Outside the Linespoetry and fiction

Outside the Linespoetry and fiction

Collected bySoutheastern Louisiana UniversityCreative Writers Group1999

Contents

Introduction 7Jack B. Bedell

Larry Talbot’s Night on the Town 8Wayne Cain

Evening Prayer 9Corbett Mount

www.yes_or_no.com 10Mary Higginbotham

Urban Oak 11Terry O’Mara

Mamaw’s 12Michael Curry

Photopoetry 17Michael T. Lashua

You’re My Cup of Tea 18Ivy McClatchy

Deaf Girl Learns to Dance 19Mindy A. Miceli

Sensual Symphony 22Wendy C. Hodge

Madonna and Child 23Michael J. Libersat

Humanity in Kilonewtons 24Gwendolyn Osburg

Tchefuncte Swimmer 25Camala M. Ryan

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Wish Girl 26Phil Sevin

Heather in Flight 32Wayne Cain

On a Weekend Visit the ManTakes His Daughter to the Park 33

Brian Spears

The Husband Explains to His WifeWhy He Is in Love with Another Woman 34

Victoria Pennison

Artist Statement 35Woody Stevens

Contributors 36

About the Creative Writers Group 38

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IntroductionJack B. Bedell

It is my honor to welcome readers to this second edition ofOutside the Lines, a chapbook of literature produced and pub-lished by the Creative Writers Group of Southeastern LouisianaUniversity. As someone lucky enough to have seen a good dealof the work presented here develop from idea to art, I am quiteproud of the collection and its editors.

From the sharp wit of Wayne Cain’s “Larry Talbot’s Nighton the Town,” to the cyber-sexiness of Mary Higginbotham’s“www.yes_or_no.com,” to the formal grace of Camala Ryan’s“Tchefuncte Swimmer,” to the direct drama of Phil Sevin’s “WishGirl” these pages are sure to grab hold of their readers, bringingto mind Raymond Carver’s admonition, “Art is not self-expression; it is communication.” And as all literature must,Outside the Lines forges a community of writers and readersthrough talent, subject matter, and execution.

These are not the selfish stories of writers in need of vent-ing. They are the compelling and intriguing lines of artists whocare to get it down correctly. As any of these writers will tell youthemselves, these pages are not writing exercises, nor do theycontain posturing. These pieces are the honest, often emotional,connections of writers to words and words to readers that makeour days relevant. Enjoy these words. Enjoy their writers. Comein and stay a while.

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Larry Talbot’s Night on the Townfor Lon Chaney, Jr.

Wayne Cain

The pull of the moonexplodes inside my headlike a silver beammadness, madness.Your screams rolling like sighsacross my pointed ears,mixing with the howlsmy brothers raiselike gypsy bulletsfired into the ivoryheart of darkness.

I smell your blood.It perfumes the night.

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Evening PrayerCorbett Mount

She lights her third cigaretteand passes through his cracked doorway,

into the city.

An oracle walking the street,full of mysticism and addiction—

she turns the corner.

The porch radio is humming openly.The droning sounds of lo-fi delta blues

sink inside him.

At 2pm he walks downtown,passes the new franchise record store

full of 16 yr. olds,

to the café on East Thomas forafternoon coffee in the afternoon coffeehouse

in hopes of relief.

He adds the sugar and milk ritually,brings the cup to his lips, swallows her memories—

an evening prayer.

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www.yes_or_no.comMary Higginbotham

My fingers toywith the Enter keyand I debate on pressing it.I have given all information—Name, City, and State.I love him.But there is no field asking for love.This cold machine does not care.I could press Enter.I could be heartbrokenif no match is found.And even more terrifiedif one is.

If I press Enterwill I be satisfied just knowing?

No.

I will be compelled to callor to email my regards.His perfection will be ruined.And his faults willoverpower his good intentions.

My lip is bitten throughand my heart is pounding.I give no thoughtand cancel my search.My computerhas beenshut down.

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Urban OakTerry O’Mara

Johnny hangs around by the big oak treeeveryday. He watches his neighborspeddle pipe dreams to his friends. He watchesthem fall higher into the crack in the sidewalk.

Johnny listens to his mother’s screamsas he feels his deep black and bluesinflicted by her bastard boyfriendin his drunken rage.

They don’t even notice that Johnny’s gonedon’t even realize his friends are zombies,that he hasn’t been to school in a week,or that Johnny kicked the chair outas he hung around by the big oak tree.

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Mamaw’sMichael Curry

Anyone at Mamaw’s front door was undoubtedly a stranger.Everyone else entered her house from the side porch whichopened into her kitchen. The perpetually stripped and waxedlinoleum floor was the color of the inside of a Three Musketeersbar. Dead ahead loomed the rounded nose of a great, birch break-fast bar, like the business end of a Pershing missile, dividing theroom in two. To the left were birchwood cabinets surmountinga matching counter with an oversized, white porcelain, doublesink. To the right, across the room, stood a white, what in mychildhood seemed the largest on the planet, Maytag freezer. Itsfoot-thick, vault-like door with a foot-tall, upside-down U-shaped, locking lever handle opened onto a metric ton of baggedonions, bell pepper, and celery that had been chopped or mincedby hand—ready for whenever—gallon Tupperwares of gumbo,various creoles and bisques, white stacks of cleaned, wrapped,fish, shrimp, or lump crabmeat that Grampa had caught “out atthe camp” (back in the days when you could still actually catchsomething besides mullet and hardhead in Lake Pontchartrain),and, once a year, whatever she couldn’t give away of the truck-load of blackberries we picked with Grampa “out at” theMorganza Spillway.

Filling in the area to the right of the Pershing missile werea twenty-five inch color TV on a rolling stand and an oblongwalnut table with six captain’s chairs. Two extra leaves for thetable were stowed in the six-or-so inches between the wall andthe side of the Maytag and were used far too often to justify aless convenient hiding place.

The left side of the missile had hangar-sized doors fromwhich Mamaw would draw from her armory of gadgets andappliances, such as the twin-turbo, intercooled, doubleoverhead cam, electronic fuel injection, ultrahydramatic, three-

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eighteen Cummins diesel mixing bowl with power take-off. Likethe Maytag, all Mamaw’s kitchen machinery was state-of-the-art and durable enough to be handed down. Her daughters stillhave and constantly use them. If war is “diplomacy by any othermeans,” Mamaw was the Napoleon, Talleyrand, and HenryKaiser of cuisine. She did not cook raw ingredients; she forgedthem to her will—but quietly—with taste, style, tact, subtlety—and seasoning.

Further to the left stood a Kenmore refrigerator withside-by-side, black slate textured doors mounted with a small,commemorative, brushed bronze plaque upon which wasengraved,

Quality Built Expressly for the Wattigneys.

Grampa purchased the Kenmore about fifteen seconds afterthe invention of the automatic ice-maker was announced. Uponthis device my father conferred the title, “Second GreatestInvention of the Twentieth Century.” He had purchased one ofthe prototypes. Ice tray-filling had traditionally been a man’sjob.

Next to the Kenmore (which Mamaw never ceased refer-ring to as “the Frigidaire”) stood a two-doored wooden drygoodscabinet full of canned and containerized stuff , the most memo-rable of which was a large, yellow, Gitana cracker tin that had apicture of a smiling senorita in the act of lifting her veil. As achild, I often wondered what “gitana” meant and what it andsmiling senoritas had to do with crackers or storage tins. Donot know to this day.

To the left of this was a doorway to the hall where George,who Grampa said was the ghost of one of Mamaw’s oldboyfriends, loitered about. Flanking the doorway’s left stoodthe Monolith, the taj mahal of stovetops, the altar of her culi-nary cathedral—Mamaw’s O’Keefe & Merritt. It was made ofgas and perpetually-polished stainless steel and had six burners,

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a grill, a griddle, and a deep fryer. There were four mysterious,multi-purpose ovens, two below and two above, one of whichcould rotisserie a giraffe’s neck, should the need arise. Suspendedabove was a restaurant-style exhaust hood which would robus of the myriad, exotic aromas that emanated from theMonolith.

On the floor to the left of this broiling behemoth, in thethree feet of space between it and the sink counter, lay Mamaw’sone and only sacrifice to the sanctity of sanitary living; a smallchina bowl that held a demitasse of cream for her cat, Minnew(or Minou as the French spell it), a grey-green and black tiger-striped with yellow eyes. There was no litter box nor its atten-dant odor at Mamaw’s. Minnew was living proof that a cat canbe toilet-trained. She also had a “cayoodle” named Pepe whowas terrified of thunder and fireworks and a parakeet namedSpunky that cussed like a sailor (given to her by a brother whowas a merchant marine) and lived to the age of seventeen.

One thing about Mamaw’s kitchen that was not immedi-ately apparent to the naked eye; it was immaculate. Therewas not a dot of dust, a fraction of a fingerprint, nor a bug ofany breed to be seen on any surface in the entire house, muchless the kitchen—and this was in New Orleans! Any fly thatblundered in did not live long enough to die between the win-dow and the screen. The running inside joke was, “Gee Mama,you could cook for a hospital.” The woman arose at some timebetween three and four a.m. God only knows what she did inthat time but, when I awoke at six one Christmas morning, theturkey was already carved and simmering in the turkey roastershe usually kept stored in the missile. The only housework Iever saw her do were dishes, and they were usually done, overher insistent but resigned protests, by one of her four daugh-ters, who, though all were married and excellent cooks, wereinvariably having dinner “by Mama’s,” to the overt glee of hersons-in-law and grandchildren.

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In the afternoons she sat at the table watching her “stories”and a few game shows, the last of which was Truth or Conse-quences. I can still picture her, mincing red onions on her well-worn cutting board, with a chef ’s knife that had about an inchof steel honed away, watching The Secret Storm or The Edge ofNight, tsk-ing the improbable plot complications. Occasionallyshe would utter mildly sarcastic exclamations like, “Oh! My,my” or, on some occasions, “Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph?”when the screenwriters had outdone themselves. Often she wasechoed by Spunky, followed by some profanity such as “ya stu-pid son of a bitch” (Father Newman, Mamaw’s other brother,loved Spunky and spoke a touching eulogy the day he foundhim six-toes-up on the bottom of the cage).

During afternoon TV-time Mamaw would chop and minceenough “seasoning” to keep the Maytag stocked through anuclear winter. Then, the news, followed by the arrival of whom-ever was coming for supper. New faces were extremely specialand given the red carpet treatment, especially if they might becoerced, despite their polite, pitiful objections, to stick aroundtill suppertime. They were invariably induced to conforming tothe third-helping standard. I often found myself wondering ifany of my school chums might be orphans so I could bringthem to her house when the bus dropped us off. Some peopleeat to live and others live to eat. Mamaw lived to have herseaten. Alas, she was cursed with a husband who “eats likeSpunky.”

As a boy, I would “go run for” groceries for Mamaw.Schwegmann’s Giant Supermarket was only a block away if youdidn’t count the airport-sized parking lot. On the many trips Imade with her to do her “big shopping” she taught me how tobe incredibly discriminating about fruit, produce, French bread,milk, etc. After a while, when she sent me for cucumbers, forexample, she no longer added, “and be sure to pick some goodones.” Meat, she made a special trip for and bought from a

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butcher named Pepperone who had learned, in short order, toshow her the best cuts regardless of price (over which she wouldengage in mild, well-mannered haggling). I think she deserveda volume discount.

When she had something simmering or finished “cookingdown” she would call me to the Monolith, dip a big, well-wornspoon into her bottomless stockpot with the little check valvethat spit-sputtered all day long and, after blowing on it awhile,ask me to “taste this and tell me if it needs any salt.” It usuallydid. Before long I was tasting all the spices that went into thedelicate, watery-thin, lightly colored sauces she spooned out.When it was cold outside and the exhaust fan wasn’t running,she would lift the lid of her big pot and we would all get an airsandwich of what was to come. At Mamaw’s, seconds were aproverb; thirds, an all-too-often indulged standard. Poor UncleBilly was always ensnared by the definite seconds proverb; hisulcer made him pay dearly. He came by less often than anyoneelse but, like a faith-filled saint resigned to martyrdom, he came.

On the rare occasions when Grampa would overeat, hewould get up from the table and announce, “That was good,Mae. I’m gettin’ me to baid.” Later, she would tell us to peek inon him. He would be lying on his back, snoring, his right armreaching up vertically, his hand moving back and forth, bothfeet moving alternately to-and-fro in some odd, but rhythmic,somnambulant tap dance, his left arm would be hanging outover the side of the bed but would rise vertically from the elbowto form an ‘L’ or retract inward to lie flat on the bed. Mamawsaid he was “moonlighting”; driving a cab at night.

As a boy, I learned enough about cooking to make my bach-elorhood a happy one (at suppertime anyway), and every one ofmy three or four score former girl friends has conceded that Iam, far and away, the better cook. I am also, admittedly, theonly person they have ever met who can toilet-train a cat.

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PhotopoetryMichael T. Lashua

The lens hides mecreates the blank voidthat was once a face

f-stop captures actionand loss of selfand spirit

Without light andchemicalsthe second realityceases

My fingers move with instinctno chance motor skillsbut tracings of love

Withering and cryingthe true modelclashes with backdrop

And shutter

Unyielding and unforgiving fieldof truth and substancebrought to

light

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You’re My Cup of TeaIvy McClatchy

Under the warm glowthat strains through the shade

I’ll wait.Any minuteYou’ll pour through that door, whoever you are.

I’ll steepin that remote back corner of PJ’s like every Wednesday night 9 o’clock until you miraculously appear.

You’ll seek the seat I’ve already claimed. So you don’t seem stupidyou’ll settle for second besttwo tables away.

I won’t look up just yet . . .

Sipping,My eyes roll over my cup onto a chair two tables your jeans elbow hands cup eyes.

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Deaf Girl Learns to DanceMindy A. Miceli

For a time she is unbearable to him.He sees her try as she gives him part of a smile.She sees the certainty in his faceas he mouths words that have become empty,and weightless as they fumble across his lips.

On a day in early fall they disguise themselvesin costume and go bar hoppinguntil the music is right. He dances senselessnext to her, as she rests her head on himto feel the hum of sincerity, beating.

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Sensual SymphonyWendy C. Hodge

Notes of musical sweetness drip onto my tongue.They permeate my taste buds and saturate my body.My mind, it swells with the lyrical geniusof the Ones long before my time.I fall into the sounds and they cover me.I close my eyes and feel the warm embraceof the bars and measures as theywrap their arms around me.They love me.I take them in.I feel their sadness, their triumphs, their longings.I am sad for them, I celebrate with them,I long for them.We are one.I am the music.

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Madonna and Child(Kosovo 1999)

Michael J. Libersat

The young mother walksOn shoes that cutAnd bruise her feetWorse than the blade-sharp graniteThat lines this track.Breasts ache in a mind-numbing cycleJostle and gums and milkThe infant in her armsTurned to lead five miles agoBut the fussing criesBlank out the looming abyss.She is walking toward uncertaintyTrapped in a tableauWe swear will never happen againNot one of our sincere promisesOr any shocked concernsAffect the worm that consumesHer empty belly,Her vacant future.

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Humanity in KilonewtonsGwendolyn Osburg

It doesn’t have to sparkle to pullBut you know thatYou pullIn your autumn waySo glib about the death of starsAnd the boy next to meWith his indecisive hairAnd hands like a treePulls harderEvenThan gravity

There is a differenceI grant youThe sun holds fastBut I always fall from orbitsWatch the center shrinkCoolAll the while feelingThe gentle pullOf a thousand galaxiesIn random flight around me

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Tchefuncte SwimmerCamala M. Ryan

She stands on the Tchefuncte River’s dock,Imprisoned by her swimmer’s urge to dive,Trapped in the gaze, like Narcissus in shock,She looks at her liquid self: “You’re alive!”

“I thought you’d gone,” she said. “We swim no more.”But, like Echo, her words came back unchanged.So she ran to the sandy, red clay shoreTo meet her ghostly swimmer since estranged.

At the edge of the river she saw her-Self, the girl with her face, wet and rippling.Her moistened reflection, locked in water,Just looked back at her, silently staring.

Twenty toes become ten, and four hands blendInto two while she glides, slowly wading.The soul and the body, in water, mend;Parted halves become whole when she’s swimming.

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Wish GirlPhil Sevin

She doesn’t know what her name is. She knows what it used tobe, but that doesn’t matter . . . she’s not going back to it. Hepicked it for her, the way he picked her hairstyle, her taste inclothes, her eye color, everything about her, down to the way shebites her lower lip when she’s excited.

He’d wished for her to be real, and for her to love him, andnow she didn’t know about either one of those.

He’d told her the whole story an hour ago. Started fromway back, when his father was still alive, when his family hadjust moved. She already knew most of the details. They’d cometo Redmond because it had the only hospital equipped to dealwith whatever it was his father had. About a month after theygot settled, they found out Redmond wasn’t going to doany good.

Amber was the icing, though. He’d written her a month ofletters, telling her all about how the new place sucked. How hewished he could see her again. How he wished things could belike they used to be.

She sent him two, including the one where she said it was intheir best interests if they both moved on.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew all about the long-distance rela-tionship thing. The deadly LDR. He’d known it was coming.But not quite so soon, you know? You can handle someonedumping you when you’re OK, when you’re balanced, whenDad isn’t on his goddam deathbed and you’ve got nobody tospill to.

So, the letter.He hadn’t been serious when he’d started it. Just like one of

those ones that went to Amber. All the feelings and all the hurtand all the wishes. Just not to Amber. It began as something toget the crazies out of his head and ended up as a little piece of

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his soul, right there on paper. He didn’t want to throw it away.And the envelopes were right there.

So, he took a walk to the mailbox . . . by now he knew wherethat was. And on the way, he thought up a name. Someone hecould send it to. Pretty vague at first, and maybe a little toocoincidentally opposite from one Amber Blakely. Blonde, fair-skinned. Quiet and content. And understanding. Eyes that palegray-blue you always saw back home, just before a storm.

He’d thought it a little superficial to get that detailed on theeyes. But as long as I’m making things up, why settle? So he’ddropped the letter in the mailbox. No stamp. No address. Justthat name, the one he’d chosen.

And damned if it hadn’t made him feel better, if only fora time.

Things got better. He met a few people, found a few friends.He did stuff. Camping trips east of the mountains. Strip clubsin downtown Seattle. But none of it could permanently distracthim from the cogs that were slowly winding down at home.Sometimes, even though he knew he didn’t have all the time inthe world with his father, he just couldn’t be in the room withhim, just because he knew what was happening to him. Hard tosee him, through all the tubes.

So every so often, when things got too hard to face, he’d justwrite another letter. He never asked anything of her. Never anyquestions. He just told her how things were. The news fromRedmond, in a quiet sort of I miss you way. And, of course, he’dalways drop them in the mailbox.

No stamp. No address. Just that name.Eventually his father died. Knowing it was coming hadn’t

made any difference. And you can tell anyone in the world howyou feel, but if you’ve only known everyone you know for sixmonths, all they can do is nod. They won’t know what’s insideof you. How you feel bound from every angle and you just haveto move, somewhere. He’d even wished for Amber, momentarily,

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just to have someone that knew him.So, he wrote the last letter, the one he took out all the stops

in. Only a page long. Handwritten. But the words he’d usedhad made the length. He’d told her that he’d been glad for thetimes she’d been there to listen. That he’d never expectedanything of her. But if there were ever a time he needed her, itwas now.

And in the last sentence, he’d wished she were real.She remembered all of his letters, from the very beginning.

She’d read them all a hundred times. The first ones, the onesshe’d met him in, were so weathered that she could fold thecreases either way to put them back into the envelopes. She’dbeen able to tell when things were going well for him becausehe wouldn’t write as often. And sometimes she’d get a letterevery day. She hadn’t felt like there was much she could do forhim, except listen. But every now and then, she would just playthings out in her head, just for fun. She’d imagine walking upto him and taking him into her arms and understanding.

But that last letter had brought her to tears. She’d never methis father, but through the words she felt like she’d lost him too.She couldn’t just stand there. She had to do something. Heneeded her.

He’d told her about the funeral. He’d been OK up to theeulogy, and then he’d found he just couldn’t be in the funeralhome any longer. So he just got up and took a walk. It’s OK,mom. I’ll be right back. Just got to clear my head is all.

She’d never forget the first time she’d seen him. She’d tried.He was trying to wear a black suit, but the rain was making itdifficult and he was a little too tall to make it work just right.His eyes were cast at the ground, and his hair was thrown overthem, dripping. Just walking, aimless. Hoping to walk right offthe edge of the world.

And so she’d decided to be at the end of that walk. Shethrew on his favorite outfit, just a loose black shirt and some

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Girbauds, really, and grabbed that letter of his and went. Notthat there was a whole lot she felt she could do. But she didwalk right up to him and take him into her arms. And sheunderstood.

She still remembered how he’d given, how he’d felt like whenyou pour water onto a mound of dry dirt.

She’d come to him frequently in those first days, showingup just when he was about to head out to a movie or climbingin through the window when he just couldn’t find sleep. Shecould always tell when there was something wrong in his life,and she was always there to fix it. He always treated her with akind of subtle awe, and of course that made her even more ea-ger to please him.

But eventually, she kept getting the same feeling from him,again and again. Something wasn’t right. And whatever it was,it hadn’t been right for a while. And she’d finally cornered himabout it an hour ago, and he’d looked at her like he’d been dread-ing the day.

She hadn’t been sure where he was going with things. Shealready knew the story. So she just asked him what she could doto fix things. There had to be something she could do.

And he’d said that was the problem. He explained softly toher that everything she’d ever done had been for him. Alwaysdid the things he wanted to do. Always wore the clothes heliked on her. Always showed up whenever he needed a friend.

She’d said she hadn’t seen much wrong with that. Girlfriendsdo that.

He’d explained about her eyes. Pale blue-gray. You alwayssaw it back home, just before the storm. The way it rolled offhis tongue made her think he’d said it a few times before. It feltfamiliar to her, even. But it wasn’t enough to stop herfrom smirking. What do you mean? How can I change my eyesfor you?

He’d told her she was a wish.

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She hadn’t gone for it at first. That’s silly. How can that be?But the more he explained, the more it began to sink in. Shedidn’t have an address. She didn’t have a phone number. Shedidn’t have a last name.

She was a wish.He’d told her it killed him to wonder how she felt. If she

ever got tired of showing up just at the right time, or figuringout just what he needed to hear. If she ever got sick of the sameold action movies. Her first thought was to tell him that, ofcourse, that wasn’t the case. She didn’t mind. But she’d actuallystarted thinking about it just then, and though she didn’t knowfor sure, she had to admit it was possible. He said he felt some-times like she was his slave, and he never ever wanted her to feelthat way, ever.

And she’d looked him right in the eyes and held down themounting tears long enough to tell him it was all right.

Later, after he’d fallen asleep, she’d gotten up and stared atherself in the bureau mirror. Blonde. Fair-skinned. Quiet.

What else was it?She’d upset him, made him worry. And when she realized

that her first impulse was to think of him, it stung her. Do Ireally love him, or am I just made that way? She blinked her eyesin the mirror and made them different colors each time and thatlead her to think about what she was really there for. And thatstung. A little part of her that she couldn’t control quietly beganto resent him.

And a fierce need rose in her, one that she’d never felt. Shewanted independence. She wanted to be real.

There had never been a rose like the one she left on hispillow that night. It was still in her nature to give him the bestof whatever she gave. And she put pen to paper and wrote hima letter. It was her first.

I’ve had to ask myself some hard questions, and I’ve gone to findanswers for them. I can’t say if I’ll be back. I don’t know if I’ve gone

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because I needed to find myself or because I wasn’t exactly what youwanted. I’ve told you I loved you before, but I can’t say it now . . . Idon’t know if I’d mean it. But I can tell you that it hurts to leavenow, and I hope to find one day whether the hurt is mine or yours.

Then she slipped out of the window and into the dawn.

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Heather in FlightWayne Cain

Boy in tow, she stepsinto the land of Muddy Waters,gleaming guitars,cold jazz entrees.Her ready smile floats gentlylike some ransomed starry nightabove a private beach.The sounds swirllike smoke undulatingA mist glimmers in her eyes.

The next day she will packan art bookin the passenger seat,her Cessna rising as she glidesthrough practiced procedurechecking flaps, adjusting trim,joking with the tower,becoming one with the blue.Alone and climbing for cloudsshe thinks of Monet,sees her soul against the pink horizonand for a momentbecomes eternal.

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On a Weekend Visit the ManTakes His Daughter to the Park

Brian Spears

“The high swings, Dad. The others are muddyunderneath.” Three pushes and then she wentalone, shrugging away help. I joined. Shebet me she could go higher. So I bent

myself with the effort and youthful memory,pulled chains and bent legs, climbed into heaven.I caught her, and we reached a symmetryOf swinging motion, for a moment even

Gained perfection of movement, arms and legsAnd I would swear heartbeats in agreementWith the laws of physics, with the progressOf the egg blotched moon. And I was quiet.

I slowed, and she giggled aloud. She rose,Surpassing me and going as she chose.

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The Husband Explains to His WifeWhy He Is in Love with Another Woman

Victoria Pennison

In the evening when the woman brings her familyto their house for dinner, friends of the family,the husband blooms at her side and reads stories to her

children.His wife has offered a polite distance, but the music slipsunder the door to her study. From the window she seesher husband has turned a dim light on in the shed.

Nothing protects the wife from her husband’sopen-faced caresses of the woman; but they do nothing but

lookat each other and sip Budweiser from bottles. His eyes are

lightbrown and dancing. The woman is hypnotized; she does notknow how obvious they are. She smiles in the yardwhile her children run through the house.

She reminds me of you, he says, trying to uncoverthe reasons as he speaks to his wife, later in bed,hoping they will fly from his mouth like sparrowsso he can see them for himself and better explain.His wife knows this is futile. She has lived besidehis mute heart ten years.

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Artist StatementWoody Stevens

The linoleum block cuts featured on the cover and in the center of thechapbook were created especially for the 1999 Outside the Lines byWoody Stevens, a sophomore Art major at Southeastern. Another ofWoody’s pieces, similar in theme and style to the artwork here, won“Best of Show” in the 1999 Student Art Show.

When I create a piece of art, whether I’m realizing apersonal version or creating a specific image for something orsomeone, I like for my designs to fulfill two criteria. First, thatthe piece be a statement that pushes the envelope of thoughtwhile maintaining an interesting and visually pleasing place forthe viewer to situate themselves. Second, that it functions withinthe context of my own artwork, encompassing some sort of sur-real element. My design for the project is thus a solution tothese two somewhat paradoxical starting points. With these twopoints in mind, my work for Outside the Lines represents what Ifind to be the essence of the writer or artist: a struggle, mentally,spiritually, and even socially, to achieve his or her unique visionof the tumultuous world in which we live.

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Contributors

Wayne Cain is the rightful descendent of Kenneth Robeson’sclassic pulp fiction hero “Doc Savage.” He is president of theSLU Creative Writers Group and likes to write serious storieswith monkeys in them.

Michael Curry is a never-married, self-conscious, wannabe fic-tion-writer: likes hyphens and dashes—is using the Twelve Stepsto wean himself off commas.

Wendy Hodge hears the music we all missed.

Mary Higginbotham is a junior who plans on writing screen-plays after she graduates.

Michael Lashua is a wandering spirit drifter, recovering junkiehedonist who enjoys Coca- Cola, Scooby-doo, M&M’s, MilesDavis, driving too fast, nude skydiving, good bourbon, and hisgrandmother’s pecan pie.

Michael J. Libersat, who reads English in his spare time, hasspent the greater part of his adult life denying rumors that he isthe love child of Rasputin and Marie Laveau.

Ivy L. McClatchy is a senior, majoring in English who all toooften neglects her academic career to better focus on trainingfor the Boston Marathon.

Mindy A. Miceli enjoys sitting in open fields, plucking dande-lions, and getting lost while following butterflies of darkness.She is CWG’s Secretary with Rodin-ish eyes.

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Corbett Mount is known in certain west coast jazz circles as“The Man Who Dared To Use An Augmented Dmaj7.” He canusually be found lounging in the seediest pubs of Dublin and iswanted by the Brazilian authorities for radio piracy.

Terry O’Mara is bent on making the world a better place, butconfused as to the correct course of action. If successful, he plansto move on to alien life forms.

Gwendolyn Osburg says they still don’t have a name for what’swrong with her.

Victoria Pennison takes regular breaks from being a mentor,instigator, and debauched spiritualist to write, wonder, and worryabout single-handedly maintaining the inner equilibrium of theuniverse.

Camala M. Ryan is 30 years old and waiting by her window forPeter Pan to take her away from graduate school. She admiresGrover Monster, has never met an ice cream cone she didn’tlike, and believes in the goodness of Birkenstocks.

Phil Sevin is a military strategist best known for his thwarted1979 coup d’etat of Antarctica. After several failed attempts atworld domination, he studied Shakespeare’s works and devisedthe now-famous Birnam Wood Offensive, with which he suc-cessfully took Scotland in 1989.

Brian Spears is a graduate searching for a job that will allowhim to live comfortably while not actually doing anything.

About the Creative Writers Group

Founded in 1996, the SLU Creative Writers Group is astudent-run organization open to all students at Southeastern;it exists to promote excellence in poetry and fiction and toprovide support for student writers.

For more information about the group, including upcom-ing events and past issues of Outside the Lines, visit the CWGwebsite at <http://www/selu.edu/orgs/CreativeWriting>.

This chapbook was produced with the help of:SGA Organizational Grant

Sue Parrill and the Department of EnglishDon Marshall and the Visual Arts Department

The Writing CenterBaker Printing