe..."
Julianne whipped her head up.
"Don't say it. Don't you ever say it. Beau will come. He survived the War of Northern Aggression, and he won't let a little dampness stop him from coming to me."
Brilliant light lit up the room, leaving sparkling dots in their eyes. A crack of thunder blasted their ears. Blue moaned in his sleep and twitched. The two women clung to each other for a moment. Daisy jerked her hands back and rose from her mistress. She went to the rain pelted window and pulled the curtains closed before lifting her head.
"Miss." She stammered, "I'm not sure Master Beau will be coming tonight. You know my old Gran has the sight, don't you? I mean she can See things."
Julianne's eyes narrowed as she stood and towered over the frightened maid.
"And just what does this have to do with my fiancée riding to court me?"
"Well, it's just that... I heard... I think..."
"You heard what?" Julianne grabbed Daisy's apron front and shook her. "Tell me. Speak or so help me, I'll...."
"My Gran could use mirrors and See the future and she said your fiancée wasn't coming here to woo you, he went courtin' someone else, the rings he promised you, he's gonna give to another." Daisy drew in a breath, waiting for what the other woman would do.
Julianne stiffened and turned slowly to the window, her back to the maid.
"So, your grandmother has the gift of clairvoyance, does she?"
"Clar...var...?"
Julianne huffed.
"Clairvoyance. The Gift of Seeing Beyond. You say your grandmother can peer beyond the veil."
"I don't know 'bout a veil Miss. But my Gran can See things that will happen. She taught me how."
"How?"
"With a mirror Miss. And it has to be dark too."
"Like tonight."
Daisy gulped.
"Yes Miss, dark like tonight."
Julianne whipped around; her hands planted on her hips. She scowled and bobbed her head.
"What are you waiting for girl? Go fetch me a mirror. I dare say this night will be dark enough for my purposes if what you say is true."
Daisy ran from the room, knocking the chair under which Blue snored. He snorted and looked blearily around the room.
"Go back to sleep Blue. You're not much good for anything else anymore." Julianne paced the room, flinging open the curtains again. Torrents of water beat against the glass and in the distance the rumble of thunder dwindled as the storm faded down the mountain valley.
Daisy paused at the doorway and waited as Julianne walked from window to fireplace and back to window. The maid wrung her hands around the gilded frame of the handheld mirror she carried.
"Miss. I got the mirror you wanted."
Julianne spun around and grabbed Daisy's hand.
"Show me. Show me how to look into the future."
"I forgot to tell you Miss. It ain't always the future. Sometimes it shows what's happening now. I'm sorry Miss."
"As long as it tells me about Beau, I don't care." She sat on the chaise and patted the space next to her. "Sit here and get on with it. I don't want to wait all night."
"A few things we need before we start." Daisy said as she shut the door and clicked home the lock. "We can't have any body walking in on us. "It's gotta be candlelight too, not oil lamp. And the curtains have to be closed." She closed the curtains and lit some odd smelling candles before blowing out the lamp.
Conditions met, Daisy perched next to Julianne and pulled the shawl over both their heads. "Heads gotta be covered too. Close your eyes and-"
"Close my eyes? I won't be able to see the mirror!"
"That comes later Miss. Right now, we gotta go inside our own selves. Least, that's what Gran says."
Both women closed their eyes, thunder rumbling through their heads, fading away into the distance. Julianne followed Daisy's breathing as it grew slower and deeper. When the two women were synchronized, Daisy placed Julianne's hand on the mirror’s surface and chanted;
"Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your fingers into the glass. Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your hands into the glass" Daisy felt Julianne's breaths grow deeper and her body begin to sway as she followed the chant. "Good, good Miss. Now think about what you want to see and then open your eyes."
Julianne squeezed her eyes tighter, concentrating her will into her hands. A tiny tremor rippled beneath them. She tried to pull her hands away, her fear overpowering her desire to see what the mirror would tell her, but Daisy held her in a firm grasp.
"I...I...I don't think..." Julianne tried harder to unwrap her fingers from the mirror.
"You have to hold it close, Gran told me. Or you won't See anything."
The tremors increased until it felt like her fingers melted into the glass. Julianne opened her eyes and stared into the mirror. She dropped it into her lap and gasped.
"Who is that? It isn't me!" Julianne leaned in closer to better see the image staring back at her. "I just saw this face! A few minutes ago, in the window. How... what...? She spun around on the chaise, looking for what caused the reflection of the aged woman in the mirror. No one but Daisy and herself was in the room. The lips of the crone moved. Julianne tilted her head to listen better.
"I am you. You, many years from now." Came a rasping, rough voice. "I know everything about your life and what will happen to you in the future. Ask what you will."
Her lips worked but no words escaped from Julianne's mouth, only a breathless groan. Finally, Julianne could control her voice and with a trembling tone asked her question.
"Where is my fiancé? Where is Beau?"
The face turned away. It shrank to a pinpoint in the mist. Julianne frantically slapped the glass.
"No! Don't disappear! Come back!" She pleaded and thrust the mirror at Daisy. "Tell her to come back!" Daisy nodded at the mirror.
Instead of the vision of an old woman, the form of a man on horseback and the clip clop of horse’s hooves on a rocky path materialized in the mirror. Julianne leaned closer into the mirror until she recognized the square chin and black hair under the dripping wide brimmed hat. A flash of lightening lit the eyes and their cobalt blue sparkled in the flare. In the distance, Julianne almost felt the faint rumble of thunder as the rider jerked the reins of his horse, almost unseating himself.
"That's Beau! He's on his way here!" Julianne grinned at Daisy. "You told me he wasn't going to come! Oh, I hope he doesn't catch his death out there in this downpour." She ran to the window and rubbed the condensation from the glass again to peer into the dark street.
Daisy picked up the mirror from where it had fallen when Julianne jumped up.
"Wait Miss. I don't think you saw the whole picture. Look again. Mister Beau ain't what you think he is."
Julianne tossed her head at what Daisy said but reached for the mirror.
"Oh, all right Daisy. Give it to me."
Julianne gazed into the mirror again, cocking her head and shaking it side to side.
"I'm doing this only because you insist Daisy. He's coming here, even in this rain. He loves me."
Daisy nodded to the clearing image and watched as her mistress folded onto the sofa. Julianne gripped her shawl with white knuckles as the story unfolded in the mirror.
Beau reined in his mount, pulling it back from the crevasse formed by a flood of run-off rain, and glanced warily at the dark clouds above him. Water streamed down the brim of his hat and over the duster coat he wore.
"Whoa Traveler, don't go wild on me now Boy. We're almost there, just beyond that curve." He kicked the horse into a trot. Traveler, remembering the warm dry stable and warm mash that would be waiting, stretched his legs and within a few minutes Beau dismounted in the yard of a small cabin surrounded by towering Tulip and Hemlock trees.
The door flung open and silhouetted in the door frame stood the shape of a young woman. Beau strode to her and picked her up in his arms. Twirling her around, he kissed her hard and reluctantly put her down.
"I have to stable Traveler my love. Then I'll be back to take care of you." He chucked her under her chin and smiled. The girl gave him a sultry eyed pout and went back into the cabin.
The mirror slipped from Julianne's fingers and fell to the carpeted floor.
"Who is that Jezebel? He called her 'my love'. This can't be! We're engaged." Julianne pounded her fists against her legs. "I don't believe it."
Daisy picked up the dropped shawl and wrapped it around her mistress's shoulders.
"Did you recognize the cabin? Could you find it?"
Julianne shook her head.
"Find the cabin? Why would I do that?" Her eyes grew flinty. "Maybe I should find him and throw this, this engagement ring at him. The dad-blasted cad, bounder, weasel." She tore the ring off her finger and glared at it before putting it in her pocket.
"Yes Miss. Did you recognize the trail? I thought I saw the fork to Springfield town right before the cabin. Should I get Jethro to saddle your mare?"
Julianne dashed the tears from her eyes and, through clenched teeth, told Daisy to, yes, get Dolly saddled. After Daisy left, she circled the room. The mirror lay on the floor still. She picked it up and contemplated it. The old crone was gone, leaving only Julianne and the wall behind her reflected in its glass.
A glint off metal caught her eye. She spun around. There, above the fireplace mantle, hanging on its pegs, was her father's Winchester rifle. A smile spread across her face, and she opened the desk's drawers to find the bullets her father kept handy.
Daisy came back to tell her the horse was ready, and the weather cleared enough for the moon to shine through.
"Did you put the rifle holster with the saddle?" Julianne asked.
"I thought you might want it."
Julianne squinted at the maid.
"Why did you do that?"
"You're going out at night Miss. No tellin' who or what might be roaming the trails this time of night."
"Yes, I suppose you're right. I don't know when I will be back. You don't have to wait up for me."
"Oh, I'll do it anyway Miss. Good luck." She picked the mirror up and stood it on the mantle. "I'll take fine care of this."
Julianne mounted the mare and tucked her shawl into her belt. The rain may have stopped but the wind gusted wild in the trees, sending wisps of clouds scudding across the full moon. She reined Dolly to face the road and kicked her into a canter. The horse's shod hooves muffled in the muddy streets as she rode out of town.
Wind cooled Julianne's anger reddened, heated face. She wiped at her eyes, but it wasn't rain causing the blurriness in her sight. Lights from the lamps in the windows of her neighbors gave way to a darkness that matched the emotions raging in her. Dolly slowed when her hooves struck rocks dislodged by the torrents of water spilled onto the trail.
"Oh no you don't." Julianne spurred the mare into a gallop that the horse fought. "Faster Dolly. Faster. D--- him." She called as they rode deeper into the mountains.
Julianne felt the horse's leg drop into the crevasse too late to pull her up. Dolly screamed a shrill neigh as her front legs splayed and she pitched forward into the muddy trail. A snap like a stepped-on twig and another squeal from Dolly and she was down, her left foreleg broken and bloody. She struggled to stand, neighing her pain to the night.
Dazed from the fall and blinded by the wind whipped branches slapping her face, Julianne scrabbled to stand. Her leg slipped and she fell against the thrashing mare. Dolly's cries grew as her writhing kicked up mud and stones until both Julianne and Dolly were mired with black grime and blood.
"Dolly! Oh Dolly! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I've killed you." Julianne knelt by Dolly's head and lifted it into her lap. The mare's struggling slowed, and her neighs of panic dissolved into grunts of pain and fear. Her soft brown eyes sought her mistress's for an answer to her agony. Julianne had no answer except for one. She bent forward and kissed Dolly before rising and going to the saddle. The Winchester rifle lay on the road, undamaged from its fall.
Julianne picked the rifle up and, with fumbling fingers, cocked the rifle. A moan escaped her and for a moment tears blinded her again. Her hand dashed the tears and she moved to Dolly's head. She placed the barrel between the horse's eyes, it wavered until Julianne took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, my love." She cried and pulled the trigger.
***
Beau jerked his hands away from Sally's breasts. The bedcovers slid off his back and onto the floor.
"Did you harken' to that?"
"Did I harken to what?" She murmured as she nibbled his ear. "I didn't hear anythin’. Kiss me."
"There was definitely some..." Beau leaned closer to Sally. "I swear.... Mmmm, You're so delicious...."
"I'm cold. Warm me."
The door crashed open. Sally screamed. Beau jumped out of bed and reached for his revolver. He never reached it. The blast from a Winchester rifle ripped into his chest. Beau stiffened and clasped his hands against the bloody hole. He looked with open mouthed surprise from the mortal wound to the harridan filling the doorway. His mouth moved as if to ask a question and then he tipped forward to fall among the blankets on the floor. Blood pumped from the wound on to the fabric for a few moments and then went still.
Julianne cocked the rifle. Sally screamed and scrabbled like a crab against the headboard.
"Don't shoot me! Please!" She held out her hands to ward off the barrel of the gun that swung around to her.
"Didn't you know we get rid of trash around here?" Julianne snarled and pulled the trigger again.
The rifle bumped against the wooden floor as Julianne slumped onto the stool. A slow moan grew into a shriek. She stood and tore at her hair, her face, her neck before falling next to Beau, hugging the bloody body to her chest.
"No! You're not dead! You can't be! You were going to bring me back a wedding ring!" Her body dissolved over Beau's, racked with sobs tearing through her throat. After an eternity, the sobs turned into hiccups. Julianne pushed herself from the floor and stared at the pale, bloodless lips of her fiancé.
A thought came to her, and she searched his pockets. In the second one she found it. Her fingers convulsed as she drew out the silver band and placed it on her ring finger.
"This is mine. Not hers. Mine. Forever." A strange brightness shone in her eyes as she unwrapped her now bloody shawl from her shoulders and draped it over his face. An unhinged giggle exploded from her. "Mine forever.”
Another cackle erupted and she twirled in the bloody puddle, waving her hands in a free style ballet. She danced through the door and into the moon's light, her deranged cackle echoing in the vale.
***
Daisy lifted the mirror from her lap and waited for the vision to clear from the cabin to the room she sat in. The old woman's face emerged from the mist and smiled at her.
"I told you this was the better way girl. Didn't I tell you?"
"You sure did Gran. To think I was gonna tell what he done to me." Daisy placed her hand over her stomach and frowned. "He got what he deserved."
"No one would ever believe you Granddaughter. No one ever believes the woman."
"Oh!" She jumped back with her fingers touching her lips before leaning close again to the window. "That was unexpected."
Another flash of lightning and a sharp clap of thunder made her jump again. This time her father’s old hound dog, Blue, lifted his head and whined in worry. Too old and worn out to do more than complain about the noise, he settled back into his basket before the fire with a heavy sigh.
Julianne walked to the chaise, her whale bone corset obliging her to walk erect as one of the Confederate soldiers she had cheered for a few short years ago. She absentmindedly patted Blue’s head and shifted her crinoline skirts, so Blue's runny nose didn't leak onto the hem. The shawl she wore spilled off her shoulders and a shiver ran through her despite the wool fabric of her dress.
She tossed another log into the fireplace and contemplated lighting the oil lamp sitting on the writing desk by the door. Deciding that the evening was early enough to be worthwhile, she took a taper from the holder on the mantle and stuck it in the fire. With that small blaze, she lit the desk lamp and adjusted the flame. The wick light sent curls of black smoke into the room. She opened the door and summoned the maid Daisy.
"You didn't trim the wick like I told you to do, did you?"
Daisy curtsied and hung her head.
"No Miss. I'm sorry. What with Cook gone to visit to her dying sister and the sl-"
"I understand you have had more responsibilities now that the slaves have all run off, but am I supposed to sit in the dark?"
Another curtsy. Daisy looked at the lamp, sputtering but giving off a strong light.
"No Miss. Do you want me to get another lamp? I think the one in the pantry is fine."
"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know what I want!" Julianne's fingers twisted a ring on her finger. "Where is he? Why isn't he here?" She collapsed upon the chaise and sobbed into her hands. Daisy shifted from foot to foot not knowing if she should leave and get the lamp or comfort her mistress. She decided to soothe Julianne and knelt before the distraught woman.
"I'm sure it's just the weather Miss. It's pure buckets comin' down out there. Even deaf Ole Blue here can hear the lightnin' and thunder in his sleep it's that loud. Maybe..."
Julianne whipped her head up.
"Don't say it. Don't you ever say it. Beau will come. He survived the War of Northern Aggression, and he won't let a little dampness stop him from coming to me."
Brilliant light lit up the room, leaving sparkling dots in their eyes. A crack of thunder blasted their ears. Blue moaned in his sleep and twitched. The two women clung to each other for a moment. Daisy jerked her hands back and rose from her mistress. She went to the rain pelted window and pulled the curtains closed before lifting her head.
"Miss." She stammered, "I'm not sure Master Beau will be coming tonight. You know my old Gran has the sight, don't you? I mean she can See things."
Julianne's eyes narrowed as she stood and towered over the frightened maid.
"And just what does this have to do with my fiancée riding to court me?"
"Well, it's just that... I heard... I think..."
"You heard what?" Julianne grabbed Daisy's apron front and shook her. "Tell me. Speak or so help me, I'll...."
"My Gran could use mirrors and See the future and she said your fiancée wasn't coming here to woo you, he went courtin' someone else, the rings he promised you, he's gonna give to another." Daisy drew in a breath, waiting for what the other woman would do.
Julianne stiffened and turned slowly to the window, her back to the maid.
"So, your grandmother has the gift of clairvoyance, does she?"
"Clar...var...?"
Julianne huffed.
"Clairvoyance. The Gift of Seeing Beyond. You say your grandmother can peer beyond the veil."
"I don't know 'bout a veil Miss. But my Gran can See things that will happen. She taught me how."
"How?"
"With a mirror Miss. And it has to be dark too."
"Like tonight."
Daisy gulped.
"Yes Miss, dark like tonight."
Julianne whipped around; her hands planted on her hips. She scowled and bobbed her head.
"What are you waiting for girl? Go fetch me a mirror. I dare say this night will be dark enough for my purposes if what you say is true."
Daisy ran from the room, knocking the chair under which Blue snored. He snorted and looked blearily around the room.
"Go back to sleep Blue. You're not much good for anything else anymore." Julianne paced the room, flinging open the curtains again. Torrents of water beat against the glass and in the distance the rumble of thunder dwindled as the storm faded down the mountain valley.
Daisy paused at the doorway and waited as Julianne walked from window to fireplace and back to window. The maid wrung her hands around the gilded frame of the handheld mirror she carried.
"Miss. I got the mirror you wanted."
Julianne spun around and grabbed Daisy's hand.
"Show me. Show me how to look into the future."
"I forgot to tell you Miss. It ain't always the future. Sometimes it shows what's happening now. I'm sorry Miss."
"As long as it tells me about Beau, I don't care." She sat on the chaise and patted the space next to her. "Sit here and get on with it. I don't want to wait all night."
"A few things we need before we start." Daisy said as she shut the door and clicked home the lock. "We can't have any body walking in on us. "It's gotta be candlelight too, not oil lamp. And the curtains have to be closed." She closed the curtains and lit some odd smelling candles before blowing out the lamp.
Conditions met, Daisy perched next to Julianne and pulled the shawl over both their heads. "Heads gotta be covered too. Close your eyes and-"
"Close my eyes? I won't be able to see the mirror!"
"That comes later Miss. Right now, we gotta go inside our own selves. Least, that's what Gran says."
Both women closed their eyes, thunder rumbling through their heads, fading away into the distance. Julianne followed Daisy's breathing as it grew slower and deeper. When the two women were synchronized, Daisy placed Julianne's hand on the mirror’s surface and chanted;
"Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your fingers into the glass. Feel the glass, feel your hands on the glass, feel your thoughts go through your hands into the glass" Daisy felt Julianne's breaths grow deeper and her body begin to sway as she followed the chant. "Good, good Miss. Now think about what you want to see and then open your eyes."
Julianne squeezed her eyes tighter, concentrating her will into her hands. A tiny tremor rippled beneath them. She tried to pull her hands away, her fear overpowering her desire to see what the mirror would tell her, but Daisy held her in a firm grasp.
"I...I...I don't think..." Julianne tried harder to unwrap her fingers from the mirror.
"You have to hold it close, Gran told me. Or you won't See anything."
The tremors increased until it felt like her fingers melted into the glass. Julianne opened her eyes and stared into the mirror. She dropped it into her lap and gasped.
"Who is that? It isn't me!" Julianne leaned in closer to better see the image staring back at her. "I just saw this face! A few minutes ago, in the window. How... what...? She spun around on the chaise, looking for what caused the reflection of the aged woman in the mirror. No one but Daisy and herself was in the room. The lips of the crone moved. Julianne tilted her head to listen better.
"I am you. You, many years from now." Came a rasping, rough voice. "I know everything about your life and what will happen to you in the future. Ask what you will."
Her lips worked but no words escaped from Julianne's mouth, only a breathless groan. Finally, Julianne could control her voice and with a trembling tone asked her question.
"Where is my fiancé? Where is Beau?"
The face turned away. It shrank to a pinpoint in the mist. Julianne frantically slapped the glass.
"No! Don't disappear! Come back!" She pleaded and thrust the mirror at Daisy. "Tell her to come back!" Daisy nodded at the mirror.
Instead of the vision of an old woman, the form of a man on horseback and the clip clop of horse’s hooves on a rocky path materialized in the mirror. Julianne leaned closer into the mirror until she recognized the square chin and black hair under the dripping wide brimmed hat. A flash of lightening lit the eyes and their cobalt blue sparkled in the flare. In the distance, Julianne almost felt the faint rumble of thunder as the rider jerked the reins of his horse, almost unseating himself.
"That's Beau! He's on his way here!" Julianne grinned at Daisy. "You told me he wasn't going to come! Oh, I hope he doesn't catch his death out there in this downpour." She ran to the window and rubbed the condensation from the glass again to peer into the dark street.
Daisy picked up the mirror from where it had fallen when Julianne jumped up.
"Wait Miss. I don't think you saw the whole picture. Look again. Mister Beau ain't what you think he is."
Julianne tossed her head at what Daisy said but reached for the mirror.
"Oh, all right Daisy. Give it to me."
Julianne gazed into the mirror again, cocking her head and shaking it side to side.
"I'm doing this only because you insist Daisy. He's coming here, even in this rain. He loves me."
Daisy nodded to the clearing image and watched as her mistress folded onto the sofa. Julianne gripped her shawl with white knuckles as the story unfolded in the mirror.
Beau reined in his mount, pulling it back from the crevasse formed by a flood of run-off rain, and glanced warily at the dark clouds above him. Water streamed down the brim of his hat and over the duster coat he wore.
"Whoa Traveler, don't go wild on me now Boy. We're almost there, just beyond that curve." He kicked the horse into a trot. Traveler, remembering the warm dry stable and warm mash that would be waiting, stretched his legs and within a few minutes Beau dismounted in the yard of a small cabin surrounded by towering Tulip and Hemlock trees.
The door flung open and silhouetted in the door frame stood the shape of a young woman. Beau strode to her and picked her up in his arms. Twirling her around, he kissed her hard and reluctantly put her down.
"I have to stable Traveler my love. Then I'll be back to take care of you." He chucked her under her chin and smiled. The girl gave him a sultry eyed pout and went back into the cabin.
The mirror slipped from Julianne's fingers and fell to the carpeted floor.
"Who is that Jezebel? He called her 'my love'. This can't be! We're engaged." Julianne pounded her fists against her legs. "I don't believe it."
Daisy picked up the dropped shawl and wrapped it around her mistress's shoulders.
"Did you recognize the cabin? Could you find it?"
Julianne shook her head.
"Find the cabin? Why would I do that?" Her eyes grew flinty. "Maybe I should find him and throw this, this engagement ring at him. The dad-blasted cad, bounder, weasel." She tore the ring off her finger and glared at it before putting it in her pocket.
"Yes Miss. Did you recognize the trail? I thought I saw the fork to Springfield town right before the cabin. Should I get Jethro to saddle your mare?"
Julianne dashed the tears from her eyes and, through clenched teeth, told Daisy to, yes, get Dolly saddled. After Daisy left, she circled the room. The mirror lay on the floor still. She picked it up and contemplated it. The old crone was gone, leaving only Julianne and the wall behind her reflected in its glass.
A glint off metal caught her eye. She spun around. There, above the fireplace mantle, hanging on its pegs, was her father's Winchester rifle. A smile spread across her face, and she opened the desk's drawers to find the bullets her father kept handy.
Daisy came back to tell her the horse was ready, and the weather cleared enough for the moon to shine through.
"Did you put the rifle holster with the saddle?" Julianne asked.
"I thought you might want it."
Julianne squinted at the maid.
"Why did you do that?"
"You're going out at night Miss. No tellin' who or what might be roaming the trails this time of night."
"Yes, I suppose you're right. I don't know when I will be back. You don't have to wait up for me."
"Oh, I'll do it anyway Miss. Good luck." She picked the mirror up and stood it on the mantle. "I'll take fine care of this."
Julianne mounted the mare and tucked her shawl into her belt. The rain may have stopped but the wind gusted wild in the trees, sending wisps of clouds scudding across the full moon. She reined Dolly to face the road and kicked her into a canter. The horse's shod hooves muffled in the muddy streets as she rode out of town.
Wind cooled Julianne's anger reddened, heated face. She wiped at her eyes, but it wasn't rain causing the blurriness in her sight. Lights from the lamps in the windows of her neighbors gave way to a darkness that matched the emotions raging in her. Dolly slowed when her hooves struck rocks dislodged by the torrents of water spilled onto the trail.
"Oh no you don't." Julianne spurred the mare into a gallop that the horse fought. "Faster Dolly. Faster. D--- him." She called as they rode deeper into the mountains.
Julianne felt the horse's leg drop into the crevasse too late to pull her up. Dolly screamed a shrill neigh as her front legs splayed and she pitched forward into the muddy trail. A snap like a stepped-on twig and another squeal from Dolly and she was down, her left foreleg broken and bloody. She struggled to stand, neighing her pain to the night.
Dazed from the fall and blinded by the wind whipped branches slapping her face, Julianne scrabbled to stand. Her leg slipped and she fell against the thrashing mare. Dolly's cries grew as her writhing kicked up mud and stones until both Julianne and Dolly were mired with black grime and blood.
"Dolly! Oh Dolly! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I've killed you." Julianne knelt by Dolly's head and lifted it into her lap. The mare's struggling slowed, and her neighs of panic dissolved into grunts of pain and fear. Her soft brown eyes sought her mistress's for an answer to her agony. Julianne had no answer except for one. She bent forward and kissed Dolly before rising and going to the saddle. The Winchester rifle lay on the road, undamaged from its fall.
Julianne picked the rifle up and, with fumbling fingers, cocked the rifle. A moan escaped her and for a moment tears blinded her again. Her hand dashed the tears and she moved to Dolly's head. She placed the barrel between the horse's eyes, it wavered until Julianne took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, my love." She cried and pulled the trigger.
***
Beau jerked his hands away from Sally's breasts. The bedcovers slid off his back and onto the floor.
"Did you harken' to that?"
"Did I harken to what?" She murmured as she nibbled his ear. "I didn't hear anythin’. Kiss me."
"There was definitely some..." Beau leaned closer to Sally. "I swear.... Mmmm, You're so delicious...."
"I'm cold. Warm me."
The door crashed open. Sally screamed. Beau jumped out of bed and reached for his revolver. He never reached it. The blast from a Winchester rifle ripped into his chest. Beau stiffened and clasped his hands against the bloody hole. He looked with open mouthed surprise from the mortal wound to the harridan filling the doorway. His mouth moved as if to ask a question and then he tipped forward to fall among the blankets on the floor. Blood pumped from the wound on to the fabric for a few moments and then went still.
Julianne cocked the rifle. Sally screamed and scrabbled like a crab against the headboard.
"Don't shoot me! Please!" She held out her hands to ward off the barrel of the gun that swung around to her.
"Didn't you know we get rid of trash around here?" Julianne snarled and pulled the trigger again.
The rifle bumped against the wooden floor as Julianne slumped onto the stool. A slow moan grew into a shriek. She stood and tore at her hair, her face, her neck before falling next to Beau, hugging the bloody body to her chest.
"No! You're not dead! You can't be! You were going to bring me back a wedding ring!" Her body dissolved over Beau's, racked with sobs tearing through her throat. After an eternity, the sobs turned into hiccups. Julianne pushed herself from the floor and stared at the pale, bloodless lips of her fiancé.
A thought came to her, and she searched his pockets. In the second one she found it. Her fingers convulsed as she drew out the silver band and placed it on her ring finger.
"This is mine. Not hers. Mine. Forever." A strange brightness shone in her eyes as she unwrapped her now bloody shawl from her shoulders and draped it over his face. An unhinged giggle exploded from her. "Mine forever.”
Another cackle erupted and she twirled in the bloody puddle, waving her hands in a free style ballet. She danced through the door and into the moon's light, her deranged cackle echoing in the vale.
***
Daisy lifted the mirror from her lap and waited for the vision to clear from the cabin to the room she sat in. The old woman's face emerged from the mist and smiled at her.
"I told you this was the better way girl. Didn't I tell you?"
"You sure did Gran. To think I was gonna tell what he done to me." Daisy placed her hand over her stomach and frowned. "He got what he deserved."
"No one would ever believe you Granddaughter. No one ever believes the woman."
Is(SUE) 11
Avant(POETRY)
"In AcCurate Stance"
Olchar E. Lindsann, Virginia
Olchar E. Lindsann, Virginia
m observable is purposely mad"
– Paschal Beverly Randolph
~?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
he shrieks for sooth
stomps for hansom cabbie drone is thine
serves his heat pump lucifer matches gramophone to hauberk
verily VR scythe she
telegraphs hieroglyphic hybrid vaudeville memes
entire foxtrot autotune
maps feudal brigands' walkie-talkie galleon rocket dongle
howbeit GPS her corset crashes
stem in the cathedral cell
nay tis messerschmidt as any roman milkmen
lo upon his cotton pleather gin
her harpooned soviet hauls up hill again
the aerosol of utter burlap venmo
digital her quilting freeze dry circle round and round
the cryogenic vellum, Hope.
– Paschal Beverly Randolph
~?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
he shrieks for sooth
stomps for hansom cabbie drone is thine
serves his heat pump lucifer matches gramophone to hauberk
verily VR scythe she
telegraphs hieroglyphic hybrid vaudeville memes
entire foxtrot autotune
maps feudal brigands' walkie-talkie galleon rocket dongle
howbeit GPS her corset crashes
stem in the cathedral cell
nay tis messerschmidt as any roman milkmen
lo upon his cotton pleather gin
her harpooned soviet hauls up hill again
the aerosol of utter burlap venmo
digital her quilting freeze dry circle round and round
the cryogenic vellum, Hope.
AVANT(ART)
"Furnace of Affliction"
Jim E. Lewis, California
Jim E. Lewis, California
AVANT(STORY)
"Proud Paleo Perfect People"
Mark Blickley, New York
Photo: Amy Bassin, New York
Mark Blickley, New York
Photo: Amy Bassin, New York
A sudden sound of blasting wind makes the tiki torches flicker. In struts Basil, the outlaw tribal shaman, wearing a large furry buffalo hat with protruding horns, a fancy fringed vest that reveals his chiseled chest, and a colorful speedo that houses an abnormally large scrotum. He flexes his amazing triceps and biceps in an exaggerated pose of greeting as he raises his arms above his head, strutting up to the outdoor stage.
“Tribal Members! Proud Paleo Perfect People! You sacred PPPPs! Praise be to the Lard, and all other natural byproducts,” shouts Basil.
His audience cheers.
“A blessing on all your heads, from your family of physically and morally undefiled Paleolithic ancestors.”
“Homeostasis in the highest!” chants the crowd.
“Sagging and shapeless mainstream mankind doesn’t want me to venerate and expose the powerful purity of our superior genes. Using work swallowing machines and flabby factory farming they want to strip us of our true Paleo heritage! The attempted molestation of we Proud Paleo Perfect People began on this very night at the very first D.O.A., Dawn of Agriculture’s sneak attack on humanity!”
“Outrageous abomination! Homeostasis in the Highest! Praise be to the Lard and all other natural byproducts!” screams the crowd.
Basil does repetitive, exaggerated sweeping bows to his followers, but in doing so, two huge peaches are dislodged from his speedo and fall to the ground. The crowd gasps in surprise and disillusionment.
An embarrassed Basil stutters, “They....they....those are naturally found and picked fruit. Not harvested from evil orchards!” He raises up his flexed arms to distract his followers as he quickly kicks the large peaches off to the side of the stage. He hides behind the lectern at the front of the stage in order to recover his dominance and dignity.
Basil lowers his arms and grips the sides of the lectern. “Quinoa, why is this evening, this night, different from all other evenings?”
“Because it is the joyful commiseration of D.O.A. Eve, the Dawn Of Agriculture, Basil.”
“And what is commiserated on this day, Herb?” asks Basil.
Herb screams, “We commemorate on this sacred D.O.A. Eve, the 15,714th annual remembrance of a terror avoided by our beloved Paleo ancestors, Basil.”
“Correct. And what constitutes this terror, Myrtle?”
Myrtle shouts, “It’s when humanity rejected their natural Paleolithic pureness of hunter/gatherer for the evil of the Dawn of Agriculture who raped the precious few inches of life-giving topsoil, Basil.”
“Norman, why is this D.O.A. evil?” asks Basil.
“It marks Man’s fall from our true nature as self-sufficient food providers and into the perversion of farming and mechanized processed foods!” replies Norman.
Basil glares at the crowd. “Myrtle, and what are the two greatest sins created at this Dawn of Agriculture?
“The sins of grain growing and animal husbandry, Basil. Modern humans castrate their ranched alpha beasts to more easily herd them into automated slaughterhouse pens.”
“You speak truth, Myrtle. Are we animals, Herb? Do we marry fellow beasts?”
“We are not animals, Basil. And we do not marry to destroy sensuality! We are PPPPs, Basil."
"Proud Paleo Perfect People! Untainted, loving human beings, not beasts who refuse to be slapped into a sexual shame of polygamy."
The crowd cheers and chants, “PPPP! PPPP! PPPP!”
Basil smiles and motions to them to lower their voices. “And the evils of cultivated grain? Tell me of this wickedness, Norman. This curse against human nature.”
Norman recites from memory, “Cultivated grain gave birth to the unnatural, wicked food of bread, Basil. The Dawn Of Agriculture began a...a....a degenerative.....and additive addictive invasion against humanity by seducing mankind with factory farmed processed foods. It attempts to contaminate and weaken our glorious Paleo primal genes with empty calories and enforced famines.”
Basil withdraws an extremely large red book from beneath the lectern and holds it above his head. “A reading from the sacred book of Holy Homeostasis!”
“Praise be to the Lard and other natural byproducts,” shouts the audience.
Basil lowers the book and opens it, flexing his muscles as he searches for the proper page. “As the revered Paleo Charles Atlas sayeth, “Evolution is a conscious process.”
The crowd cheers and when the noise dies down Basil resumes his reading. “And the man broke the bread, held it out to them, and sayeth, ‘Take, eat this bread. This is my body which is given to you.’ And what sayeth you, my precious Proud Perfect Paleo People?”
“Hell, no! We are not animals or cannibals!” screams the crowd.
Basil smiles and nods in approval. “Yes, we are not animals or cannibals my children. ‘Tis better dead than bread?”
“Tis better dead than bread!” the crowd echoes. “Better dead than bread! Better dead than bread!”
Basil drinks in the crowd hysterics before pausing and softly saying, “Yet there is one amongst you that shall betray us with a kibble and a nibble.”
“Not on our watch, dear Basil! Not on our watch!” screams the crowd.
Basil silences the crowd. “We shall wait and watch for evil. Ever vigilant. Wait and watch for evil."
“Wait and Watch! Wait and Watch. Wait Watch! Wait Watch! Wait Watch!” roars the audience.
Basil outstretches his arm in a symbolic communal hug. “Proud Paleo Perfect People, thou are indeed the beloved PPPP Wait Watchers!”
“Wait Watchers! Wait Watchers! We are determined Wait Watchers! Better dead than bread! Homeostasis in the Highest! Blessed be the Lard and all natural byproducts!!”
“Tribal Members! Proud Paleo Perfect People! You sacred PPPPs! Praise be to the Lard, and all other natural byproducts,” shouts Basil.
His audience cheers.
“A blessing on all your heads, from your family of physically and morally undefiled Paleolithic ancestors.”
“Homeostasis in the highest!” chants the crowd.
“Sagging and shapeless mainstream mankind doesn’t want me to venerate and expose the powerful purity of our superior genes. Using work swallowing machines and flabby factory farming they want to strip us of our true Paleo heritage! The attempted molestation of we Proud Paleo Perfect People began on this very night at the very first D.O.A., Dawn of Agriculture’s sneak attack on humanity!”
“Outrageous abomination! Homeostasis in the Highest! Praise be to the Lard and all other natural byproducts!” screams the crowd.
Basil does repetitive, exaggerated sweeping bows to his followers, but in doing so, two huge peaches are dislodged from his speedo and fall to the ground. The crowd gasps in surprise and disillusionment.
An embarrassed Basil stutters, “They....they....those are naturally found and picked fruit. Not harvested from evil orchards!” He raises up his flexed arms to distract his followers as he quickly kicks the large peaches off to the side of the stage. He hides behind the lectern at the front of the stage in order to recover his dominance and dignity.
Basil lowers his arms and grips the sides of the lectern. “Quinoa, why is this evening, this night, different from all other evenings?”
“Because it is the joyful commiseration of D.O.A. Eve, the Dawn Of Agriculture, Basil.”
“And what is commiserated on this day, Herb?” asks Basil.
Herb screams, “We commemorate on this sacred D.O.A. Eve, the 15,714th annual remembrance of a terror avoided by our beloved Paleo ancestors, Basil.”
“Correct. And what constitutes this terror, Myrtle?”
Myrtle shouts, “It’s when humanity rejected their natural Paleolithic pureness of hunter/gatherer for the evil of the Dawn of Agriculture who raped the precious few inches of life-giving topsoil, Basil.”
“Norman, why is this D.O.A. evil?” asks Basil.
“It marks Man’s fall from our true nature as self-sufficient food providers and into the perversion of farming and mechanized processed foods!” replies Norman.
Basil glares at the crowd. “Myrtle, and what are the two greatest sins created at this Dawn of Agriculture?
“The sins of grain growing and animal husbandry, Basil. Modern humans castrate their ranched alpha beasts to more easily herd them into automated slaughterhouse pens.”
“You speak truth, Myrtle. Are we animals, Herb? Do we marry fellow beasts?”
“We are not animals, Basil. And we do not marry to destroy sensuality! We are PPPPs, Basil."
"Proud Paleo Perfect People! Untainted, loving human beings, not beasts who refuse to be slapped into a sexual shame of polygamy."
The crowd cheers and chants, “PPPP! PPPP! PPPP!”
Basil smiles and motions to them to lower their voices. “And the evils of cultivated grain? Tell me of this wickedness, Norman. This curse against human nature.”
Norman recites from memory, “Cultivated grain gave birth to the unnatural, wicked food of bread, Basil. The Dawn Of Agriculture began a...a....a degenerative.....and additive addictive invasion against humanity by seducing mankind with factory farmed processed foods. It attempts to contaminate and weaken our glorious Paleo primal genes with empty calories and enforced famines.”
Basil withdraws an extremely large red book from beneath the lectern and holds it above his head. “A reading from the sacred book of Holy Homeostasis!”
“Praise be to the Lard and other natural byproducts,” shouts the audience.
Basil lowers the book and opens it, flexing his muscles as he searches for the proper page. “As the revered Paleo Charles Atlas sayeth, “Evolution is a conscious process.”
The crowd cheers and when the noise dies down Basil resumes his reading. “And the man broke the bread, held it out to them, and sayeth, ‘Take, eat this bread. This is my body which is given to you.’ And what sayeth you, my precious Proud Perfect Paleo People?”
“Hell, no! We are not animals or cannibals!” screams the crowd.
Basil smiles and nods in approval. “Yes, we are not animals or cannibals my children. ‘Tis better dead than bread?”
“Tis better dead than bread!” the crowd echoes. “Better dead than bread! Better dead than bread!”
Basil drinks in the crowd hysterics before pausing and softly saying, “Yet there is one amongst you that shall betray us with a kibble and a nibble.”
“Not on our watch, dear Basil! Not on our watch!” screams the crowd.
Basil silences the crowd. “We shall wait and watch for evil. Ever vigilant. Wait and watch for evil."
“Wait and Watch! Wait and Watch. Wait Watch! Wait Watch! Wait Watch!” roars the audience.
Basil outstretches his arm in a symbolic communal hug. “Proud Paleo Perfect People, thou are indeed the beloved PPPP Wait Watchers!”
“Wait Watchers! Wait Watchers! We are determined Wait Watchers! Better dead than bread! Homeostasis in the Highest! Blessed be the Lard and all natural byproducts!!”
Is(sue) 12
Avant(poetry)
"Suffer NOT lest a SwaT of teeming Memories"
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania
morph = [ed] [ing]
appendix ,, dust regarded
shovel hIp tO cRoWn of
finger
, NAILS ,
‘lessons learn’d
before a legume’ : : : - - - . Each
beneath
MaPlE flavored rOAr. Bo
Bop
Beep . . . ! . . . > ToWaRd
scratch
< H[a][e]Y of wIt , , , , leak
in
s=e=l=d=o=m ] bunch [ - - - . Outer strum
dodo ,, dodo , , dodo , ,
DaDa ,, DaDa ,, DaDa ,, :::
‘venomous beaver matcha membrane
solidified anthropology
of
the
sun’ .
appendix ,, dust regarded
shovel hIp tO cRoWn of
finger
, NAILS ,
‘lessons learn’d
before a legume’ : : : - - - . Each
beneath
MaPlE flavored rOAr. Bo
Bop
Beep . . . ! . . . > ToWaRd
scratch
< H[a][e]Y of wIt , , , , leak
in
s=e=l=d=o=m ] bunch [ - - - . Outer strum
dodo ,, dodo , , dodo , ,
DaDa ,, DaDa ,, DaDa ,, :::
‘venomous beaver matcha membrane
solidified anthropology
of
the
sun’ .
Avant(Art)
"Mighty Mouse" by Howie Good, Massachusetts
Avant(Story)
"Cat Eye"
John Sparks, Kentucky
John Sparks, Kentucky
Go ahead, Mr. Maddox. The tape is running.
Okay.
In the name of God, amen. I, Elder Joseph Maddox of the Forest Retreat Rest Home--
Ahem.
Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Chafin. I mean, I Joseph Maddox of the Forest Retreat Care and Rehabilitation Center in Perkinsville, Kentucky, being very weak and sick in body but still of sound mind, thank God, do now add this… whatever it is, to my last will and testament. Mrs. Chafin, the social worker, brought me a tape recorder and tape and is right now setting with me and running it for me and promised that she’d stick to them new hippa laws and not let anybody else listen to this nor talk about it to anyone, and also promised, at my death, she’d give the tape to my son, Joseph Maddox Jr., who I run off from home at Christmastime 1980 and who, last I heard, is now living in New England. I think my other kids knows his whereabouts but they never ever speak of it to me. So I hope this gets to you, Jody. It’s the only way I can talk to you now. I don’t want your brothers or sisters ever to listen to it, but I’ve got to take that on Mrs. Chafin’s promise and them hippa laws and, I guess, plain faith.
Jody, son, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we ain’t talked in thirty-odd years. I figure you don’t believe that, but it’s true. And specially that you was so scared and bitter at all the people around here, and maybe me too, that you wouldn’t come home for your mama’s funeral. She always pined for you, even atter that one time I got mad and told her since she missed you so much she could leave and go with you and stay and cook for you for all I cared. You know I can’t never approve of how you live your life, but before a man dies he ort to be honest enough to confess his own faults, and I know I’m the reason that you’re the way you are. I reckon I just always hated to admit it, even to myself. But I’ve preached out of the Bible the last forty-five years, near half my life, and the same book that says qu—well, people like—that—is an abomination before God, that same God is a jealous God who’ll visit the sins of the parents onto the children to the third and fourth generation. So if I take one thing for law and gospel I’ve got to take it all. And my sin that was visited on you was Cat Eye. I would tell you his real name, but there’s no need; everybody down around the coal camp at Lively where I grew up knowed him as Cat Eye, same as they knowed everybody else by their nicknames, me included. I was Mad Dog, ‘cause of our last name. So if you really want to know who Cat Eye was, come back home and look in the Library for Perkinsville newspapers from November 1945 and you’ll find it, alongside mine.
You used to get irked at how much I’d talk about the Great Depression, but remembering the times is the only way you can make any sense out of what happened—from the mines going down to one or two days’ work a week, if that, and making them that didn’t have any stock and garden land to picking poke sallet and dandelions along the road and cooking them without grease or salt, to the Swamp Angel making homebrew and selling it for a nickel a quart, and to the men and boys getting together and robbing freight trains and letting the womenfolk fence the stuff out among all the neighbors. People back then was so hungry and desperate they’d do anything to keep body and soul together, and pretty much, that’s Cat Eye’s story and it was mine too. His family lived up the other holler across the tracks from where we did, and his daddy was one of the meanest men there was in a camp full of mean men. One time when Cat Eye and me was playing on the porch at his house, his daddy come out and somehow Cat Eye got in his way and he picked him up and throwed him down to the ground and said to him, “Keep outa my way, you little white-haired son of a b*tch.” I don’t mention that now to be a-cussing or blackguarding, but I’m just trying to tell you. That all right, Mrs. Chafin?
Sure, Mr. Maddox. Anything you want to say.
All right then. Just so you know I was quoting. But it turned out that Cat Eye’s daddy finally shot himself, or at least that’s what was said, although the guts ain’t a good spot to shoot and by the time he died you could hear him screaming a mile. My daddy run up there and come back home with a weird look on his face and told Mommy about it and I listened. Said he got there about the same time the company doctor did, and when the doctor asked to see the revolver, Cat Eye brought it to him, a big .45 hog-leg. When the doctor opened the cylinder, there’s six bullets in, so he says to Cat Eye, “Son, this gun’s not been fired.”
“Oh, yes it has,” Cat Eye answers. “I put another bullet back in.”
And that’s all I know. Daddy said the doctor made a weird look too, but he marked it a suicide on the death certificate and they left Cat Eye a-kickin’ around the bloody pillow his old man died on. Never was the only odd death around Lively no way.
So then that family had to move into a little tarpaper shack near Cemetery Hill, and Cat Eye’s mother and sisters made money—well, the only way they could have except selling homebrew and the Swamp Angel had the market for that. I never told your mother about it, but that little shack’s where every boy in Lively learned about the birds and the bees. Back then our parents never talked to us about—that kind of thing, and so they only way to learn was through older boys and watching livestock. Or with Cat Eye’s mama, who just charged two bits or barter and was better at it than ary daughter she had--
I’m sorry, Mrs. Chafin.
Don’t worry, Mr. Maddox. This is all confidential.
Okay. But son, none of us knowed right from wrong in them days, Lively was so godless with everybody so hungry all the time, and so when it turns out that Cat Eye grows up and he don’t like girls, likes boys instead, we didn’t even think about it being sinful. Not evil at all, mind you; just different. Churches never mentioned it yea nor nay in them days. All they preached about was a travel from nature to grace and against drinking and sworping and stealing and killing and unbelief and going to other churches not of our faith and order. So Cat Eye’d get little crushes on one or another of us and we’d just be good-natured and laugh about it with him. He was a kind soul, after all. Not that that makes any difference in a just and righteous God’s eyes, of course.
Well, then, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and we went to war. I’m trying to make a long story short, because you never liked to hear me talk about the Marines neither, but I learned a lot while I was in there about the big wide world and what was right and wrong. Fact is, qu—well, I mean, people like that—was the main talk of the drill sergeants, who accused us all of being that way, and even in the barracks we’d accuse each other of it too. You had to prove yourself all the time that you wasn’t one of the—that kind. Somehow I survived four years in the Pacific, and then me and the other guys come back home and here’s Cat Eye too, who the Army wouldn’t take because—well, you know, but he was working in the mines, which was at that time up and running pretty good. Us veterans could wait for jobs, though; we got what they called back then the 52-20, twenty dollars a week for fifty-two weeks for a vet, not a bad living for the time. So for months we was playing poker every day at the station house with our 52-20 money and worrying our families to death.
Cat Eye was really the odd man out then. Though he’s working regular and we ain’t even started using the GI Bill, much less looking for jobs, we’ve all heard so many sergeants and officers downtalk people like him it just comes off that same exact way in our normal speech. One Friday evening in November we’re playing cards at the station like usual; the Swamp Angel has just made a big batch of fresh homebrew, and we’ve bought some and we’re pretty rowdy. Cat Eye’s had a little to drink too, and he comes in the station house and walks over and asks me if he can bum a chew of tobacco.
“What kind you chewin’ these days, Cat Eye?” I asked him. “Red Horse, Red Man, or Red Dick?” And I ain’t repeating it to blackguard now, but—it’s just what I said. Lord help me.
All the veterans there near split their sides laughing, of course, but it made Cat Eye madder than a bull. He wants to step outside the station and fight it out bare-knuckle with me, and though I was already sorry I’d shot my mouth off, the other guys were already laying bets on me and calling him “Beauty On Duty” and egging both him and me on more. So we square off and he pops me a roundhouse right to the cheekbone that lights fireworks in my head, and I can’t see straight but I let go a haymaker back and when it makes contact I can feel it all the way from my knuckles to my shoulder. Heard a horrible pop right then too.
Somehow I’d caught him right under and a little behind the left ear. It broke his neck and he fell down stone dead without as much as another sound.
So that’s pretty much it. They impaneled a coroner’s jury and it all got wrote up in the papers except for what Cat Eye was and what I’d said to him, but I wasn’t never charged with a thing since all my buddies there swore that he started the fight and landed the first punch. They buried him up on Cemetery Hill near his mama’s little shack and that was it. But that didn’t change the fact that I sent that poor man straight to a brimstone burning hell with my bare fist, never once trying to make him see how his life was all wrong.
It’s why I changed my life, Jody—or I should say, the Lord changed it for me. I seen the error of my ways and repented and He saved me and I joined the Old Regulars. And I got married to a decent church-going girl, your mama, and got called to preach and I promised God I’d never let another poor man die the way I did Cat Eye without trying to show him the right way to go. Sometimes the deacons would get irked and tell me they wished I’d preach once in a while on something other than that, but I never let ‘em stop me because I knowed my duty. And it’s what I’m trying to do now with you, too, son, one last time while I have breath. Though the Lord has visited my sin on me in my generations, it ain’t too late for you. I love you, Cat Eye. I mean Jody. Jody. Jody.
Mrs. Chafin, can we back up over that last little bit and do it over?
Okay.
In the name of God, amen. I, Elder Joseph Maddox of the Forest Retreat Rest Home--
Ahem.
Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Chafin. I mean, I Joseph Maddox of the Forest Retreat Care and Rehabilitation Center in Perkinsville, Kentucky, being very weak and sick in body but still of sound mind, thank God, do now add this… whatever it is, to my last will and testament. Mrs. Chafin, the social worker, brought me a tape recorder and tape and is right now setting with me and running it for me and promised that she’d stick to them new hippa laws and not let anybody else listen to this nor talk about it to anyone, and also promised, at my death, she’d give the tape to my son, Joseph Maddox Jr., who I run off from home at Christmastime 1980 and who, last I heard, is now living in New England. I think my other kids knows his whereabouts but they never ever speak of it to me. So I hope this gets to you, Jody. It’s the only way I can talk to you now. I don’t want your brothers or sisters ever to listen to it, but I’ve got to take that on Mrs. Chafin’s promise and them hippa laws and, I guess, plain faith.
Jody, son, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we ain’t talked in thirty-odd years. I figure you don’t believe that, but it’s true. And specially that you was so scared and bitter at all the people around here, and maybe me too, that you wouldn’t come home for your mama’s funeral. She always pined for you, even atter that one time I got mad and told her since she missed you so much she could leave and go with you and stay and cook for you for all I cared. You know I can’t never approve of how you live your life, but before a man dies he ort to be honest enough to confess his own faults, and I know I’m the reason that you’re the way you are. I reckon I just always hated to admit it, even to myself. But I’ve preached out of the Bible the last forty-five years, near half my life, and the same book that says qu—well, people like—that—is an abomination before God, that same God is a jealous God who’ll visit the sins of the parents onto the children to the third and fourth generation. So if I take one thing for law and gospel I’ve got to take it all. And my sin that was visited on you was Cat Eye. I would tell you his real name, but there’s no need; everybody down around the coal camp at Lively where I grew up knowed him as Cat Eye, same as they knowed everybody else by their nicknames, me included. I was Mad Dog, ‘cause of our last name. So if you really want to know who Cat Eye was, come back home and look in the Library for Perkinsville newspapers from November 1945 and you’ll find it, alongside mine.
You used to get irked at how much I’d talk about the Great Depression, but remembering the times is the only way you can make any sense out of what happened—from the mines going down to one or two days’ work a week, if that, and making them that didn’t have any stock and garden land to picking poke sallet and dandelions along the road and cooking them without grease or salt, to the Swamp Angel making homebrew and selling it for a nickel a quart, and to the men and boys getting together and robbing freight trains and letting the womenfolk fence the stuff out among all the neighbors. People back then was so hungry and desperate they’d do anything to keep body and soul together, and pretty much, that’s Cat Eye’s story and it was mine too. His family lived up the other holler across the tracks from where we did, and his daddy was one of the meanest men there was in a camp full of mean men. One time when Cat Eye and me was playing on the porch at his house, his daddy come out and somehow Cat Eye got in his way and he picked him up and throwed him down to the ground and said to him, “Keep outa my way, you little white-haired son of a b*tch.” I don’t mention that now to be a-cussing or blackguarding, but I’m just trying to tell you. That all right, Mrs. Chafin?
Sure, Mr. Maddox. Anything you want to say.
All right then. Just so you know I was quoting. But it turned out that Cat Eye’s daddy finally shot himself, or at least that’s what was said, although the guts ain’t a good spot to shoot and by the time he died you could hear him screaming a mile. My daddy run up there and come back home with a weird look on his face and told Mommy about it and I listened. Said he got there about the same time the company doctor did, and when the doctor asked to see the revolver, Cat Eye brought it to him, a big .45 hog-leg. When the doctor opened the cylinder, there’s six bullets in, so he says to Cat Eye, “Son, this gun’s not been fired.”
“Oh, yes it has,” Cat Eye answers. “I put another bullet back in.”
And that’s all I know. Daddy said the doctor made a weird look too, but he marked it a suicide on the death certificate and they left Cat Eye a-kickin’ around the bloody pillow his old man died on. Never was the only odd death around Lively no way.
So then that family had to move into a little tarpaper shack near Cemetery Hill, and Cat Eye’s mother and sisters made money—well, the only way they could have except selling homebrew and the Swamp Angel had the market for that. I never told your mother about it, but that little shack’s where every boy in Lively learned about the birds and the bees. Back then our parents never talked to us about—that kind of thing, and so they only way to learn was through older boys and watching livestock. Or with Cat Eye’s mama, who just charged two bits or barter and was better at it than ary daughter she had--
I’m sorry, Mrs. Chafin.
Don’t worry, Mr. Maddox. This is all confidential.
Okay. But son, none of us knowed right from wrong in them days, Lively was so godless with everybody so hungry all the time, and so when it turns out that Cat Eye grows up and he don’t like girls, likes boys instead, we didn’t even think about it being sinful. Not evil at all, mind you; just different. Churches never mentioned it yea nor nay in them days. All they preached about was a travel from nature to grace and against drinking and sworping and stealing and killing and unbelief and going to other churches not of our faith and order. So Cat Eye’d get little crushes on one or another of us and we’d just be good-natured and laugh about it with him. He was a kind soul, after all. Not that that makes any difference in a just and righteous God’s eyes, of course.
Well, then, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and we went to war. I’m trying to make a long story short, because you never liked to hear me talk about the Marines neither, but I learned a lot while I was in there about the big wide world and what was right and wrong. Fact is, qu—well, I mean, people like that—was the main talk of the drill sergeants, who accused us all of being that way, and even in the barracks we’d accuse each other of it too. You had to prove yourself all the time that you wasn’t one of the—that kind. Somehow I survived four years in the Pacific, and then me and the other guys come back home and here’s Cat Eye too, who the Army wouldn’t take because—well, you know, but he was working in the mines, which was at that time up and running pretty good. Us veterans could wait for jobs, though; we got what they called back then the 52-20, twenty dollars a week for fifty-two weeks for a vet, not a bad living for the time. So for months we was playing poker every day at the station house with our 52-20 money and worrying our families to death.
Cat Eye was really the odd man out then. Though he’s working regular and we ain’t even started using the GI Bill, much less looking for jobs, we’ve all heard so many sergeants and officers downtalk people like him it just comes off that same exact way in our normal speech. One Friday evening in November we’re playing cards at the station like usual; the Swamp Angel has just made a big batch of fresh homebrew, and we’ve bought some and we’re pretty rowdy. Cat Eye’s had a little to drink too, and he comes in the station house and walks over and asks me if he can bum a chew of tobacco.
“What kind you chewin’ these days, Cat Eye?” I asked him. “Red Horse, Red Man, or Red Dick?” And I ain’t repeating it to blackguard now, but—it’s just what I said. Lord help me.
All the veterans there near split their sides laughing, of course, but it made Cat Eye madder than a bull. He wants to step outside the station and fight it out bare-knuckle with me, and though I was already sorry I’d shot my mouth off, the other guys were already laying bets on me and calling him “Beauty On Duty” and egging both him and me on more. So we square off and he pops me a roundhouse right to the cheekbone that lights fireworks in my head, and I can’t see straight but I let go a haymaker back and when it makes contact I can feel it all the way from my knuckles to my shoulder. Heard a horrible pop right then too.
Somehow I’d caught him right under and a little behind the left ear. It broke his neck and he fell down stone dead without as much as another sound.
So that’s pretty much it. They impaneled a coroner’s jury and it all got wrote up in the papers except for what Cat Eye was and what I’d said to him, but I wasn’t never charged with a thing since all my buddies there swore that he started the fight and landed the first punch. They buried him up on Cemetery Hill near his mama’s little shack and that was it. But that didn’t change the fact that I sent that poor man straight to a brimstone burning hell with my bare fist, never once trying to make him see how his life was all wrong.
It’s why I changed my life, Jody—or I should say, the Lord changed it for me. I seen the error of my ways and repented and He saved me and I joined the Old Regulars. And I got married to a decent church-going girl, your mama, and got called to preach and I promised God I’d never let another poor man die the way I did Cat Eye without trying to show him the right way to go. Sometimes the deacons would get irked and tell me they wished I’d preach once in a while on something other than that, but I never let ‘em stop me because I knowed my duty. And it’s what I’m trying to do now with you, too, son, one last time while I have breath. Though the Lord has visited my sin on me in my generations, it ain’t too late for you. I love you, Cat Eye. I mean Jody. Jody. Jody.
Mrs. Chafin, can we back up over that last little bit and do it over?
IS(Sue) 13
Avant(poetry)
"Physics"
Poet and Producer: Richard Fox, Utah
Reader: Diana Slickman
Engineer: John Szymanski
Poet and Producer: Richard Fox, Utah
Reader: Diana Slickman
Engineer: John Szymanski
Avant(art)
"Parallel Universe (part. two)"
Alexander Limarev, Siberia
Alexander Limarev, Siberia
Avant(Story)
"The Fourth Chair"
Taylor Hathorn, Mississippi
Taylor Hathorn, Mississippi
We’d just gotten back from JC Penney when the phone rang in the kitchen. We’d been shopping for a training bra, and Kate, as paranoid as every adolescent female before her, screeched, “Mom! You said you wouldn’t tell grandma where we were going!”
In her defense, it was a fair assumption to make. No one ever called us but my mother, and when my mother became involved in a situation, it went from a molehill to a mountain in ten seconds flat. Buying your first bra was embarrassing enough, with the saleslady measuring you and announcing “a-cup” to all the lipsticked women in the dressing room a little too loudly to be
prudent.
“I didn’t,” I shot back, picking up the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s Terry,” the voice on the other end said after a beat of silence.
My first impulse was to hang up, to announce to my daughter that it was a wrong number and
then to get rip-roaring drunk.
Instead, I said, “Yes.”
*
Terry and I dated for ten months during my second year of junior college. He played baseball and had blonde hair and dark eyes, and when I told him before his double-header against Okatoma State that I was pregnant, he said, “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Not we, which was the language we’d spoken for the last ten months. I no longer knew how to think in terms of I.
I left during the seventh-inning stretch, and he never called me again. When I dropped by his apartment three weeks later, his roommates, Mike and Pete, who looked embarrassed, told me that he had quit the baseball team and maybe college, too. They weren’t sure. They hadn’t seen him in Chemistry lab, but he skipped a lot of class, anyway. And besides, his old man could get
him a job on the railroad. He was just in college for some fun, y’know, Maggie.
Yes, I knew.
I finished my final exams the first week in May and drove the three hours home, to the bayou, where my mother somehow already knew.
“It’s okay,” she said. It was an unexpected mercy. My t-shirt was too tight across my stomach when she hugged me, but we both ignored it.
My father had left my mother at the altar twenty years before, and since it was a shotgun wedding to begin with, she knew all about being pregnant and alone. We shopped for baby clothes at church yard sales and she told me grimly about mastitis and thrush but said that they were worth it because formula was expensive. As if in response, my breasts leaked for the first time three weeks before the baby was born, and she nodded approvingly in K-Mart when she saw the wet circles on my shirt.
Kate was born during a thunderstorm, and the nurses all came in to look at her because she was born safely ensconced in her amniotic sac or en caul, lucky and blessed, mmhm as a Cajun nurse on the fourth floor put it.
*
“I know I didn’t do right by her,” Terry continued on the phone, as if he had not been absent for eleven years. “I’ve got a good job now, on the railroad. I want to meet her.”
Her. I wondered vaguely how he knew the baby he’d never seen was a her.
“That’ll be her choice,” I said, although I wanted to make it for her.
“That’s fine,” he said. “I can understand if she wouldn’t want to.”
He gave me a number where I -- or she, he added hopefully -- could call back later, and I hung
up the phone.
She was standing with her shirt off in the living room, plucking at her bra straps in front of the mirror. “The kids at school will definitely be able to see these through my shirt,” she said sullenly. “The saleslady said they wouldn’t, but they could see Kelly’s and her straps were smaller than mine.”
“That was your dad on the phone,” I said. In hindsight, I wished I’d chosen a more formal word: father, male parent, sperm donor.
She looked like him: light hair, dark eyes, the way her eyebrows crinkled in confusion.
“I thought he left,” she said. It wasn’t the accusation I’d hoped it would be.
“He did, but he wants to meet you.”
“Am I allowed to meet him?” she asked, the same turn of phrase she used for birthday parties and five-dollar night at the skating rink and mascara.
I tried to sound calm. “Sure, if you want to.”
“What would Grandma say?” she asked.
My own father had shown up on the porch during hurricane season the summer I turned nine, and she had chased him back out to the road, clutching a two-by-four that she’d been about to board a window with.
I had watched from the porch swing, the juice from a grape popsicle running down my fingers and onto my wrist. I had not asked about him again, but my daughter was different than my mother and I were.
“That it’s your choice,” I repeated, although I wasn’t at all sure that would be my mother’s counsel.
“Does he got a wife?” she asked, and my first impulse was to correct her grammar: does he HAVE a wife, Kate.
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe I could meet her first,” she said, slipping her shirt back on. She caved her shoulders in, hiding her breasts, and it made my heart twinge.
*
I called Terry back once she’d gone to bed. He answered on the second ring, like he did when we were dating.
“Are you married?” I asked without preamble.
“Yeah,” he said, as if there were a wrong answer and he didn’t want to give it.
“Does she know about Kate?” I asked. I itched for a cigarette even though I hadn’t smoked since I found out I was pregnant a dozen years ago.
“Yeah,” he said again, the only word in his vocabulary.
“Kate said that maybe she’d meet her first.”
He exhaled, like ripping paper on the other end of the line.
“Jenny might do it.”
*
We met Jenny in Shreveport, which we had determined was exactly halfway between Terry and me. My mother rode with us, and to her credit, she didn’t tell Kate that she should think twice about doing this, even though I could read the discomfort in the creases between her eyebrows and around her mouth.
Kate was wearing overalls and a lavender shirt, and even though she’d crimped her hair, she still looked eleven.
“What if she doesn’t like me?” Kate blurted as soon as we turned into the Chi-Chi’s parking lot.
“Then you come back out to the car and we leave,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt.
“That’s right, baby,” my mother said. “You get out of there and leave her with the check.”
We all laughed, even though none of us meant it, and I watched Kate’s skinny white bra strap slip down her arm as she walked inside, head held high, shoulders still hunched.
*
Jenny was twenty -- what a sweet little rhyme -- so she obviously got along famously with my eleven year old. She walked her out to the car, and I nonsensically searched for similarities between us but couldn’t find any.
“This is Jenny,” Kate said, and I noticed she had one of those stupid little plasticine gems plastered near the corner of her left eye, which made mine twitch.
Jenny turned her face a little, and of course, she had one on, too.
“Hi,” Jenny said, sticking out her hand. Her fingernails were painted black, a color I’d never let Kate wear on her own nails, and I watched Kate notice me noticing.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, even though it wasn’t.
*
Kate made the high school softball team, and her first game was slated for her fifteenth birthday. It was a double-header two towns over, and Kate had told me carefully that morning that Terry would be coming.
Terry had mostly been a disappointment: no child support had ever been attached to his newfound, half-hearted interest in his daughter, and he often inexplicably scheduled weekend visits with her while he was away on the railroad. Jenny came anyway, dutifully meeting us in Shreveport on Friday nights and bringing her back on Sunday afternoons with her hair laced into
elaborate braids that I could never do for her myself, even though I had wanted to.
“That’s good,” I said, even though the lie made the toast stick in my throat.
I could feel it there, like buttered sandpaper, all day long. I mentioned it to my mother when I came home on my lunch break, and she got the pinched look around her mouth that she always had when someone broached the subject of Terry.
“The girl’s got to learn, Maggie. Let her keep trying, and let him keep saying no, and things will take care of themselves.”
*
The metal bleachers burned the backs of my thighs when I sat down, but I waved at Kate in the dugout like I hadn’t noticed. She slipped out her black plastic mouthguard and mouthed, “Where is Terry?”
She didn’t call him “Dad,” yet, which felt like a mercy. I shrugged.
An expression I couldn’t read passed over her face, and she put the mouthguard back in.
It was the bottom of the second when Terry and Jenny made their way into the ballpark. I could tell even from the stands that he was drunk and that Jenny was embarrassed, and I felt my spine stiffen in response, like a cat who’s seen an enemy.
My mother swore under her breath and reached over to pat my knee. The back of her hand was bruised from all the blood they’d drawn to find the source of her mysterious cough, even though I was afraid I already knew.
It was Kate’s turn to bat when they made it into the bleachers, and when he heard her name over the loudspeakers, he let out an unintelligible but very loud cheer.
Kate’s shoulders squared, and I knew she’d heard. She had so much that she felt that she had to prove. I squeezed my eyes shut.
A swing and a miss.
“‘Salright, baby,” Terry yelled, and Jenny looked up at me, as if to apologize.
I could not meet her eyes, and I watched another pitch sail by. The umpire called it a ball, as was only true and fair, and Terry shouted again. The umpire turned his head, as if to warn him, and Kate swung at a pitch that was nearly in the dirt.
I felt sick, just wanted her to strike out so that the misery could end and felt immediately guilty for wishing it.
Terry swore, a word not usually said at all in a mostly-Catholic parish in south Louisiana, much less shouted at a ball field, and the principal leapt up like a shot from her lawn chair.
I’d gone to high school with Lucy LeBlanc. She’d graduated from the same junior college I had, but after we got our diplomas, she went on to the state school for a teaching degree while I used cocoa butter to prevent stretch marks.
It hadn’t worked out for either of us. My stomach was creased with white and purple lines, and her hair was streaked with gray from the decade and a half she’d spent with high schoolers.
“Sir, you’re going to have to leave,” she said, gesturing to the parking lot with her thumb.
“‘M not goin’ anywhere,” he said, swaying on the spot. I looked past him, watched Kate strike out and walk back to the dugout, her cheeks flame-red.
“Yes, you are,” Jenny said, grabbing his elbow.
He jerked away, and for a terrible moment, I thought he might hit her.
“I’ll call the police,” Lucy LeBlanc said. A muscle jumped in her jaw, letting me know she meant it.
Terry spat at her feet and walked toward the parking lot.
Jenny did not follow him, and the next time Kate came to the plate, she hit it over the fence.
*
When Kate graduated high school, they gave her four tickets to the ceremony in the gym, which was strung with crepe paper and had pomp and circumstance playing over the same tinny stereo speakers they’d used at the prom.
Jenny got a ticket, even though she and Terry had divorced two years earlier. She had crow’s feet where the gemstone had been, but she’d put herself through nursing school. She wore flat shoes and no makeup, like a nun, and she embraced me warmly when I came in almost-late, grasping my mother’s elbow and wheeling her oxygen tank behind us.
“Is Terry coming?” she asked. I shrugged.
“She drove out last month and gave him a ticket. You and I both know that’s no guarantee of anything,” I replied, helping my mother into a folding chair that squeaked as she sat down. The whoosh whoosh whoosh of the oxygen tank drove me to distraction, but I ignored it.
“She should have given it to her boyfriend,” Jenny said, thumbing through the program with mild interest. “He might have actually shown up.”
*
The fourth chair remained empty, and we all cried when Lucy LeBlanc, whose hair was now entirely gray, gave Kate her diploma.
*
Later, in the parking lot, Kate handed my camera off to a friend, and said, “Take my picture with my girls.”
A lump rose in my throat, hard and impassable, and I could not speak to tell her thank you, so I simply reached out my hand and tucked her bra strap safely back inside her gown, patted her shoulder clumsily, tried not to cry. She was taller than I was, so she put an arm around my shoulder, casual and carefree.
We all smiled for the picture, and three months later, when I put a box of extension cords and textbooks onto her front seat, it was pasted to her dashboard.
In her defense, it was a fair assumption to make. No one ever called us but my mother, and when my mother became involved in a situation, it went from a molehill to a mountain in ten seconds flat. Buying your first bra was embarrassing enough, with the saleslady measuring you and announcing “a-cup” to all the lipsticked women in the dressing room a little too loudly to be
prudent.
“I didn’t,” I shot back, picking up the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s Terry,” the voice on the other end said after a beat of silence.
My first impulse was to hang up, to announce to my daughter that it was a wrong number and
then to get rip-roaring drunk.
Instead, I said, “Yes.”
*
Terry and I dated for ten months during my second year of junior college. He played baseball and had blonde hair and dark eyes, and when I told him before his double-header against Okatoma State that I was pregnant, he said, “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Not we, which was the language we’d spoken for the last ten months. I no longer knew how to think in terms of I.
I left during the seventh-inning stretch, and he never called me again. When I dropped by his apartment three weeks later, his roommates, Mike and Pete, who looked embarrassed, told me that he had quit the baseball team and maybe college, too. They weren’t sure. They hadn’t seen him in Chemistry lab, but he skipped a lot of class, anyway. And besides, his old man could get
him a job on the railroad. He was just in college for some fun, y’know, Maggie.
Yes, I knew.
I finished my final exams the first week in May and drove the three hours home, to the bayou, where my mother somehow already knew.
“It’s okay,” she said. It was an unexpected mercy. My t-shirt was too tight across my stomach when she hugged me, but we both ignored it.
My father had left my mother at the altar twenty years before, and since it was a shotgun wedding to begin with, she knew all about being pregnant and alone. We shopped for baby clothes at church yard sales and she told me grimly about mastitis and thrush but said that they were worth it because formula was expensive. As if in response, my breasts leaked for the first time three weeks before the baby was born, and she nodded approvingly in K-Mart when she saw the wet circles on my shirt.
Kate was born during a thunderstorm, and the nurses all came in to look at her because she was born safely ensconced in her amniotic sac or en caul, lucky and blessed, mmhm as a Cajun nurse on the fourth floor put it.
*
“I know I didn’t do right by her,” Terry continued on the phone, as if he had not been absent for eleven years. “I’ve got a good job now, on the railroad. I want to meet her.”
Her. I wondered vaguely how he knew the baby he’d never seen was a her.
“That’ll be her choice,” I said, although I wanted to make it for her.
“That’s fine,” he said. “I can understand if she wouldn’t want to.”
He gave me a number where I -- or she, he added hopefully -- could call back later, and I hung
up the phone.
She was standing with her shirt off in the living room, plucking at her bra straps in front of the mirror. “The kids at school will definitely be able to see these through my shirt,” she said sullenly. “The saleslady said they wouldn’t, but they could see Kelly’s and her straps were smaller than mine.”
“That was your dad on the phone,” I said. In hindsight, I wished I’d chosen a more formal word: father, male parent, sperm donor.
She looked like him: light hair, dark eyes, the way her eyebrows crinkled in confusion.
“I thought he left,” she said. It wasn’t the accusation I’d hoped it would be.
“He did, but he wants to meet you.”
“Am I allowed to meet him?” she asked, the same turn of phrase she used for birthday parties and five-dollar night at the skating rink and mascara.
I tried to sound calm. “Sure, if you want to.”
“What would Grandma say?” she asked.
My own father had shown up on the porch during hurricane season the summer I turned nine, and she had chased him back out to the road, clutching a two-by-four that she’d been about to board a window with.
I had watched from the porch swing, the juice from a grape popsicle running down my fingers and onto my wrist. I had not asked about him again, but my daughter was different than my mother and I were.
“That it’s your choice,” I repeated, although I wasn’t at all sure that would be my mother’s counsel.
“Does he got a wife?” she asked, and my first impulse was to correct her grammar: does he HAVE a wife, Kate.
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe I could meet her first,” she said, slipping her shirt back on. She caved her shoulders in, hiding her breasts, and it made my heart twinge.
*
I called Terry back once she’d gone to bed. He answered on the second ring, like he did when we were dating.
“Are you married?” I asked without preamble.
“Yeah,” he said, as if there were a wrong answer and he didn’t want to give it.
“Does she know about Kate?” I asked. I itched for a cigarette even though I hadn’t smoked since I found out I was pregnant a dozen years ago.
“Yeah,” he said again, the only word in his vocabulary.
“Kate said that maybe she’d meet her first.”
He exhaled, like ripping paper on the other end of the line.
“Jenny might do it.”
*
We met Jenny in Shreveport, which we had determined was exactly halfway between Terry and me. My mother rode with us, and to her credit, she didn’t tell Kate that she should think twice about doing this, even though I could read the discomfort in the creases between her eyebrows and around her mouth.
Kate was wearing overalls and a lavender shirt, and even though she’d crimped her hair, she still looked eleven.
“What if she doesn’t like me?” Kate blurted as soon as we turned into the Chi-Chi’s parking lot.
“Then you come back out to the car and we leave,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt.
“That’s right, baby,” my mother said. “You get out of there and leave her with the check.”
We all laughed, even though none of us meant it, and I watched Kate’s skinny white bra strap slip down her arm as she walked inside, head held high, shoulders still hunched.
*
Jenny was twenty -- what a sweet little rhyme -- so she obviously got along famously with my eleven year old. She walked her out to the car, and I nonsensically searched for similarities between us but couldn’t find any.
“This is Jenny,” Kate said, and I noticed she had one of those stupid little plasticine gems plastered near the corner of her left eye, which made mine twitch.
Jenny turned her face a little, and of course, she had one on, too.
“Hi,” Jenny said, sticking out her hand. Her fingernails were painted black, a color I’d never let Kate wear on her own nails, and I watched Kate notice me noticing.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, even though it wasn’t.
*
Kate made the high school softball team, and her first game was slated for her fifteenth birthday. It was a double-header two towns over, and Kate had told me carefully that morning that Terry would be coming.
Terry had mostly been a disappointment: no child support had ever been attached to his newfound, half-hearted interest in his daughter, and he often inexplicably scheduled weekend visits with her while he was away on the railroad. Jenny came anyway, dutifully meeting us in Shreveport on Friday nights and bringing her back on Sunday afternoons with her hair laced into
elaborate braids that I could never do for her myself, even though I had wanted to.
“That’s good,” I said, even though the lie made the toast stick in my throat.
I could feel it there, like buttered sandpaper, all day long. I mentioned it to my mother when I came home on my lunch break, and she got the pinched look around her mouth that she always had when someone broached the subject of Terry.
“The girl’s got to learn, Maggie. Let her keep trying, and let him keep saying no, and things will take care of themselves.”
*
The metal bleachers burned the backs of my thighs when I sat down, but I waved at Kate in the dugout like I hadn’t noticed. She slipped out her black plastic mouthguard and mouthed, “Where is Terry?”
She didn’t call him “Dad,” yet, which felt like a mercy. I shrugged.
An expression I couldn’t read passed over her face, and she put the mouthguard back in.
It was the bottom of the second when Terry and Jenny made their way into the ballpark. I could tell even from the stands that he was drunk and that Jenny was embarrassed, and I felt my spine stiffen in response, like a cat who’s seen an enemy.
My mother swore under her breath and reached over to pat my knee. The back of her hand was bruised from all the blood they’d drawn to find the source of her mysterious cough, even though I was afraid I already knew.
It was Kate’s turn to bat when they made it into the bleachers, and when he heard her name over the loudspeakers, he let out an unintelligible but very loud cheer.
Kate’s shoulders squared, and I knew she’d heard. She had so much that she felt that she had to prove. I squeezed my eyes shut.
A swing and a miss.
“‘Salright, baby,” Terry yelled, and Jenny looked up at me, as if to apologize.
I could not meet her eyes, and I watched another pitch sail by. The umpire called it a ball, as was only true and fair, and Terry shouted again. The umpire turned his head, as if to warn him, and Kate swung at a pitch that was nearly in the dirt.
I felt sick, just wanted her to strike out so that the misery could end and felt immediately guilty for wishing it.
Terry swore, a word not usually said at all in a mostly-Catholic parish in south Louisiana, much less shouted at a ball field, and the principal leapt up like a shot from her lawn chair.
I’d gone to high school with Lucy LeBlanc. She’d graduated from the same junior college I had, but after we got our diplomas, she went on to the state school for a teaching degree while I used cocoa butter to prevent stretch marks.
It hadn’t worked out for either of us. My stomach was creased with white and purple lines, and her hair was streaked with gray from the decade and a half she’d spent with high schoolers.
“Sir, you’re going to have to leave,” she said, gesturing to the parking lot with her thumb.
“‘M not goin’ anywhere,” he said, swaying on the spot. I looked past him, watched Kate strike out and walk back to the dugout, her cheeks flame-red.
“Yes, you are,” Jenny said, grabbing his elbow.
He jerked away, and for a terrible moment, I thought he might hit her.
“I’ll call the police,” Lucy LeBlanc said. A muscle jumped in her jaw, letting me know she meant it.
Terry spat at her feet and walked toward the parking lot.
Jenny did not follow him, and the next time Kate came to the plate, she hit it over the fence.
*
When Kate graduated high school, they gave her four tickets to the ceremony in the gym, which was strung with crepe paper and had pomp and circumstance playing over the same tinny stereo speakers they’d used at the prom.
Jenny got a ticket, even though she and Terry had divorced two years earlier. She had crow’s feet where the gemstone had been, but she’d put herself through nursing school. She wore flat shoes and no makeup, like a nun, and she embraced me warmly when I came in almost-late, grasping my mother’s elbow and wheeling her oxygen tank behind us.
“Is Terry coming?” she asked. I shrugged.
“She drove out last month and gave him a ticket. You and I both know that’s no guarantee of anything,” I replied, helping my mother into a folding chair that squeaked as she sat down. The whoosh whoosh whoosh of the oxygen tank drove me to distraction, but I ignored it.
“She should have given it to her boyfriend,” Jenny said, thumbing through the program with mild interest. “He might have actually shown up.”
*
The fourth chair remained empty, and we all cried when Lucy LeBlanc, whose hair was now entirely gray, gave Kate her diploma.
*
Later, in the parking lot, Kate handed my camera off to a friend, and said, “Take my picture with my girls.”
A lump rose in my throat, hard and impassable, and I could not speak to tell her thank you, so I simply reached out my hand and tucked her bra strap safely back inside her gown, patted her shoulder clumsily, tried not to cry. She was taller than I was, so she put an arm around my shoulder, casual and carefree.
We all smiled for the picture, and three months later, when I put a box of extension cords and textbooks onto her front seat, it was pasted to her dashboard.
IS(SUE) 14
Avant(Poetry)
"Each Set Reinforces Scalding Heads"
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania
Joshua Martin, Pennsylvania
chastise both axes - - - ‘tis common
hacked factoid - - - [
distraught monsters
forsaken accidental thunder ]. horse’s foot,
drowning bone powder
w/ ease. one bag contains visionary
miles , coastal
flooding felicity , walking
Ring Casket Bosom. Buddy,
dwelling percentage
, servants
, , priggish shine :
a Gnat
, a Flea
, , sobbing boats. shall break
the traveler
in a manner
befitting chorus
rhetoric. hum.
gone:
page by page , an estate worth choicest miserable lacky, ,
ellipsis . . . [gone mirth remedy] . . .
thickets &
whatsoever,
qualities rouse thoughtless
cyclones. hirsute shame
, boundless ease [
methodology informs sculpted
groundings] , opinionated
pretext,
omnipotent proposal. gouty frowns , , , , ,
impatient
squint, absent tools,
caring statues
w/ a kind of synopsis
unrelated to Beauty. portent. a
dragging brooch against laudable
scams
, squirming crawfish unleashing
swaying verses.
Laudable
: Parades gone to invent
cannibals. facades
melt
away, storing finite symptoms
, aging &
conclusive exploratory popsicle
mattresses, outrage
spoke to Enlarge [flight]
/ [feeding] / /
[causes] :
lunar facial escapades,
encase an hourly wage
, sluggish amendments.
looping
& idle proclivities,
a matter of diet. understated barefoot
cloth,
use, moderate skill, ‘twas a
recent temperament to Blast
comical honeycomb speedometer.
hacked factoid - - - [
distraught monsters
forsaken accidental thunder ]. horse’s foot,
drowning bone powder
w/ ease. one bag contains visionary
miles , coastal
flooding felicity , walking
Ring Casket Bosom. Buddy,
dwelling percentage
, servants
, , priggish shine :
a Gnat
, a Flea
, , sobbing boats. shall break
the traveler
in a manner
befitting chorus
rhetoric. hum.
gone:
page by page , an estate worth choicest miserable lacky, ,
ellipsis . . . [gone mirth remedy] . . .
thickets &
whatsoever,
qualities rouse thoughtless
cyclones. hirsute shame
, boundless ease [
methodology informs sculpted
groundings] , opinionated
pretext,
omnipotent proposal. gouty frowns , , , , ,
impatient
squint, absent tools,
caring statues
w/ a kind of synopsis
unrelated to Beauty. portent. a
dragging brooch against laudable
scams
, squirming crawfish unleashing
swaying verses.
Laudable
: Parades gone to invent
cannibals. facades
melt
away, storing finite symptoms
, aging &
conclusive exploratory popsicle
mattresses, outrage
spoke to Enlarge [flight]
/ [feeding] / /
[causes] :
lunar facial escapades,
encase an hourly wage
, sluggish amendments.
looping
& idle proclivities,
a matter of diet. understated barefoot
cloth,
use, moderate skill, ‘twas a
recent temperament to Blast
comical honeycomb speedometer.
AVANT(ART)
Volodymyr Bilyk, Ukraine
aVANT(STORY)
"John Brown and Sons"
JWM Morgan, California
JWM Morgan, California
Kansas Territory, Late Summer 1856
As I rode into the yard beside my troubled son Fred, Florilla Adair, my stern and admirable missionary half-sister, stepped out the cabin door into the morning sunlight holding her axe by the upper shaft, the edges of the blade shiny from fresh sharpening. The Adairs’ blond boy Charley, now twelve, and his little sister Emma grinned at Fred and me. Florilla and Emma each wore a dark blue dress: one full-sized, one tiny. The sight of the bulge at the front of Florilla’s dress ripped my heart. I had passed a rough year here in Kansas since I had last seen my youngest, Ellen, then a baby just approaching her first birthday. Now she was almost two.
In the mess of scrap wood in the yard, I saw the upturned leg of a table and two chair seats. A few weeks before, proslavery terrorists had dragged this furniture out into the yard and smashed it into pieces.
Florilla greeted Fred and me solemnly. “We are glad to see you. I am sorry I can’t invite you in.”
I met Florilla’s extraordinarily steady gaze and knew she and her husband, Sam, had fugitives concealed in the house. We needed to speak no more words about this. Florilla and Sam helped people escape north to freedom. I respected them for their commitment to human decency and for their daring.
A fowling piece fired in the distance. “Sam and Jason, out hunting,” Florilla said.
“Jason! I thought the army still had him in irons.” My sons Jason and John Junior had been arrested for antislavery activity two months before.
Florilla smiled in her subdued way. “Free man now,” she said.
“Thank God.”
She nodded. “For all he’s been through, he seems okay. Delighted to be back with his wife and child.”
“How wonderful! And John Junior?”
“Still in the hands of the federals.”
Officers of the United States Army, in their exasperated state of misplaced rage over our military actions at Pottawatomie, had arrested and tortured John Junior and Jason, who were, in this matter, completely innocent. By our government’s warped logic of crime and innocence at that time, “John Brown” should have been imprisoned and tortured, not my sons. By means of some strange intermixing of rumor and creative newspaper writing, I had become the most public enemy of the beloved institution of slavery. This was silly. I knew what I believed, a rare enough human trait, but I was only one person and a deeply flawed and modest one, at best. You might have thought the foundations of civilization were threatened, the way the proslavery editorialists wailed about our little activities on the borderline between righteousness and evil. It was amusing for me in a strained way, almost funny. Panic in the hearts and minds of the morally corrupt had a certain entertainment value, despite the vast panorama of torment on which this drama played. Above all, they feared losing their “wealth.” So sad.
Southern newspapers now painted me as a great danger to the nation, when I was, in my own eyes, a weary and barely competent campaigner. Our tiny “Northern Army” slept on blankets in the woods, ever ready to flee our pursuers. We were sometimes hungry and always fearful, some of us now depleted by the recurring malaria. When my volunteer fighters thought I was out of earshot, they voiced terrible doubts about the violence we had inflicted on supporters of slavery and the future attacks we planned.
Florilla said, “Not a month ago, I witnessed a Lieutenant Iverson driving John Junior and Jason and some other white men shackled like slaves by their ankles. I gave Lieutenant Iverson my mind about this behavior.”
“I would have liked to see that,” I said. “I dare to guess your opinion is etched permanently in Iverson’s mind.”
Florilla smiled. I smiled back. When she was incensed, Florilla could deliver a withering flood of indignation. At earlier times, she had judged our violence against the slavers harshly, and we had been on the receiving end of her criticism. Now, in the emergency, she was quiet on that topic. She recognized the need for armed defense.
“It’s not safe for Fred in camp,” I said. “I want to leave him here with you and Sam. He’ll work his share. He’s good with a plow.”
Florilla knew Fred’s impulsive mounted charge had helped us win the battle at Blackjack, but only at tremendous risk to himself. Like me, Florilla wanted to protect him.
“Fred can stay here now. Sam will accept it.”
We heard another blast from the hunters in the distance.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. This means a great deal to me.”
Florilla nodded. “He’ll probably sleep down the slope in the cabin with Jason and Ellen and Wealthy and the little boys. We’re cramped up here.”
“Fine. That’s perfect.”
“John,” Florilla said. “You know we are scared.”
“I know. I am sorry. When they come, we will be as ready as we can be.”
Florilla nodded gravely, allowing only a hint that my attempt at reassurance had worked. Proslavery forces were rallying in great numbers over the border in Missouri. We would try to protect friends and family here in Osawatomie, but our tiny group was likely to be overrun. Even in defeat, we must make a valiant show of opposition. Our story would be reported in the Eastern newspapers. To win the support of the wealthy and powerful, we must be seen as bold and righteous. We were defending our own. We were also performing for a distant audience, readers who understood little of our agony.
* * *
Owen, my most loyal and steadfast son, greeted me when I arrived at camp alone.
“Fred?” Owen asked.
“He’ll stay with your aunt Florilla and Uncle Sam.”
“Much better. I was worried he’d be running around when the shooting starts.”
“No use worrying,” I said. “God is watching over him. And all of us.”
“Yes, Father. Still…I feel better with him at the Adairs’.”
“As do I.”
Tall Owen, now thirty-one, was the most consistently right-thinking and the boldest of my sons. When others had sometimes lost patience or even mocked Fred for his confusion and weird impulses, Owen had always shown him great care and consideration. I tousled this tall man’s woolly orange hair as I had when he was a boy, and, though visibly embarrassed, he smiled. More than anyone else in the family, Owen had inspired our move to Kansas Territory. Back at our dining table in New York State, he had argued long and hard that our Christian duty required us to put our lives in play in the opposition of slavery.
Owen’s left arm, useless since birth, had kept him from military service and, likely, from marriage. The disability inspired his ferocity. My two eldest, John Junior and Jason, had refused to join in the Pottawatomie attack and hurt me deeply. Fierce Owen had swung his sword boldly and effectively. I trusted Owen completely. I knew he would fight at my side until the end.
Like me, my friends James Cline and Dr. William Updegraff each commanded small militias. We had talked through our plans for the defense these last few days, but I had great doubts, much more than I had let on. Cline, especially, did not inspire confidence. I had heard irreverent talk in his camp, even raw blasphemy. His fighters drank alcohol freely, behavior unthinkable in my camp.
I had more confidence in Updegraff than Cline, but only a little and maybe only because I knew him less well. He seemed a sober and serious man. He had engaged in discussion with us about how to array the forces at some length. Updegraff was no child. Like me, he knew our enemy was unlikely to behave according to our “plans.”
My group was twenty-two volunteers now. Aaron Dwight Stevens was my one true soldier, a big field-smart veteran with a booming voice that others would follow. Aaron had served in the U.S. Army, then been arrested for attacking his own officer. He had escaped from prison and joined up to fight on the free state side. Luke Parsons was another experienced fighter I trusted. Just last week, before he joined us, Luke had taken part in the overrunning and burning of the proslavery fort at Franklin. Many of the rest of our group had experienced violent tangles with the proslavery forces. Several had seen the insides of federal jails. Would they grow cool under fire? We would soon see.
* * *
Shortly after dawn, young nephew Charley rode into our camp, yelling, “They shot Fred dead! We met ’em on the Lawrence Road. Hundreds of ’em. Fred knew the man at the front and called his name, Reverend White. Reverend White shot Fred dead. They shot Mr. Carr and another man. My dad got away into the woods.”
I held, desperate, crying, Charley’s hands. God arrived in my heart like a sliver of the sun inserted into my earthbound body. Such light! Such glory! My volunteers gathered their weapons and readied their mounts.
My body became a column of flame.
* * *
I sent Aaron Stevens and Jason to the west to assess the oncoming force. I hid my fighters behind the trees and brush in the skirting of timber along the Marais des Cygnes River, which ran nearly parallel to the Lawrence Road on the north side.
I put Owen near the front, behind a stone outcrop. With endless practice, he had developed his right arm to great strength. He would aim his rifle well. “Hide here,” I instructed another experienced fighter, indicating a tree stump. “And you, here,” I told another volunteer, pointing out a bush. “Lie down in the grass to stay out of sight.” I placed my other fighters in a long line in the brush from twenty to forty feet apart, hidden in the brambles and the trees. Some found hiding places in the taller grass and behind humps in the land, which allowed them to stand at full height to aim and shoot their rifles.
I was on the northwest with my group. Dr. Updegraff, with his ten militiamen, formed the center, and questionable Captain Cline the east wing of the defending company.
I sent Luke with ten fighters to hold the two-story log fort by the road as long as he could.
Jason ran back and brought me the report. Aaron remained at the front. Reid’s mounted hundreds were coming in two long lines, side by side, towing a wheeled brass cannon. There might have been ten of these uniformed invaders for each of the anxious volunteers on our side.
Cline faced the enemy first, on the road on foot. One of Reid’s mounted slavers shot and killed a militiaman at Cline’s side. Cline and his little army abandoned their dead comrade’s body in the road and fled east, like scattering doves.
Luke soon came back with one other man. “We all got a good look at the oncoming force,” Luke said. “The others…” He opened the fingers of his upturned hand toward the east.
The disappointing performance of these volunteers intensified our emergency and thrust me into the arms of God. I could not linger long in savoring the sacred relationship. Still, I took time to thank God for my increasing serenity, which, experience had taught me repeatedly and well, greatly improved my ability to aim my guns and, even more important, command my fellow fighters with no outward indication of fear.
In my straw hat and tailed coat, with pistols held high in each hand, I walked toward the approaching cavalry in their overwhelming numbers. I did not yet know if Reid’s troops were good fighters, but I saw proof they were dedicated polishers. The glittering of their swords and guns as they approached in the morning sun insulted my eyes in a spectacle I found peculiarly inspiring.
Since we had opened the battle against the slavers in May, I had seen frequent reference to “John Brown” and his activities in the newspapers, some approaching realistic accuracy, some highly embroidered, both to the positive side and to the negative side. James Redpath and Scotsman William A. Phillips promoted me in the New-York Tribune. Richard Hinton wrote Kansas dispatches for the Boston Traveler. I had contributed my own vivid account of our victory at Blackjack to the New-York Tribune.
At the front of our group, I spun around and gave my back to the enemy. I was performing on two stages at once, here, on this rolling prairieland, for the benefit of these volunteers before me, bold or timorous as they might be, and also for the people back East who would soon hear the story of this fight. I needed this world to see me as courageous and forthright and “good.” Maybe this was selfish, even a little silly. But the stories as they appeared in print were indisputably important, vital for my practical purpose. Properly presented tales of moral bravery in battle were key to my next great task: the tugging of money from the wallets of the wealthy.
I directed fire in my clearest, loudest voice.
Not ten yards from me, Owen rose quickly to standing, leveled his rifle, fired, then sank into the yellow grass. I turned and saw a mounted slaver behind me twitch in his saddle. Red appeared on the cursed man’s shirt. He slid and fell under the feet of another man’s horse, which reared frantically and made a terrible whinny.
Another marauder took a bullet from a second of our force, and he, too, crumpled and fell.
The firing grew hotter. The men who had fled returned into position beside and behind me. I welcomed them back with a glance. As I could, I placed each behind a tree or a rock. Confidence flowed in me as a great, warm river. In God’s loving, assuring, humbling company, I walked back and forth in front, encouraging the others, bidding them to aim low and make their fire effective.
All about me, horses reared. Enemy riders fell.
Screams from the slavers cheered me. Along with these misguided supporters of Evil falling and crumpling before me, slavery itself was beginning its long, slow death. I was perhaps alone in my certain Knowledge: our actions today would have great positive effect on the future of our nation and the world. I wanted to tell my comrades, this is it! This is the beginning of the great shift. We are at the front in God’s war!
Some of Reid’s men dismounted, wrestled their cannon into position, and fired a useless blast high into the trees, bringing branches down onto us.
I felt a large bee sting behind my shoulder.
“Have a look here,” I said to Luke, who peeled away a bit of my pierced shirt.
“You’re shot,” Luke said.
“Hah.” I found myself laughing.
Reid ordered his men to dismount and urged them forward. As this huge force approached, our side fell back to the east. We maintained our line and kept shooting, following the riverbank and benefiting from hiding places in the sparse timber. Some waded northward across the river. One of ours was shot and killed in the water. Many were wounded. Many were taken prisoner. Owen and Jason and I and several others edged along the bank until we were out of rifle range of Reid’s men, then waded across in waist-deep water. Aaron and Luke made it across. After this, I did not see Cline or Updegraff.
* * *
Most of Osawatomie’s buildings burned. At dawn, near silence told us the rampage was over. Reid’s army had moved on.
A small group of us waded back across the river to assess the damage and help the survivors. A horrible moan came from within the shell of one still-standing, now roofless cabin. The door was gone. Leather hinges still hung in the doorframe. Inside, lying among clothes and smashed dishes on the dirt floor, I recognized Mr. Carr, a kind and loved neighbor of Florilla and Sam. Carr had a wound as large as a fist under his left ear. He made vocal noises but was unable to speak. He banged his wrists together and pointed at his mouth. Owen gave him a mug of water which he drank wildly, spilling and splashing.
I knew Carr as a righteous man who embodied everything good and true in our young country. Like the rest of us, he had come to Kansas Territory filled with Godly conviction that his presence here would help spread justice and decency. Instead, his life would be stubbed out like the end of a cigar.
Further upslope, we found Florilla and Sam’s cabin still standing and serving as refuge for survivors. Out back, Sam Adair was digging graves. He had dragged several of Reid’s fallen into a neat row in the dirt. He would respect the dead and give proper burial and blessing even to the enemy.
To one side, Fred lay on his back in the dirt. His forehead was pierced and spread garishly, like a cracked egg. His fists were clenched. I kneeled over Fred’s body.
“Lie down flat,” Florilla said, urgently. I obeyed. She raised a rifle. One of Reid’s raiders crawled toward us like a snake, pistol in hand. Florilla shot and killed him.
* * *
The story of this battle at Osawatomie grew quickly, though no journalists had been present, and I never learned which witnesses had reported to which newspaper writers. In brilliant sunlight, “John Brown,” in felt hat and tailed coat, had appeared eight feet tall and marched back and forth in front of the free state volunteers, a pistol in each hand, somehow stepping between rifle shots as Reid’s troops approached. I read these newspaper accounts of myself in wonder and concern. Where would the crazy story go from here?
On a simple provisioning trip to Lawrence, fully shaven now, in my same old felt hat, cotton shirt, and vest, I entered the town meaning only to buy corn and molasses. Someone yelled, “John Brown.” I looked about, considering which way to run to escape any assault. “That’s John Brown,” I heard the man repeat.
People cheered. Some were grinning. One man was waving his hat overhead.
I kept my gaze away from these misinformed, though well-meaning people. The knowledge of so many arranging and rearranging their “story” of John Brown in their minds as they wished to disturbed me greatly. I was unsuited for fame. Indeed, I had found myself unsuited for life in this world in any way.
* * *
In late afternoon, Jason brought stooped and shuddering John Junior into camp. Jason lifted his brother’s ragged shirt, revealing long streaks of scar. Federal authorities, perhaps finally recognizing how completely wrong they had been in blaming the Pottawatomie murders on him (instead of me), had released him. “They staked him like an ox with a chain at his neck, then beat him senseless,” Jason said. “He’s often absent in the mind now. He rarely speaks.” I threw my arms around John Junior and held him close. Tears ran freely down his face and mine. This newly mute man was the best educated of my children, at one time the focus of my highest hopes. Until last spring, he had been a vocal supporter of human rights in the free state legislature and the proud and capable commander of our local militia.
I tried to draw John Junior away from the camp to my prayer spot. I wished we could reach upward together for comfort and support. But John Junior appeared to not comprehend my words. He did not recognize my effort.
Someone or some thing grabbed and knotted my insides above the navel with wicked force. Familiar and awful elements of disease pinched, chilled, and sickened my belly. My tongue tasted like a rotten fish. I recognized the signs of returning malaria. Like most new settlers in the Territory, I had been laid low for weeks at a time in the past, battling disabling fever and chills. The all too familiar agony was beginning again.
I made my way to my prayer space alone and kneeled on the prairie soil. I would present myself nakedly to God, lay bare my confusion and disorder. I had failed badly in my service. I had made countless errors of judgment and tactical intelligence. At least I could catalog my errors and attempt to organize my atonement.
I bowed my head and pressed my palms together. I could not bring order to myself within but, at least right now, I could still exhibit the outward signs of a proper person. Volunteers in the camp were watching my example. For their benefit, I would maintain some appearance of dignity and self-command.
If not for the shameful impiety of such pleading, I might have prayed to be spared a repeat of the affliction. But reasoning prevented me from asking for such a favor. Why should I be spared? Was I especially worthy? Had I made myself in some way more useful to God and His purposes than some other person? Not really. “John Brown” had been pious his whole life, but what good was that? Pious and stupid. Pious and inept. A clod, a bungler. Fancying myself a great moral surgeon, I had led the operation to remove the cancer from the nation’s soul. I had opened the belly and begun the cutting. Then I had lost my way. My Work had shuddered to a shameful impasse. I knew this current path was wrong, but I was not yet able to adjust to the new direction that was needed. I had caused great violence, spread chaos and destruction among the innocent, good-hearted settlers here in Kansas. My Work had led me to abandon my wife and young children hundreds of miles from here, struggling in poverty on the farm with no support from me. My Work had brought about the torture of Jason and John Junior, and driven John Junior to insanity. My Work had killed Fred and many other good and worthy people.
As a boy in Ohio, I had secretly beaten the skin of my back raw with a stick more than once. I reached around and felt a few rough lines of scar from those frenzies.
Pain at my own hands and my own blood dripping from my own broken skin could bring a kind of peace. This was still possible. I could take up a stick and strike my own back. But I rejected such thoughts. I had outgrown such self-abuse. To satisfy God, I had to turn my aggression outward against the Evil of our time. I must attack the flaws of the world, not my own flesh.
I mourned the good person I had meant to be. As a very young man, I had always planned to advance decency and justice in the world. I would embody the ideals of our fearless Savior, love and support all I encountered, fight the moral blight of our society. Instead of this proud and confident Christian warrior, I saw in myself an error-prone, half-wit schemer. Far from making the steady advancement on my God-given plan I intended, I lurched from one harebrained, foredoomed effort to the next.
The pinch of self-judgment released my private demon. The pointy-eared frog monster I called The Specter of Negative Possibilities emerged at my side. The appearance of the diamond-eyed Specter marked the disintegration of my adult personality, my return to infantile helplessness. “Please,” I whimpered. “Please…”
The hideous Specter laughed and sprayed spittle. This laugh echoed the most terrible moments of my life, when the Underworld spoke directly to me and I was falling without apparent limit.
“Help me, oh, God, help me.”
My plea was sincere and heartfelt. But God was stern and silent with me now. No comfort came, no great light, no warmth or cheerfulness. I pressed my face to my hands and cried openly, spilling my tears on the grass and soil.
“Father.” Owen approached.
“My boy.”
“You’re ill.”
“Not only that.”
“You were singing,” Owen said.
“Singing?”
“You were singing very loud,” Owen said.
“I didn’t realize.”
Owen came near, his orange hair discernable in the dusk. I felt my love for him. I welcomed his approach. I needed his help.
“You sing beautifully,” Owen said. “The others appreciate it. I want you to know that. You were singing very sweetly.”
“Thank you, Owen.”
“Will you return to the camp?”
“I can’t just now.”
“Father?”
“What happened to Fred is my fault.”
“You are doing what is needed,” Owen said. His voice shook with devotion.
“The price is too high,” I said.
“We know that cannot be,” Owen said. “God would never permit it.”
Owen was echoing my own words back to me.
“I hope to become a righteous leader like you,” Owen said.
No. Please no.
“I want to inspire the righteous like you.”
No, you don’t want to be like me. No, you don’t.
I looked forward in time to the coming crisis of suffering and destruction. I placed my hand on Owen’s and gave what I meant to be a reassuring grip.
As I rode into the yard beside my troubled son Fred, Florilla Adair, my stern and admirable missionary half-sister, stepped out the cabin door into the morning sunlight holding her axe by the upper shaft, the edges of the blade shiny from fresh sharpening. The Adairs’ blond boy Charley, now twelve, and his little sister Emma grinned at Fred and me. Florilla and Emma each wore a dark blue dress: one full-sized, one tiny. The sight of the bulge at the front of Florilla’s dress ripped my heart. I had passed a rough year here in Kansas since I had last seen my youngest, Ellen, then a baby just approaching her first birthday. Now she was almost two.
In the mess of scrap wood in the yard, I saw the upturned leg of a table and two chair seats. A few weeks before, proslavery terrorists had dragged this furniture out into the yard and smashed it into pieces.
Florilla greeted Fred and me solemnly. “We are glad to see you. I am sorry I can’t invite you in.”
I met Florilla’s extraordinarily steady gaze and knew she and her husband, Sam, had fugitives concealed in the house. We needed to speak no more words about this. Florilla and Sam helped people escape north to freedom. I respected them for their commitment to human decency and for their daring.
A fowling piece fired in the distance. “Sam and Jason, out hunting,” Florilla said.
“Jason! I thought the army still had him in irons.” My sons Jason and John Junior had been arrested for antislavery activity two months before.
Florilla smiled in her subdued way. “Free man now,” she said.
“Thank God.”
She nodded. “For all he’s been through, he seems okay. Delighted to be back with his wife and child.”
“How wonderful! And John Junior?”
“Still in the hands of the federals.”
Officers of the United States Army, in their exasperated state of misplaced rage over our military actions at Pottawatomie, had arrested and tortured John Junior and Jason, who were, in this matter, completely innocent. By our government’s warped logic of crime and innocence at that time, “John Brown” should have been imprisoned and tortured, not my sons. By means of some strange intermixing of rumor and creative newspaper writing, I had become the most public enemy of the beloved institution of slavery. This was silly. I knew what I believed, a rare enough human trait, but I was only one person and a deeply flawed and modest one, at best. You might have thought the foundations of civilization were threatened, the way the proslavery editorialists wailed about our little activities on the borderline between righteousness and evil. It was amusing for me in a strained way, almost funny. Panic in the hearts and minds of the morally corrupt had a certain entertainment value, despite the vast panorama of torment on which this drama played. Above all, they feared losing their “wealth.” So sad.
Southern newspapers now painted me as a great danger to the nation, when I was, in my own eyes, a weary and barely competent campaigner. Our tiny “Northern Army” slept on blankets in the woods, ever ready to flee our pursuers. We were sometimes hungry and always fearful, some of us now depleted by the recurring malaria. When my volunteer fighters thought I was out of earshot, they voiced terrible doubts about the violence we had inflicted on supporters of slavery and the future attacks we planned.
Florilla said, “Not a month ago, I witnessed a Lieutenant Iverson driving John Junior and Jason and some other white men shackled like slaves by their ankles. I gave Lieutenant Iverson my mind about this behavior.”
“I would have liked to see that,” I said. “I dare to guess your opinion is etched permanently in Iverson’s mind.”
Florilla smiled. I smiled back. When she was incensed, Florilla could deliver a withering flood of indignation. At earlier times, she had judged our violence against the slavers harshly, and we had been on the receiving end of her criticism. Now, in the emergency, she was quiet on that topic. She recognized the need for armed defense.
“It’s not safe for Fred in camp,” I said. “I want to leave him here with you and Sam. He’ll work his share. He’s good with a plow.”
Florilla knew Fred’s impulsive mounted charge had helped us win the battle at Blackjack, but only at tremendous risk to himself. Like me, Florilla wanted to protect him.
“Fred can stay here now. Sam will accept it.”
We heard another blast from the hunters in the distance.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. This means a great deal to me.”
Florilla nodded. “He’ll probably sleep down the slope in the cabin with Jason and Ellen and Wealthy and the little boys. We’re cramped up here.”
“Fine. That’s perfect.”
“John,” Florilla said. “You know we are scared.”
“I know. I am sorry. When they come, we will be as ready as we can be.”
Florilla nodded gravely, allowing only a hint that my attempt at reassurance had worked. Proslavery forces were rallying in great numbers over the border in Missouri. We would try to protect friends and family here in Osawatomie, but our tiny group was likely to be overrun. Even in defeat, we must make a valiant show of opposition. Our story would be reported in the Eastern newspapers. To win the support of the wealthy and powerful, we must be seen as bold and righteous. We were defending our own. We were also performing for a distant audience, readers who understood little of our agony.
* * *
Owen, my most loyal and steadfast son, greeted me when I arrived at camp alone.
“Fred?” Owen asked.
“He’ll stay with your aunt Florilla and Uncle Sam.”
“Much better. I was worried he’d be running around when the shooting starts.”
“No use worrying,” I said. “God is watching over him. And all of us.”
“Yes, Father. Still…I feel better with him at the Adairs’.”
“As do I.”
Tall Owen, now thirty-one, was the most consistently right-thinking and the boldest of my sons. When others had sometimes lost patience or even mocked Fred for his confusion and weird impulses, Owen had always shown him great care and consideration. I tousled this tall man’s woolly orange hair as I had when he was a boy, and, though visibly embarrassed, he smiled. More than anyone else in the family, Owen had inspired our move to Kansas Territory. Back at our dining table in New York State, he had argued long and hard that our Christian duty required us to put our lives in play in the opposition of slavery.
Owen’s left arm, useless since birth, had kept him from military service and, likely, from marriage. The disability inspired his ferocity. My two eldest, John Junior and Jason, had refused to join in the Pottawatomie attack and hurt me deeply. Fierce Owen had swung his sword boldly and effectively. I trusted Owen completely. I knew he would fight at my side until the end.
Like me, my friends James Cline and Dr. William Updegraff each commanded small militias. We had talked through our plans for the defense these last few days, but I had great doubts, much more than I had let on. Cline, especially, did not inspire confidence. I had heard irreverent talk in his camp, even raw blasphemy. His fighters drank alcohol freely, behavior unthinkable in my camp.
I had more confidence in Updegraff than Cline, but only a little and maybe only because I knew him less well. He seemed a sober and serious man. He had engaged in discussion with us about how to array the forces at some length. Updegraff was no child. Like me, he knew our enemy was unlikely to behave according to our “plans.”
My group was twenty-two volunteers now. Aaron Dwight Stevens was my one true soldier, a big field-smart veteran with a booming voice that others would follow. Aaron had served in the U.S. Army, then been arrested for attacking his own officer. He had escaped from prison and joined up to fight on the free state side. Luke Parsons was another experienced fighter I trusted. Just last week, before he joined us, Luke had taken part in the overrunning and burning of the proslavery fort at Franklin. Many of the rest of our group had experienced violent tangles with the proslavery forces. Several had seen the insides of federal jails. Would they grow cool under fire? We would soon see.
* * *
Shortly after dawn, young nephew Charley rode into our camp, yelling, “They shot Fred dead! We met ’em on the Lawrence Road. Hundreds of ’em. Fred knew the man at the front and called his name, Reverend White. Reverend White shot Fred dead. They shot Mr. Carr and another man. My dad got away into the woods.”
I held, desperate, crying, Charley’s hands. God arrived in my heart like a sliver of the sun inserted into my earthbound body. Such light! Such glory! My volunteers gathered their weapons and readied their mounts.
My body became a column of flame.
* * *
I sent Aaron Stevens and Jason to the west to assess the oncoming force. I hid my fighters behind the trees and brush in the skirting of timber along the Marais des Cygnes River, which ran nearly parallel to the Lawrence Road on the north side.
I put Owen near the front, behind a stone outcrop. With endless practice, he had developed his right arm to great strength. He would aim his rifle well. “Hide here,” I instructed another experienced fighter, indicating a tree stump. “And you, here,” I told another volunteer, pointing out a bush. “Lie down in the grass to stay out of sight.” I placed my other fighters in a long line in the brush from twenty to forty feet apart, hidden in the brambles and the trees. Some found hiding places in the taller grass and behind humps in the land, which allowed them to stand at full height to aim and shoot their rifles.
I was on the northwest with my group. Dr. Updegraff, with his ten militiamen, formed the center, and questionable Captain Cline the east wing of the defending company.
I sent Luke with ten fighters to hold the two-story log fort by the road as long as he could.
Jason ran back and brought me the report. Aaron remained at the front. Reid’s mounted hundreds were coming in two long lines, side by side, towing a wheeled brass cannon. There might have been ten of these uniformed invaders for each of the anxious volunteers on our side.
Cline faced the enemy first, on the road on foot. One of Reid’s mounted slavers shot and killed a militiaman at Cline’s side. Cline and his little army abandoned their dead comrade’s body in the road and fled east, like scattering doves.
Luke soon came back with one other man. “We all got a good look at the oncoming force,” Luke said. “The others…” He opened the fingers of his upturned hand toward the east.
The disappointing performance of these volunteers intensified our emergency and thrust me into the arms of God. I could not linger long in savoring the sacred relationship. Still, I took time to thank God for my increasing serenity, which, experience had taught me repeatedly and well, greatly improved my ability to aim my guns and, even more important, command my fellow fighters with no outward indication of fear.
In my straw hat and tailed coat, with pistols held high in each hand, I walked toward the approaching cavalry in their overwhelming numbers. I did not yet know if Reid’s troops were good fighters, but I saw proof they were dedicated polishers. The glittering of their swords and guns as they approached in the morning sun insulted my eyes in a spectacle I found peculiarly inspiring.
Since we had opened the battle against the slavers in May, I had seen frequent reference to “John Brown” and his activities in the newspapers, some approaching realistic accuracy, some highly embroidered, both to the positive side and to the negative side. James Redpath and Scotsman William A. Phillips promoted me in the New-York Tribune. Richard Hinton wrote Kansas dispatches for the Boston Traveler. I had contributed my own vivid account of our victory at Blackjack to the New-York Tribune.
At the front of our group, I spun around and gave my back to the enemy. I was performing on two stages at once, here, on this rolling prairieland, for the benefit of these volunteers before me, bold or timorous as they might be, and also for the people back East who would soon hear the story of this fight. I needed this world to see me as courageous and forthright and “good.” Maybe this was selfish, even a little silly. But the stories as they appeared in print were indisputably important, vital for my practical purpose. Properly presented tales of moral bravery in battle were key to my next great task: the tugging of money from the wallets of the wealthy.
I directed fire in my clearest, loudest voice.
Not ten yards from me, Owen rose quickly to standing, leveled his rifle, fired, then sank into the yellow grass. I turned and saw a mounted slaver behind me twitch in his saddle. Red appeared on the cursed man’s shirt. He slid and fell under the feet of another man’s horse, which reared frantically and made a terrible whinny.
Another marauder took a bullet from a second of our force, and he, too, crumpled and fell.
The firing grew hotter. The men who had fled returned into position beside and behind me. I welcomed them back with a glance. As I could, I placed each behind a tree or a rock. Confidence flowed in me as a great, warm river. In God’s loving, assuring, humbling company, I walked back and forth in front, encouraging the others, bidding them to aim low and make their fire effective.
All about me, horses reared. Enemy riders fell.
Screams from the slavers cheered me. Along with these misguided supporters of Evil falling and crumpling before me, slavery itself was beginning its long, slow death. I was perhaps alone in my certain Knowledge: our actions today would have great positive effect on the future of our nation and the world. I wanted to tell my comrades, this is it! This is the beginning of the great shift. We are at the front in God’s war!
Some of Reid’s men dismounted, wrestled their cannon into position, and fired a useless blast high into the trees, bringing branches down onto us.
I felt a large bee sting behind my shoulder.
“Have a look here,” I said to Luke, who peeled away a bit of my pierced shirt.
“You’re shot,” Luke said.
“Hah.” I found myself laughing.
Reid ordered his men to dismount and urged them forward. As this huge force approached, our side fell back to the east. We maintained our line and kept shooting, following the riverbank and benefiting from hiding places in the sparse timber. Some waded northward across the river. One of ours was shot and killed in the water. Many were wounded. Many were taken prisoner. Owen and Jason and I and several others edged along the bank until we were out of rifle range of Reid’s men, then waded across in waist-deep water. Aaron and Luke made it across. After this, I did not see Cline or Updegraff.
* * *
Most of Osawatomie’s buildings burned. At dawn, near silence told us the rampage was over. Reid’s army had moved on.
A small group of us waded back across the river to assess the damage and help the survivors. A horrible moan came from within the shell of one still-standing, now roofless cabin. The door was gone. Leather hinges still hung in the doorframe. Inside, lying among clothes and smashed dishes on the dirt floor, I recognized Mr. Carr, a kind and loved neighbor of Florilla and Sam. Carr had a wound as large as a fist under his left ear. He made vocal noises but was unable to speak. He banged his wrists together and pointed at his mouth. Owen gave him a mug of water which he drank wildly, spilling and splashing.
I knew Carr as a righteous man who embodied everything good and true in our young country. Like the rest of us, he had come to Kansas Territory filled with Godly conviction that his presence here would help spread justice and decency. Instead, his life would be stubbed out like the end of a cigar.
Further upslope, we found Florilla and Sam’s cabin still standing and serving as refuge for survivors. Out back, Sam Adair was digging graves. He had dragged several of Reid’s fallen into a neat row in the dirt. He would respect the dead and give proper burial and blessing even to the enemy.
To one side, Fred lay on his back in the dirt. His forehead was pierced and spread garishly, like a cracked egg. His fists were clenched. I kneeled over Fred’s body.
“Lie down flat,” Florilla said, urgently. I obeyed. She raised a rifle. One of Reid’s raiders crawled toward us like a snake, pistol in hand. Florilla shot and killed him.
* * *
The story of this battle at Osawatomie grew quickly, though no journalists had been present, and I never learned which witnesses had reported to which newspaper writers. In brilliant sunlight, “John Brown,” in felt hat and tailed coat, had appeared eight feet tall and marched back and forth in front of the free state volunteers, a pistol in each hand, somehow stepping between rifle shots as Reid’s troops approached. I read these newspaper accounts of myself in wonder and concern. Where would the crazy story go from here?
On a simple provisioning trip to Lawrence, fully shaven now, in my same old felt hat, cotton shirt, and vest, I entered the town meaning only to buy corn and molasses. Someone yelled, “John Brown.” I looked about, considering which way to run to escape any assault. “That’s John Brown,” I heard the man repeat.
People cheered. Some were grinning. One man was waving his hat overhead.
I kept my gaze away from these misinformed, though well-meaning people. The knowledge of so many arranging and rearranging their “story” of John Brown in their minds as they wished to disturbed me greatly. I was unsuited for fame. Indeed, I had found myself unsuited for life in this world in any way.
* * *
In late afternoon, Jason brought stooped and shuddering John Junior into camp. Jason lifted his brother’s ragged shirt, revealing long streaks of scar. Federal authorities, perhaps finally recognizing how completely wrong they had been in blaming the Pottawatomie murders on him (instead of me), had released him. “They staked him like an ox with a chain at his neck, then beat him senseless,” Jason said. “He’s often absent in the mind now. He rarely speaks.” I threw my arms around John Junior and held him close. Tears ran freely down his face and mine. This newly mute man was the best educated of my children, at one time the focus of my highest hopes. Until last spring, he had been a vocal supporter of human rights in the free state legislature and the proud and capable commander of our local militia.
I tried to draw John Junior away from the camp to my prayer spot. I wished we could reach upward together for comfort and support. But John Junior appeared to not comprehend my words. He did not recognize my effort.
Someone or some thing grabbed and knotted my insides above the navel with wicked force. Familiar and awful elements of disease pinched, chilled, and sickened my belly. My tongue tasted like a rotten fish. I recognized the signs of returning malaria. Like most new settlers in the Territory, I had been laid low for weeks at a time in the past, battling disabling fever and chills. The all too familiar agony was beginning again.
I made my way to my prayer space alone and kneeled on the prairie soil. I would present myself nakedly to God, lay bare my confusion and disorder. I had failed badly in my service. I had made countless errors of judgment and tactical intelligence. At least I could catalog my errors and attempt to organize my atonement.
I bowed my head and pressed my palms together. I could not bring order to myself within but, at least right now, I could still exhibit the outward signs of a proper person. Volunteers in the camp were watching my example. For their benefit, I would maintain some appearance of dignity and self-command.
If not for the shameful impiety of such pleading, I might have prayed to be spared a repeat of the affliction. But reasoning prevented me from asking for such a favor. Why should I be spared? Was I especially worthy? Had I made myself in some way more useful to God and His purposes than some other person? Not really. “John Brown” had been pious his whole life, but what good was that? Pious and stupid. Pious and inept. A clod, a bungler. Fancying myself a great moral surgeon, I had led the operation to remove the cancer from the nation’s soul. I had opened the belly and begun the cutting. Then I had lost my way. My Work had shuddered to a shameful impasse. I knew this current path was wrong, but I was not yet able to adjust to the new direction that was needed. I had caused great violence, spread chaos and destruction among the innocent, good-hearted settlers here in Kansas. My Work had led me to abandon my wife and young children hundreds of miles from here, struggling in poverty on the farm with no support from me. My Work had brought about the torture of Jason and John Junior, and driven John Junior to insanity. My Work had killed Fred and many other good and worthy people.
As a boy in Ohio, I had secretly beaten the skin of my back raw with a stick more than once. I reached around and felt a few rough lines of scar from those frenzies.
Pain at my own hands and my own blood dripping from my own broken skin could bring a kind of peace. This was still possible. I could take up a stick and strike my own back. But I rejected such thoughts. I had outgrown such self-abuse. To satisfy God, I had to turn my aggression outward against the Evil of our time. I must attack the flaws of the world, not my own flesh.
I mourned the good person I had meant to be. As a very young man, I had always planned to advance decency and justice in the world. I would embody the ideals of our fearless Savior, love and support all I encountered, fight the moral blight of our society. Instead of this proud and confident Christian warrior, I saw in myself an error-prone, half-wit schemer. Far from making the steady advancement on my God-given plan I intended, I lurched from one harebrained, foredoomed effort to the next.
The pinch of self-judgment released my private demon. The pointy-eared frog monster I called The Specter of Negative Possibilities emerged at my side. The appearance of the diamond-eyed Specter marked the disintegration of my adult personality, my return to infantile helplessness. “Please,” I whimpered. “Please…”
The hideous Specter laughed and sprayed spittle. This laugh echoed the most terrible moments of my life, when the Underworld spoke directly to me and I was falling without apparent limit.
“Help me, oh, God, help me.”
My plea was sincere and heartfelt. But God was stern and silent with me now. No comfort came, no great light, no warmth or cheerfulness. I pressed my face to my hands and cried openly, spilling my tears on the grass and soil.
“Father.” Owen approached.
“My boy.”
“You’re ill.”
“Not only that.”
“You were singing,” Owen said.
“Singing?”
“You were singing very loud,” Owen said.
“I didn’t realize.”
Owen came near, his orange hair discernable in the dusk. I felt my love for him. I welcomed his approach. I needed his help.
“You sing beautifully,” Owen said. “The others appreciate it. I want you to know that. You were singing very sweetly.”
“Thank you, Owen.”
“Will you return to the camp?”
“I can’t just now.”
“Father?”
“What happened to Fred is my fault.”
“You are doing what is needed,” Owen said. His voice shook with devotion.
“The price is too high,” I said.
“We know that cannot be,” Owen said. “God would never permit it.”
Owen was echoing my own words back to me.
“I hope to become a righteous leader like you,” Owen said.
No. Please no.
“I want to inspire the righteous like you.”
No, you don’t want to be like me. No, you don’t.
I looked forward in time to the coming crisis of suffering and destruction. I placed my hand on Owen’s and gave what I meant to be a reassuring grip.