volume 3, 2013/2014

Executive Editor J.V. Mina

Content EditorsKiah Jackson, Kirsten Mixon, Marley Stuart,Trevor Nixon,

Kim CalhounPromotional Managers

Kristen McGoey, Amanda CourtneyProduction Managers

Zachary Lyons, Wilhelm EisenwurstFaculty Committee

Alison Pelegrin, Dr. Jason Landrum, Dr. David Hanson,

Manchac Review is Southeastern Louisiana Univer-sity’s creative journal, updated continuously online as Manchac Review Online and published annually in print format. Manchac Review Online is an interac-tive experience including fiction, poetry, drama, art, music/lyrics, and video. Submissions are accepted all year. Submissions accepted when an edition is in press will be held for the next edition. All submis-sions published online are considered for publication in the selective print format at the end of each spring semester.

The responsibility for the selection and editing of all content, including grammatical and mechani-cal emendations, is assumed by the editors. All editors are students of Southeastern Louisiana Uni-versity. Editorial advice, financial management, and assistance are provided by the Southeastern Louisi-ana University Department of English; Department Head, Dr. David C. Hanson; and the Southeast-ern Writing Center.

Views and opinions expressed in Manchac Review are those of the individual authors and are not intended to represent the official views of South-eastern Louisiana University’s administration, fac-ulty, staff, or students; the faculty committee; or the Southeastern Writing Center. All depictions of events and characters in published works are fictional, and any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidental. Some pieces contain explicit language and content depicting adult themes and situations.

Cover Image: “Old Ford” by Dusty Cooper

© 2013 by Southeastern Louisiana University.

To the curious reader scanning this letter, thank you for picking up the latest print edition of Manchac Review. This issue reflects the creativity of our diverse student body at Southeastern Louisiana University by showcasing the work of students across various disciplines. The staff of Manchac Review is proud to feature an array of craft, from the wordsmiths whose writing fills these pages to the artists who have so graciously shared their stunning visuals. We hope that this issue not only entertains, but also inspires other students to indulge in their creative impulses.

Personally, this issue represents a milestone in my academic career. When Dr. Jason Landrum first approached me with the opportunity to serve as the executive editor of Manchac Review, I felt both honored and elated. By then, I had worked as an intern for Where Y’at? magazine and as the editorial assistant for 19TH Century Studies—positions which gave me working experience in publication. Even with that knowledge, I was still a bit nervous taking over Manchac Review. My initial goal was to produce another issue of the journal that honored the hard work and efforts of the previous editors, as well as to showcase the creative talent of Southeastern students. I wasn’t sure if I had the wherewithal to make it happen, but I knew I had to work fiercely to uphold the reputation of Manchac Review.

Once the submissions began rolling in, I was amazed by the diversity and quality of work produced by students—from the stunning photography and paintings, to the eclectic mix of creative writing that now fills the pages of this edition, the excellence of the work is indisputable and a testament to the talent and ambition of Southeastern students. The dedication of these authors and artists is inspiring, for even amid a barrage of academic and personal obligations, their attention to their craft never wavers I feel that the content of Manchac Review reflects the skills honed by such a commitment, for I cannot help but be inspired every time I flip through this issue. Remember the names of these artists and authors, because one day they will turn their creative passion into success—and you can honestly claim to have known their work since it first appeared in our student publication.

While the production process proved to be challenging at times, this print edition came together thanks to the hard work of our Manchac Review staff, the support from my fellow English graduate students, and the guidance of our experienced faculty advisors. Even as a writer, I find it hard to adequately express my appreciation and gratitude for the many great minds that have made this issue possible. If it wasn’t for the collective efforts of my colleagues, coworkers, and mentors, I’d still be staring aimlessly at this computer screen and wondering where to start. I would also like to extend an indescribable amount of gratitude to my family and friends, who have supported me through every frantic technology question and Facebook page “Like” request, as well as reassuring me during bouts of pressure.

I hope readers will find the work of these students not only entertaining, but inspiring—for there is a creative streak in every individual just waiting to erupt. It is my honor to present this print issue of Manchac Review to our community and campus.

Indulge, enjoy, and channel the muse.

J. V. Mina Executive Editor

Letter from the editor

Taylar lane requiem for my father 1

naTe Havard HammeTT haunted by a hermeneutic 4

K. THomas i forgot until this moment 9

Cody WaTTs dreams in the Big Blue 10 the fox and the Chicken 11

aleff Gripp old farm Silo 13 Ghost Barn traveling to Greenville, mS. 14 Ghosted 16

TrenT peCHon Waist 18 double Standard 20 Love Letter 22

Tanya Kramer fallen Stars 23 Jose rivera fluid indignation 24

amber silvers So? 25

C. J. love the raven and the Wolf 40

JessiCa berry Yankee in a Bottle 45 murder in a maize field 46

ColTon ray desert Stars 48

emily sTepHan Walk on a Winter morning 50

edmund JenKins haikuimagisme 53

CoNtriBUtorS

SUBmiSSioN GUideLiNeS

I.

I wish I could have beenat the beach that day.Not as your daughter, but as a stranger standing by. It would have looked so beautifulfrom far away, without the film of tearsclouding my eyes.

But there is life after death.

It takes not the shapeof angels, nor does it hauntmy unlit bedroom like a ghost,dressed in whatever clothesyou died in.

Instead, it enterslike a lightness and it settlesin my bones.

II.

Your music lives inside me, plays my veins with quickfingers, like awhorehouse piano man.

I float up through your pale hairlike morning dew ascends to meet the rising sun.

requiem for my fatherTayl a r l a n e

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

1

And your sadness makes its homein me, heavyas an anchorsinking through melike a stone.

III.

We spread between uslike a blanket distance, at what cost? So often we forget to search for what is not yet lost.

Before, if we had wantedto, we might have spannedthe gap.But now there lies between us lands and rivers,ever distant, whichno living soul can cross.

An army of the fatherless stretches further than my eyecan see; a flood of mourning daughters from the landscape carve deep valleys with their tears.

With one eye, do you see beyondthe moss of death to the vast desertsof Truth?

With the other,do you see me?

Does it bring you peace—that sweet lightning —when you behold, in my verdant fields, the weeds

13/14 - VOL 3

2

and flowers of yourself?

IV.

I received no invitationto your immolation,but I will carry in my heart the smokeof your memory and the ashesof what can never be, but might have been.

How sad it is to seethe dissolution ofa day.

How tragic that we fillour hearts with names that death can take away.

The ocean pulled youto it like the tideand left me lonely on the shore. I saw you, but only for a moment,as the great silence fell once more.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

3

Her name is Yggdrasil. Every year we’d go back and she was still there. Still majestic, still stately guarding the graves of my Eggún, shading their rest and offering them acorns. Listen to the wind in Yggdrasil’s leaves. Listen to the grass at the edge of her shade. Pay attention to softly singing elders.

There at Bayou des Glaise, their bodies nourishing Yggdrasil: my great-great-grandmother Mary Ethel; and then Thomas Andral Spurlock & Cornelia Claudia Rush; and then Thomas Jefferson Spurlock & Eliza Roberson Hunt.

Thomas Jefferson Spurlock,

A line straight from me to you thrice through the distaff side. Yours the oldest grave in the yard, crumbling a bit. Name and dates still clear. “Why are you on the other side,” I ask, thinking Yggdrasil wasn’t there yet when you transitioned. You planted her, Nannie tells me, but wanted to be on the west side of the church, to watch the sun sink low, lighting up the sky with pink and orange and memories.

For the longest this was all I knew of you: you came from Mississippi, where surely your father must rest in that unmarked spot between his wives; you planted a live oak that will likely outlive me, and you reveled in the setting sun like a poet whose words wouldn’t come.

Those things were enough, though: the land, the tree, and the setting sun. Enough to drive me deep into the dark recesses of history–your story, studied when mine had barely begun.

They call it genealogy:Webster traces it from Middle English to Anglo-French to Late Latin to Greek: The Strong’s on Pop’s desk says οικογένεια means family; γένος: race; οίκος: house, or world – “the race of my house,” “the race of the world.” World is house and all are family.

Ology means “the study of,” they say,but λογος means “word.”Words about my family, then;

haunted by a hermeneuticnaT e Hava r d Ha m m e T T

13/14 - VOL 3

4

words about my race.

***

I find you in the census, T.J., when that was still a strenuous exercise in scrolling through microfilm, seated in a quiet corner of the Louisiana Room, squinting to decipher antebel-lum longhand long out of style. A decade later it’s all indexed online and here’s something I never noticed in the microfilm cabinets: the slave rolls.

I can’t click at first. I collect my conscience, force myself to face the monitor’s glow. 1860: just a few years before the war. Only owners’ names show up. Slaves’ names weren’t worth writing down. An inventory of property, not people.

I’m hoping you’re not in there. But you are: twice.

You owned plantations on both sides of the bayou. Nannie never told me that. Spread between them, you owned over two hundred human beings. But I doubt you saw them that way.

Likely they were locked in chains when you paid their price.Surely with threats and whips you spurred them on… and on… and on. Until they dropped.

But there were always more: under foot, on the hip, in the belly.

Over a quarter of your two hundred were shy of their majority–if such a concept applies to chattel. They were cutting cane while still cutting teeth.

Like an arresting picture Langston painted on a page, like your namesake whose hands haunted Miss Hemings, how many of those little ones called you master aloud but father in their hearts?

One sixty-fourth of me comes from you, T.J. Enough that if you’d been American Indian, I would legally be one, too. Which sixty-fourth of me was you?

I love the land you loved; I cherish Yggdrasil as you did. I adore the brightly-colored memories of the sinking sun just like you did. Let those parts be the parts of me that

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

5

came from you.

But it’s not that simple.

“Who can own a tree?” the wise shaman asks. How could you have owned people?, I ask myself.I carry your sins around with me for five long years, haunted by the hermeneutic that you owned people. Over those years my relationship with the Eggún deepens and deepens. I find more graves, spread far afield. I visit the closest often, showing I remember with presence and offerings. I scatter flower petals and sprinkle rose water; I pour out oil of gladness over musty monu-ments, anointing them with love and blessings.

I offer songs: “To God Be the Glory” in Lafayette and “Amazing Grace” in Melville. I don’t know what those further back on Bayou des Glaise want to hear, but whatever I sing, they sing along in Yggdrasil’s rustling leaves. But I don’t sing on the west side. No offerings for you, T.J. No ring of salt to keep your spirit safe. I can’t help that Liza suffers this lack with you. I don’t know how complicit she was anyway.

***

And then I’m working at a do-good place, managing a food pantry. I’m working intake one day, calling names and asking questions. Personal, penetrating questions designed to make people feel miserable. I hide behind an excuse: the USDA requires those questions. Only shields me for so long and now I cry inside every time.

I get personal with every single body that walks through the door, four days a week until the food is gone: widows with walkers and dwindling pensions; disabled defenders who earned their disorders long before they were in the DSM. On pews the paupers await their pittance, for this do-good place had been a worship place.

A volunteer pulls files so I can go faster; everyone’s ready to register. I reach for the fifth file that day and my hand hovers in mid-air when I see the name: Hope Spurlock. She’s never been here before. I’d remember. My voice quakes as I call her name.

“That’s me,” says a young mother standing up and moving toward me. Her hair is braided tightly and bound in the back. Her blouse brings out hints of the purple tint in her dark, dark skin.

She’s got one child under foot, another on the hip,

13/14 - VOL 3

6

and another in the belly.

“Come on back, Ms. Spurlock,” I somehow remember to say. While she collects her chil-dren, I collect myself. By the time she takes a seat in my cubicle I’ve partitioned myself like its portable walls. Perky but professional on the outside; haunted by a hermeneutic within.

I fumble with the forms and ask my questions, embarrassed by an enterprise not mine. At the end of the interview I ask, “I know some Spurlocks. Are you from around here?”

“Born and raised right here in Baton Rouge,” she says, “but my folks are from Bayou des Glaise, over in Avoyelles.”

My heart is in my throat as I break all the case management rules and say, “Wow, what a coincidence. Those Spurlocks I know are from Avoyelles. In fact, they’re my family.”

“Really now? Well then we must be related. I’m related to all the Spurlocks on Bayou des Glaise.”

“All of them?” I ask.

“Mhmm, all of them,” she says with that inflection that Southerners of both colors use when we’re talking about race without talking about race.

That means she knows, I think to myself. She knows about T.J.’s two hundred, about the sins of my Eggún. Seconds later I realize: you are her Eggún, too.

This woman is as deep as the pools of her eyes. With the wisdom of centuries and uncanny knowledge of exactly what I need to hear, she leans over, touches my arm, and asks “May I call you ‘cuz’?”

***

Hope comes for groceries every month, laughing and loving despite desperation. Her children shoot up before my eyes, stair-stepper Spurlocks whose momma teaches them to call me “cuz.”

I’ve known her for a couple of months when one day Hope tells me, “You know, I didn’t think you were ready to hear this before now, but my daddy goes by Jeff—the short ver-sion of his middle name. And his daddy went by their first name—Thomas.”

“So all this time, you knew that ‘cuz’ was really true.”

“Sure did,” she says. “Who was T.J. to you?”

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

7

I have to sit down on the bench outside the food pantry and fan myself for a bit. She calls you T.J., just like me. I breathe deeply and reply, “he was my great-great-great-great-grandfather.”

“Five greats for me,” she says. “We call my brother Ocho.”

The genealogist in me is quick to calculate: “That means we’re fifth cousins once removed.”

“I like ‘cuz’ better,” she says.

“Me, too.”

For seven generations your dark descendants have borne your name. When Hope was as young as hers are now, her great-great-grandpa told stories of his great-grandma Maybelle. She claimed she was your favorite, T.J.

I know of your sins from a computer screen.They know from the mouths of their Eggún. Yet still call their sons by your name.

Hope and her family aren’t haunted by my hermeneutic: with a different interpretation, they remember the past but live for the future. The black Spurlocks can see the tomorrow Langston longed for, emerging from the history Miss Heming’s descendants demand we acknowledge, that they insist we move beyond.

***

I’ve known Hope for a year when I decide it’s time to visit you again, T.J. I arrive shortly before sunset, making oblations on the eastern side first. And now it’s your turn. In my bag are all the offerings I’ve held back from you for so long.

I honor the lives of Hope’s Eggún first, with two hundred and sixteen shiny pennies stacked atop your stone. The slave rolls told me your two plantations boasted twenty-four slave houses between them. Nine to a shack, so nine pennies to a pile.

Right away I hear Yggdrasil’s leaves rustling in the wind, from all the way on the other side. As pink begins to percolate above me, I circle you and Liza nine times with Grandma’s bell in hand, scattering petals. The sun is sinking fast and an orange aura fills the air. Kneeling at your feet I offer a song you might have heard Maybelle sing:

I sing “We Are Climbing Jacob’s Ladder,” and I wrestle with you no more.

13/14 - VOL 3

8

the way we ran around your house, giggling and screaming. Our mothers yelled at us to be careful as they sat on your front stoop talking, and watching. It was far too small to be called a porch, yet big enough for them both to sit comfortably. Your mom always had tea, and out of Mardi Gras cups were the only way to drink it. I can still remember its sweet smell as I tried not to drown myself in it.

I can’t believe I had forgotten until this moment

the way the New Orleans heat made our foreheads, noses, and upper lips bleed with sweat, while we sat on that stoop playing with your dolls. Your sister came by once to pluck the head off one, claiming its hair was nappy. Refusing to let her see your anger, you shoved them at her and said she can have them. I learned that from you.

I forgot until this moment

the way you sat there quietly and listened to me chat about the other kids you left behind at school, hoping to blend your tears with those beads of sweat. Your mother could no longer afford the tuition. My mother could barely manage either. And so I talked while I peeled away at the purple chipped paint of that stoop. Or was it blue? Once it got stuck under my nail. It did not hurt, just aggravated like a popcorn kernel stuck in your gums. You helped me get it out.

i forgot until this momentK . TH om as

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

9

dreams in the Big BlueCo dy WaT Ts

On days of no sprinklerCombing through her curls,No rain pouring in torrents from gutters, And no grass dew to nuzzle with her nose,She wonders how much more of this life must she bear.

The radiant glistening sunlight of her realm Has become a dulled reflection on the rusting kiddie-slide-jungle-gym combo.She misses the days of fish-in-paw, bird-in-mouth, and high treetops for a conqueror’s climb.

Now she’s not so quick n’ clever as the kitty she knew herself to be.Youthful prey elude her almost every day,And all the mountains were climbed countless times.

Oh, Backyard Mermaid,Losing the lust to swim.What days are these?Ruminations of old glories,Lacking optimism for further adventure?

She craves the light of night of that backyard aquarium,pulling her like the trancing buzz of bug zappers.

This little mermaid has swum her fair share.She makes pilgrimage to the luminous blue,Night after night,To lay down, and in lulling purr,Gaze inward at the next of her nine lives.

Old girl will swim again, Like those tantalizing colorful shinnies.

13/14 - VOL 3

10

the fox and the ChickenCo dy WaT Ts

Spiced up double chicken fingers between two toasted slabs delivered By some short compact cutie at the Mariner’s bar and grill.

“Can I get you anything else,” she says. Frankly, a big chicken sandwichAccompanied by fries and a tall-ass ice lemon waterIs all this moment needs to be.

I already handled your friend but a moment earlier.She was yummy, and creamy,And full of interesting things For my wide silver intent to scavenge from her deep unknowns.

Indeed, the shrimp and corn bisque was delicious,But now was the time to move in on the main course.

Proper preparation performs perfect practice — right?Leme’ dress this fucker up nice...Toss onions aside, lay the lettuce like a soft comforter upon stripped breasts,Then disperse the chip-chopped pickle circles across the green lettecian plains.

Almost there, baby,Cap her off with the other piece of warm texas-toast.Give the parcel a slow gently-assertive downward press...Now you’re there, now you’re ready, now you’re exactly how I want you when I decide to take you.

My fingers slither underneath. HandsEstablishing a solid sandwich-construction-supporting grip.Then the chicken takes flight, in route for my eager salivating cave.

Guiding airway lights flash in my brain As the poultry parcel slides in. Such width, yielding a tight fit.I dare not force you in — we’ll meet halfway.

My turn.

The fleshy flaps begin to squirm their way forward,In a manner comparable to the crawl of a caterpillar.Soon, my dark consumption receptacle has reached capacityAnd the time for a sharp divide has arrived.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

11

White razors close quickly like a guillotine across your neck.I’ve claimed your frontward chunk, and returned the wounded bodyTo the white porcelain stretcher.

I feel much like a zombie, feasting upon your flesh with such pleasure and content.A moment like this, with satisfaction at your dispense, can seem so selfish.

The entertainment of live music continues to play a short distance away.And I notice how you sit so helpless.

The first grind is complete, so I ease your descent with a sipOf that refreshing lemony water, and noticeThe condensation leaping to my lap.

It seems this cup is crying for you.

Surprised, I find myself fully satisfied after but a few more oral grabs of your loin.So I box-up for a finale of enjoyment later,And pay the lovely waitress for your service.

Don’t call me perverse. Don’t look at me as if abused.You act like it was not consensual, But there are two sides to this coin.

Flip the table, and see that you wanted to be eaten by me.You longed for attentions, and found a taker willing to give selfishly.

Such is the game we play.Taking from each other, and giving to each other.We are leeches and fruit-baring trees, Like lion and gazelle. The fox, and the chicken— Both the eater and the eaten.

13/14 - VOL 3

12

old farm Siloal e f f Gr i pp

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

13

Ghost Barn traveling to Greenville, mS.al e f f Gr i pp

13/14 - VOL 3

14

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

15

Ghostedal e f f Gr i pp

13/14 - VOL 3

16

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

17

WaistTr e n T pe CH o n

13/14 - VOL 3

18

48” x 48”

synTHeTiC polymer painT,

Coffee, THread, GrapHiTe

penCil, Gold leaf

on Canvas

2014

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

19

doUBLe StANdArdTr e n T pe CH o n

13/14 - VOL 3

20

2016

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

21

LoVe LetterTr e n T pe CH o n

synTHeTiC polymer painT, Canvas on paper

2015

13/14 - VOL 3

22

When the stars fell And landed In my eyesThey shone so brightAnd hurt so beautifullyAll I feltWas the painAll I could seeWas an unending Ever growing Golden light

Stardust filled my eyesAnd slithered Between the cracksOf meUntil it reached my soulAnd burned awayThe shatteredBroken partsUntil I was emptyAnd the burningNo longer hurtAnd nothing Mattered anymore

fallen StarsTa n ya Kr a m e r

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

23

Wasted in anger, life passes by like a rushing wave.It overwhelms the peaceful shores of tranquility.It clogs the wetlands with the muck and mire of contention.Water spouts of confusion and strife are born from its stormy malice.Swamps and bayous swell with its boggy wrath. Oceans, lakes and rivers rise in its unrelenting downfall.All great and small aquatic bodies overfill with its destructive desire.Anger born and not diminished in time will rage like a tidal wave,crashing against the beaches of life.

fluid indignationJos e r i v e r a

13/14 - VOL 3

24

Characters : stubborn, confused, lost-: sarcastic, opinionated, impatient*: sweet and a little ditzy, but by far the most laid back+: the rational adult of the situation

Girl on bare stage.At a crossroads.Looks at the four roads. As she slowly spins, three other versions of herself begin to appear.Each represents the road she might travel.They are nothing, at first.As the play progresses,they become what she might be.

: Hi.-: Hello. : Who are you?-: Does it matter? : I… (Pause.) I guess not.-: Of course it matters. : What?-: It matters to you, doesn’t it? : No…-: Yes it does. : No, it doesn’t.-: Oh yes it does. : What?-: If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t ask. : So…-: So you asked. : So?-: So it matters.

So?a m b e r s i lv e rs

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

25

: Okay. Who are you?-: Don’t know. : What do you mean you don’t know?-: I don’t know. : You don’t know who you are, or you don’t know what you mean about not knowing?-: (Shrugs.) : Whatever.(Beat.)-: You lost? : No…-: Then where you headed? : What do you care?-: Well, you look lost. : I’m not.-: Then where. are. you. going? : I. don’t. know.-: So, you’re lost. : I am not lost. -: Well, if you don’t know where you’re going… : Like you’re one to talk. You don’t even know who you are.-: Do you? : Know who you are? Of course not, if I knew I wouldn’t have asked you.-: No… : No what?-: No, not “do you know who I am?” Do you know who you are? : Of course I know where I am.-: I didn’t ask if you knew where you are; I asked if you know who you are. : What?-: You’re exhausting. : You’re exhausting.-: I asked if you know who you are. You said, “Of course I know where I am.” : Did not.*: Did too. : You shut up, no one asked you.

*: Didn’t have to. : You’re rude.

*: You’re rude. : I don’t butt into people’s conversations.

13/14 - VOL 3

26

*: That’s not the only way to be rude. : Who even asked you?-: I’ll ask you.*: (Chipper.) Thanks.-: So, how else can you be rude? : OH. MY. GOD. Can you two bitches please just shut up?-: Distracted? : No…

*: Yes she is.-: But from what? : Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I’m standing right here.

*: Well, you’re not being very friendly.-: She wasn’t before you got here either.*: Yeah?-: Yeah, I was asking her who she is, and she got very rude.*: Seems like a perfectly logical question to me. : What are you even talking about?!?! I asked you who you were, and you said you didn’t know.-: I don’t know. : (Exasperation.)

*: I don’t know either. : No one asked you.-: Don’t be rude. : (!!!)+: Does anyone really know who they are? : And there’s the existentialist. They always show up eventually.

*: You’re in a mood. : Everyone is always in a mood. It just changes.

*: Fine, you’re in a bad mood. : Whatever.-: So, why the mood? : What?-: Why the bad mood? : I’m not in a bad mood.

*: Your tone says you are. : Ya know, you keep talking, but I don’t recall anyone asking you the questions.

*: You are SO rude! : Then leave.

*: No.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

27

: Then clearly it doesn’t bother you that much.*: It does, I just can’t leave. : What do you mean you can’t leave?

*: Oh, am I being asked questions now? : Obviously…(Silence from all.) : So…

*: So what? : So why can’t you leave?

*: Because you haven’t gone anywhere. : (Frustration.) Are…are you saying where you go is based on what I do?

*: No… : Then why can’t you leave?

*: Because you haven’t chosen yet. : What the hell does that have to do with anything?

*: I go where you go. : What are you talking about? I don’t even know you!-: According to you, you don’t even know who you are, so how do you know you don’t know who she is? : What are you talking about? (Annoyed and confused.)-: Well, if you don’t know who you are, how do you know who you do and don’t know?+: She has a point. : Oh, so you’re a part of this now?+: I’ve always been a part of this. : You have not always been a part of this.-: How would you know? : I have been here the whole time. I know who has and hasn’t been a part of this from the start.

*: (Snide.) Obviously. : WHO. ARE. YOU?-: Don’t get mean with her. : Stay out of it.-: How can I? : How can you not?-: Easily. : Exactly.+: (Deep breath.) : What now?+: I just thought someone needed to take a breath.

13/14 - VOL 3

28

: Whatever.+: Seriously, might help if you tried it. : I don’t want to try it.+: Well then, what do you want? : What?+: What do you want? : I don’t know…(Shakes head.) what do you care?+: I care. : Why?+: Because. : Because why? You don’t even know me.+: Yes I do. : No you don’t.+: Sure I do. : How on earth can you know me when I don’t know you?-: Yeah, how on earth can you know her when she doesn’t even know herself? : What are you talking about?-: I’m talking about what you’re talking about. : Not even close.-: How do you know?+: Don’t start; that’s not helping.-: Nothing is helping.+: Nothing you’ve tried is helping.*: Exactly.+: Have you tried everything?(- and * are pensive.)-: No.*: I guess not.+: Okay then. : What’s going on?+: You tell us. : I have no idea what’s going on.

*: Well admitting it is the first step. : Shut up twit.+: Be nice. : Don’t tell me what to do.+: I’m not. : You just did.+: Okay…will you please be nice to everyone here?

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

29

: Why?+: It’s important. : Whatever.+: Is that a yes? : Yes.+: Good, now…(Deep soothing breath.)(Everyone takes a deep soothing breath.)+: What do you want? : Why are you asking me?+: Because. : (Eye roll.) Why don’t you ask them?+: They don’t know. : How do you know that?+: Trust me. : I don’t even know you.+: I can see why you think that. : Don’t do that.+: Do what? : That thing. That thing where you try to placate me.+: Okay.(Pause.) : So?+: So?-: So?*: So? : What now?+: Don’t know.- : Only you can answer that. : (Looks at all of them like they’re crazy.)

*: This is your crossroads. : (Dawning recognition.)-: I think she’s finally getting it.*: Looks like it.+: You okay? : No…Nope…Not at all.+: (Laugh.)*: (Laugh.)-: (Laugh.) : So, who are you?

13/14 - VOL 3

30

+: Who do you think we are? : I have no idea.+: None? : Well, this certainly seems like a creepy version of me talking to myself.

*: Kind of. : Kind of?-: We are, but we’re also not. : Huh?+: We are possibility.*: That’s not really true.+: I was breaking it down. : I’m not stupid.+: Didn’t say that.-: Totally did. : I agree.+: Do NOT start.*: Start what?+: You know what.-: No clue. : None.( , -, and * giggle.) : Seriously though.-: Seriously what? : What is all this?-: It’s nothing more or less than what you need it to be. : I don’t even know what that means.

*: Means…it means…well, yeah, it is kind of confusing.-: You’re not helping.*: Neither are you.+: Don’t start.-: Can’t stop.*: And we won’t stop. : We run things.-: Things don’t run we.*: Don’t take nothing from nobody.+: DO NOT DO THAT!( , -, and * laugh.)+: I see.-: What?

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

31

+: I see how this is going to be. Make me the bad guy.-: Bad guy?+: You know what I mean.-: You think we’re mocking you?*: (giggles)+: That’s exactly what you’re doing. : No we’re not.+: You don’t even know what you’re doing. : Ouch…

*: Harsh.-: Neither do you.+: Precisely, that’s why we’re here. : So?+: SO figure it out! : Figure what out?+: (Sigh.) : What?+: This is exactly why we can’t fool around.-: This is precisely why we should be fooling around. : (Confused.)

*: Can’t we do both?-: Sure.+: No. : Ugh!+: If we don’t get going we’ll never get anywhere.-: Such as?+: I don’t know.-: Neither do I. Neither does she. Nobody knows, so what does it matter?+: (Sigh.) It matters because we’ll never get there if we don’t get going. : Get where?

*: Don’t know yet. : Then why’s she so hot to get there?-: It’s not the there she wants to get to. : Then what does she want?

*: Don’t know. : Okay, don’t start this shit again. Seriously, what exactly is going on here?+: The long and short of it is you have a choice to make. : What choice?

13/14 - VOL 3

32

+: What were you deciding when we showed up?-: When I showed up. : Which way to go.

*: Precisely. : So?

*: So?+: So?-: So? : Which way do I go?-: Don’t know.*: Can’t know.+: Only you know. : Then what are all of you doing here? You just showed up to watch me make a choice?

*: To help you make a choice. : I don’t see you helping much.-: We’re trying.*: You haven’t really let us.: You haven’t even tried.+: We asked you what you wanted.-: And who you are.*: And where you wanted to go.-: You didn’t know. : I don’t know.+: That’s why we’re here. : So?-: So what? : I don’t know.

*: Don’t do that again. : Do what? You say you’re here to help, but I don’t see you helping. I told you I don’t know, so how are you supposed to help with that?

*: Not sure.-: Got anything in mind? : No.+: No idea how we might be able to help? : Yeah…+: What? : Tell me which way to go.

*: Can’t. : Why not?

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

33

+: Because we don’t know either.-: We only know what you know. : Then you don’t know a whole lot do ya?

*: Ugh (Unsure and second guessing what she knows.)-: We know more than you think. : Such as?-: I know you’re scared. : So?+: Know who you are. : Who am I then?-: Gotta figure that out for yourself. : Then what use are you?

*: We’re here to help. : How so? Asking me questions I don’t know the answer to? OR is it the part where you tell me I know the answer, I just haven’t figured it out yet. Maybe…maybe this is where you say that when I’m ready to know I’ll know. Fat lot of help y’all are.+: Don’t be like that. : Don’t tell me what to do.-: Thought you just wanted us to tell you what to do. : Thought you just said you couldn’t.-: Can’t. : Whatever.-: Seriously.+: It is a choice you have to make on your own. : Then why are you here?

*: Guidance? : Guidance?

*: Kind of like when you mull over if an outfit looks good. OHNOWAIT! It’s more like when you’re all dressed and junk and you’re trying to choose a perfume. You keep sniffing different ones while looking at your outfit in the mirror. That way you can see if that scent smells like that outfit looks. It’s like that. : You wanna break that down Freud?

*: Ha Ha. You’re choosing a perfume (Points down the paths.), and looking in the mirror (Points at +, *, and -.) at the outfit (Points at her.). : That sadly makes perfect sense.

*: See, smarter than you think. : You don’t think that’s self-serving?

*: How so? : Convincing me you’re smart is convincing yourself you’re smart.

13/14 - VOL 3

34

*: No, convincing you we are smart is convincing yourself that you’re smart. And yes, it’s completely self-serving, but so are survival instincts, and no one badmouths those when they’re getting you out of a sticky situation. : Is this a sticky situation?-: Well you’re stuck aren’t you? : Touché.+: So, what do you say we get us out of here? : Sure. So, which way do I go George?+: Ha Ha, that’s not how this works and you know it. : Yeah…so, how does this work?

*: Well, I guess that’s really up to you.+: What do you think would help you the most? : I have no idea.-: Well that’s a theme here.+: Don’t start.-: Well, we’re just going in circles here. Something’s gotta change. Clearly she doesn’t know what she wants, or even where to start. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. : True.+: That’s not helping.*: How so?+: Never helps to boost her ego.-: My ego is not boosted.+: That isn’t pride I see beaming off that face at being right?-: No. It’s hope for forward progression.+: Uh huh.-: Don’t you uh huh me you stuck up…*: Guys!(+ and - turn and look at *.)*: This isn’t getting us anywhere.-: Well none of it is getting us anywhere. : So, why don’t we start doing something that will get us all somewhere?(Glance of truce between +, -, and *.)*: So? : So?

*: What do we do? : I don’t know. You got any ideas?

*: Not really. : Well, this is getting us nowhere.

*: Sorry.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

35

: No, no, I’m not blaming you. I’m just trying to think.-: Thinking is what got you in this predicament in the first place. Perhaps you should try the inverse.+: Not thinking. This is your solution?-: Yeah.+: (Eye roll.)-: What?+: Nothing.-: Something.+: It’s just so typical of you.-: What is that supposed to mean?+: Exactly what it means.-: Use your words Doctor Spock, or are you at the point where even you don’t understand your psychobabble bullshit anymore?+: First of all, it’s not psychobabble bullshit. And secondly, it means that you typically vote for any route that involves leaving your brain behind.-: You calling me dumb?+: No.-: Saying I’m brainless?+: No.-: Certainly sounds like it. +: Look…-: Sounds like you think I’m just some brainless idiot who runs off and does whatever with whomever.+: Well…-: Well what?+: Well, I don’t think you’re brainless, but I think you like to run off with whoever, whenever, to wherever. You tend to go off half-cocked and get in trouble.-: Well you like to think your way into a problem.*: Guys, seriously, this isn’t…-: Helping? You know what Think (referring to +), maybe it is helping. Maybe this is JUST what she needs to make a choice. You said you have no idea who we are, right? : (Tentative.) Right…-: Well then, sounds to me like Magellan here needs a crash course in who exactly we are.+: Well...-: Oh no Zîzek, you don’t get to tell her who you are. None of us do. The only way she’s ever going to get to know us is through the eyes of each other. The lesser of the three evils right? Isn’t that the way we vote? Choose the lesser evil? Well, I say that’s how this should be done too.

13/14 - VOL 3

36

+: Oh brother.-: What, can’t handle the heat?+: Maybe it’s you who can’t handle the truth. -: Don’t throw Nicholson at me, you don’t even like movies.+: Oh right, no one can like movies because movies are your thing. Well then, have it your way. I’ll start. She is a movie addict. Can’t contain herself. She could fill a whole house with movies and still never feel satisfied.-: Oh, and I’m sure you have a plethora of psychological reasons why that is, so let me tell you about her. She’s so logical she can’t make her morning coffee without a fifteen minute debate with herself on whether or not it’s better to take the time to get up and ground the beans or if she needs to sleep…well just lay in bed really…sleep longer and use pre-ground. She weighs how it’s going to affect her day to have the two different kinds of coffee. She processes so much that she thinks about whether fresh ground will ultimately make her entire day better, or if she’d be happier with just lying there longer. : Lying there longer?-: She’s a morning person, so once she’s up, she’s up for the day. +: She can often go back to sleep after being up a bit.-: It’s never good sleep though.+: No, I never find it restful either.(Silence.) : And you? Who is going to tell me about you?

*: Well, I could just tell you about me. I’m probably the most upfront and unbiased about myself.-: True.+: True.-: She can’t help it really.+: She’s very honest.-: Sometimes it’s a problem.+: Because she can be a little harsh on herself when she thinks she’s at fault.-: Which is always.*: Not always.-: Ninety percent of the time.*: Nuh uh.+: Well, a good deal of the time.*: (Sheepish downward glance.)+: It’s not really a bad thing, she can just be a little harsh on herself when she doesn’t need to be.-: And ends up blaming herself for the mistakes others make.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

37

+: Which leads to self-loathing or self-doubt.-: Which leads to never standing up for herself. : So, she’s a push over?-: Not really, she just makes herself feel so bad for things, and she doesn’t think she has the right to stand up to anyone about anything. : Well, I don’t think I’m going with you then.

*: (Forlorn.) : No offense, but if I’m going to head down a path I need to be with someone who doesn’t beat themself up over everything.

*: I understand…-: I don’t think you get it dude. : Get what?+: It doesn’t matter which path you choose.-: We all go with you.*: We do?-: Yeah.+: We’re all one.*: We are?+: Yeah.-: Yeah.*: Then why are we fighting?-: That’s just what we do. : Why?+: It’s all part of having different facets to your personality.-: We’re always fighting to be on top.+: Even her.*: Me?-: Yeah you.*: (Quizzical.) : I’m confused too.-: Whenever you feel bad about something you’ve done, or will do, or whatever, she’s the most dominant facet.+: But if you didn’t have her…-: You’d be a douche. : Thanks.-: It’s the truth.+: Everyone has a version of her.-: It’s the part that thinks you’re never good enough.+: Well, it’s the part that keeps you humble.

13/14 - VOL 3

38

-: Whatever. : And you two?(+ and - quizzical.) : Does everyone also have a version of you two?-: Sure.+: No one is ever just one way. It’s why we change moods.*: And clothing styles?-: And jobs, and towns, and blah blah blah. It’s the reason for change dude. : I get it, thanks.-: You asked. : You started it.-: Technically, you started all this. : Whatever, I was just minding my own business.+: Which is really all of our business as well. : Whatever, I was just trying to make my next step.

*: Have you chosen yet? : How can I? -: How can you not? : I don’t have anything to choose according to you. If each of you is covering a path, and each of you goes with me no matter which way I go, how can I choose? -: Well, it’s not like you can go in all directions at once.*: That’d be cool.+: I worry about you.*: I didn’t mean like split herself into pieces…or maybe I did… : I am not splitting myself into pieces. I already feel divided enough just standing here.-: Well, you can’t stand here forever, so get a move on. : Fine.-: Fine.+: Fine.*: Fine…(Beat.)*: So, where are we going?

Lights out.End.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

39

The bright sunny meadow before them didn’t look like a battlefield. The bards said that battles took place in thick fog, or under sheets of rain, shaken from the sky by the flash and bang of Donar’s fury.

But here, strange and angry men clad head to foot in shining metals waved high the weapons of war across the flower-speckled field from Aiwins and his kin. Aiwins recalled playing in that field in his youth, picking berries in the thicket on the outskirts.

He set down his shield to adjust the thin leather cap on his head.

“Best pick that up, Scrawny One,” Wulthus said, shoving Aiwins like all the other men do.

“I was just...” Aiwins started.

“That flimsy piece of leather won’t stop a battle-axe, Sapling. For Woden’s sake, hold your shield like a man and try to look fierce.”

Aiwins gulped, trying to collect himself. He tried his best to imitate Wulthus, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. Wulthus stood like a great tree, bare to the waist, revealing muscle stout and rippling. His dark eyes twitched with energy and he shifted his weight back and forth. He held a shining axe in each hand, whereas Aiwins could hardly lift his flimsy sword. Wulthus had become a local hero since he had left the village to fight for the king three years ago. The poets occasionally brought back stories of his doings. Aiwins had even been working on one of his own.

Not that it mattered now. Aiwins was a dead-walker, placed at the front as fodder to weigh down the spears of the enemy, a human shield for those with more strength and skill. The only reason Wulthus stood next to him was because he had sworn sword-oaths to be the first in to battle, to fight naked of shield or armor, and to never retreat.

Aiwins shivered despite the heat of midday. He wasn’t sure if he was more scared of the enemy or of Wulthus. Whatever Wulthus had encountered in his years away, it transformed him into a beast painted deep red, beard bristling with twigs and bones, snarling at the strangers across the meadow. His blood flowed with Woden’s battle-fury, bestowed upon him before the sun rose by the priest-woman and her dark concoction.

Aiwins heard tell that once, after a battle, Wulthus saw a man keep a captured mail-coat instead of sacrificing it to the gods, as was proper. Wulthus cut his head off with one swing without saying a word. He would surely take none too kindly to Aiwins’s cowardice.

The two armies stood face to face, neither side moving. Each postured and yelled, but there a noticeable barrier of reluctance kept them apart. Death surely waited in the center of that green and yellow field.

Aiwins felt his knees growing weak and his eyes begin to cloud with tears. Two walls caged him into this killing field, each bristling with deadly spears and unforgiving killers. He didn’t know why he was here or why he had been forced to come. He just

the raven and the WolfC .J . lov e

13/14 - VOL 3

40

wanted to go home.

“Mark my words,” Wulthus boasted. “Today the grass will be stained red with the blood of our enemies!”

The men around him grunted and chuckled in affirmation. Aiwins wanted to vomit.

“Scrawny One!” Wulthus called with a laugh, “Don’t look so winter-sad! It is a great day to die, no?”

The men around him laughed raucously. Aiwins ignored him, just fighting to stay upright.

“Kinsman, I hear you are an aspiring bard. You want to sing of great epics, yes?”

“Yes, I do,” Aiwins said reluctantly. In truth, he already had the classic tales inscribed in his memory, and his voice rang strong in the mead-hall.

Wulthus nodded, “A noble trade, indeed. But a poet must master not only his words, but his sword as well. What use are his songs with no metal to back them up? How will you sing of great battles if you have never yourself fought? Release the sadness from your breast-coffer, Sapling. You are learning your craft as we speak.”

Aiwins looked at his feet. How can I sing if I am dead?

The war-drums began to beat. The movement built to a tipping point. The poets spoke often of this, when the men suddenly burst forth into combat, two sides colliding like waves in an ocean storm.

“Wulthus?” Aiwins whispered.

The berserker looked down at him with mild surprise, “Yes?”

“I am scared I will die here, Wulthus.”

Wulthus turned to face him, and Aiwins flinched, expecting a blow. Instead, he smiled. “You are a brave man to admit it. How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

Wulthus sighed, the smile gone from his face. “Aiwins,” he said, “you probably will die today.”

A sudden lump rose to his throat. A whimpering sob escaped from his lips.

“Mourn not for yourself, lad. It doesn’t matter when you die; how you face your death is most important. Fight bravely, and the Dísir will take your spirit to Walhalla.”

Aiwins sniffed and focused on the foreign soldiers in the distance. Their weapons and armor clearly exceeded the king’s meager force of fur-clad warriors. From amid the rolling ranks something arose; a vertical post loomed high in the air, with a simple horizontal crossbar. No standard or decoration, just two perpendicular pieces of wood.

But Wulthus seemed to blanch at the sight of it. He looked down at Aiwins and spoke rapidly, “Run fast - it will make you a harder target for arrows. Don’t worry about

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

41

killing a great number of them; just keep your shield-arm high, and stay close to me, kinsman.”

“Who are those men, Wulthus?”

The berserker simply smiled, “What does it matter? Soon they will be dead.”

The battle-horns bellowed.

“You are young, but a man all the same. Not too young to die, but far too old to be a coward.”

With that, Wulthus charged into the daylight, roaring in blood-rage as he went.

Aiwins swallowed resolutely, and as the great black mass of men surged forward, he allowed himself to be taken into the wave. He rushed forward, yelling with all of his being, leaving no room for fear or doubt amongst the screaming. Arrows whistled by, and men ran, yelled, died. He thought of what the poets might say of the boy, not a great or skilled warrior, but just a boy, who charged into certain death with no fear in his heart. As he imagined the hearth-fire-songs, his body filled with a warm elation, so that he smiled wide as his body plunged full-force into the rows of spears ahead.

Mark me now, ye children of Heimdall As I sing of your doom in our final battle I pray thee, Valfather, to give me the power To ignite with my words this world of tinder The Dísir delight when immortals shall die They come with their spears in screaming fury...

The rasping verses reached Aiwin’s ears and rang through his head; he opened his eyes, squinting into the red and purple light of the setting sun. He blinked several times, his eyelids and face sticky with blood. All around him he heard the cawing of ravens, the groans of the dying. The smell of fresh death filled his nostrils, and as he went to rise a fiery pain in his abdomen laid him flat; strange, dark colors swirled before his eyes, and as he writhed and groaned his searching hands found the wound in his lower stomach, a deep mar in his flesh where the enemy spear bit into him.

“By the gods!” Aiwins cried in shock, “They have killed me.”

“Aiwins... kinsman! Is that you, Scrawny One?”

The booming voice of Wulthus drifted over the piles of dead. His was the singing voice that had awoken Aiwins.

“I’m here, Wulthus!”

“Come to me, lad!”

“Where are you?” Aiwins gritted his teeth. Yelling made the wound scream in turn.

13/14 - VOL 3

42

“Follow the sound of my voice!” Wulthus’s call didn’t sound like the haughty boasting of the berserker before the battle.

“I... I can’t.”

“You must, lad. Follow my voice.”

And with that, Wulthus began to sing unsteadily. Aiwins recognized the Twilight of the Gods. With great effort, Aiwins lifted himself from the newly rotting mass, and followed the toneless but confident verses telling the tale of the end of the world. Aiwins limped slowly, each step sending jolts through his body. He held his abdomen as he stumbled over the fallen, trying to hold in his blood and vitals. All around him, men cried in glowing black pools, or lay still and broken. The ravens flew amongst them, and wolves prowled the edges of the slaughter. Soon they would feast with great delight upon the human carrion.

At last Aiwins drew close to the song, but what he saw sent him falling with more force than the pain ever could. He dropped onto his back beside Wulthus, who lay flat atop a huge pile of well-armored fallen men. Blood cascaded from the stumps of his shoulders where his arms had been that morning. He shook as he sang with wide glossy eyes, oblivious of Aiwins’s presence.

“Wulthus... by Donar’s beard...”

He stopped and turned his distant gaze towards the boy, “I have been slain, Aiwins.” He began to chuckle hollowly with rattling lungs. His abdomen pulsed with the laughter, and blood burst from a wound in his side with each heave.

“No... not you, Wulthus. You are supposed to be a champion.”

“I am Woden’s champion now, Aiwins. Are you hurt?”

Aiwins winced as he shifted his body towards Wulthus. “No, kinsman,” he said, “I am unharmed.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sapling. I hear it in your voice.”

A strained groan escaped from Aiwins’s mouth. Wulthus turned his head, his hazy eyes focusing for a brief moment.

“A gut wound,” Wulthus grunted, “a pity. That can take hours, even days, to kill you.”

The pain grew worse. Aiwins could hardly breathe. He tried to hold back, but he couldn’t; he began to weep.

“Be strong, kinsman,” Wulthus said, “This is the most important moment of your life. The choosers of the slain are among us. I can see them.”

The tears fled Aiwins as rapidly as the blood from his wound. He sobbed openly.

Wulthus spoke gravely, “The Dísir do not choose men who mourn for themselves. You must die with a song in your heart and a jest on your lips. Come, Aiwins. Soon we will join our shield-brothers in the blessed mead-hall. Sing with me and greet your death with honor.”

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

43

Wulthus resumed the song of Ragnarok. This was it. One final choice: to die alone, a crying child, or to join Wulthus and sing an epic to the damned, to face death with a grin.

Aiwins bit down a cry and walled off his heart to the pain. He began to sing. It helped ease his suffering. He imagined the gods in battle with the forces of destruction, the whole world swallowed in fire. He could see it now better than he ever could before. What a sight to behold.

The flame in the west died, and Wulthus fell silent. Aiwins continued. This was his chance, at last, to be the great bard he had dreamed of being for so long. He sang out strong to his audience of the dead. His voice rang loud and true to the edges of the meadow, to the wolves in the shadows, and the ravens perched overhead, waiting upon the bloody wooden cross.

13/14 - VOL 3

44

Yankee in a BottleJes s i C a be rry

I rub my feet gingerly on your doormat.

Synthetic “WELCOME” Fibers frisk between my toes.

I have sidewalk conversations With your outdoor, declawed cats, Fingers deciphering Satellites from spatial heaven.

I pick your weeds-- Nothing done out of charity, But out of idle, digressive thought.

I thread them like wheat Between my incisors, Blowing hard because it seems Like a Southern thing to do.

As if I could whistle Dandy, And it would only come out right Cutting through the wise hairs Of your overgrown lawn.

A half-empty pop container Underneath your porch Is my way of saying hi neighbor.

It’s something you won’t find Until moving day.

But my native marker is planted there.

Its contents Retained Obstinately

[ Bottleneck down.]

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

45

I am from Ellis IslandThe taste of potatoes a sensory memoryA relic of green, moss-bitten home

I am from a whiskey glass factoryAnd coal mines that led to the underworldAnd lingered in the lungsIn ear wax, and under the nails

I am from the seedsOf six different types of apples Grafted onto one tree

And I am from an Indian Holding an ear of corn to his breast in peace offering—

I am from a murder in a maize field

And from eyes so wickedly blueThat my grandmother would make pancake breakfastsFor my grandfather’s lovers

I am from a leading insult—Father’s first words to motherAbout her porch drawing of baby Christ’s headBeing too large for Mary’s hips

I am from wasps nests under a BroncoAnd a silver Cadillac whose seatsYou’d have to peel away from in summerLeaving a bit of skin on the upholstery

I am from an earlobe-martyr,A brother who made lizardsBite down like snap-on earringsWhen I forgot that I was small—

Scraping my laughter outWhen it stuck to its container like dried honey

murder in a maize fieldJes s i C a be rry

13/14 - VOL 3

46

I am from the bit of childhoodThat I canned and hid in dark placesUnder our tree houseFor safekeeping, and for losing

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

47

The stars above shone with an empty light. The fire had died off to embers that glowed with a sad and barely perceptible heat while the horses nearby muttered amongst themselves and dust swirled in the ghostly wind.

Rodney and Hatcher had been traveling west for what seemed like ages. Out in the wasteland of the desert with only the harsh sun for a friend, the artificiality of time had become more and more apparent until it ceased to exist. There was only the dust and the sun and the inevitable cycle between day and night.

Rodney had been slipping in and out of sleep for hours. Through bleary eyes, he thought he’d seen shapes on the horizon. Every night he laid out on the ground, the cold seeping up from the earth into his bones. He would sometimes feel as if the stars were pulling on him with some vague gravity or that the ground below him was slowly shifting and he would suddenly fall forever into the night sky. Some nights the stars felt close enough to touch, to call his own; yet other nights they seemed forbidding and mocked him with their distance. He felt like he could drift through time and space till he landed on the moon, until he realized that he would only be trading one desert for another. The dirt and the sand were everywhere – in his teeth, his clothes, his food.

He and his brother had been trekking across the desert to Calcutta, a big town on the river. Hatcher had gotten word that gold had appeared all around. People were blasting holes in mountains and skimming every backwoods creek and finding it. They’d said God was favoring them, and the churches were all packed full on Sundays now. Hatcher had figured they’d better hightail it over there before the miracles ran out and God stopped smiling, so they’d packed up, left town, and headed out. No money for a train ticket, and the only railroad was still far off from Calcutta anyways.

The beating sun had become a vampire, draining him of his sense of reality. How long had they been traveling? A week? Two weeks? A month? He wanted to wake Hatcher and ask him, but he didn’t. The idea of the city had grown in his mind to mythic proportions. To see another human being after so long would be a dream to him. He had grown to dread each coming night and shiver as he and his brother’s shadows grew longer and longer across the sand. The night brought out the demons and the crushing lonesomeness inside that seemed to bust like breakers in the ocean.

Rodney thought they had better make it soon. The food and drink was running out, and pretty soon they’d have have to resort to rationing it until it wasn’t worth drinking. No matter how many miles they covered, the horizon kept escaping, stretching out further and further like a maddening dream, like the stars that were never close enough to touch, forever out of reach. He longed for the day when Calcutta would appear and break the spell.

His brother turned over next to him. The gray light of dawn began to soak the sky, and the stars began to disappear like they always did.

Rodney felt as if he and Hatcher had been doomed to repeat this cycle for the rest of time, until their skin began to rot and their horses turned to bones underneath their saddles, until the stars themselves sizzled out one by one and the sun imploded.

desert StarsCo lTo n ray

13/14 - VOL 3

48

They would still be trudging ever onward toward the city of their imagination through the eternal night.

His brother stood up and stretched.It was time to get going again.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

49

Sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling of the greenhouse as the man finished buttoning his overcoat. His brown face was lined and weary for a fellow who had just turned 36. Never physically imposing, he had always been skinny and stood at five feet and six inches, but he possessed a boyish handsomeness, even in this weary condition. He pulled a pair of gloves from the coat’s pocket and slipped them over his fingers. They were made from leather and still in good condition. He could not say the same for the majority of his belongings, which were limited to yellowing paperbacks, patched-up clothes, and other crumbling necessities.

His dressing done, he strolled over to the place on the stone wall where his scarf hung upon a hook. After wrapping that about his neck, he felt as though he had forgotten something. He walked back to the dresser beside the mirror and retrieved the goggles and gas mask from the top, blowing a thin layer of dust from them. A rifle leaned against the bed in the corner, and he made sure to sling that over his shoulder.

His gaze wandered to the drooping plants which furnished the green house. Interesting, the way he and the plants depended upon one another for survival. They kept the air clean and he made sure they were fed, but judging by the way the leaves and flowers and vines were losing their vibrant hues, the man had a sinking feeling his own life would soon be in jeopardy as well.

There was only one way to make sure he’d live to see another empty year. And the man dreaded the solution.

***

The usual greeting: a dark gray early morning sky and a gust of frigid wind slicing across the exposed skin of his neck. The man kept his finger on the trigger of the rifle, the scars running parallel across his back suddenly aching as though they were torn open afresh.

Mutated beasts: an unfortunate side effect of the ending of the world as he had once known it.

The cold air was refreshing to the man; living in an artificially-heated greenhouse for weeks at a time could be intolerable. Such a shame breathing it in without a mask would lead to certain, agonizing death. He had seen one too many people perish writhing in the dirt, lungs inflamed and blood pouring down their chins as they suffocated to death. Shifting the position of the rifle on his back, he made his way through the edge of the woods. Twisted and blue-green trees stood tall on both sides. They created a winding path which would take him to his loathed destination. It would not take long to reach the beach and the precious plants which grew nearby. It had been three years since he had visited the beach.

Audrey had been with him then. The image of her dark braids and olive complexion resurfaced in his mind, bringing back that terrible, ancient ache that even the passage of time could not take the edge off of. He still had her gas mask locked away within one of the dresser drawers back home.

Had he loved her romantically? He had no idea. Audrey was beautiful with her full mouth and large dark green eyes, but if he had met her in the old world, any romance

Walk on a Winter morningem i ly sT e pH a n

13/14 - VOL 3

50

would have petered out after two coffee dates. He hated thinking about that. Those memories needed to stay pristine and sweet; they were all he had now, the same little scenes playing over and over again in his mind’s eye. He had no animal companion, had never seen another living person during his excursions. His voice would have been hoarse from underuse were it not for his occasional “conversations” with the plants in the greenhouse.

What good did it do now, to corrupt those times with such morbid speculation, when memories were the only things keeping him sane?

***

Like many of the animals and humans, the flora, fauna, and trees adapted to the great change as best they could. The mutation allowed them to live on, but the oxygen produced by them was no longer suitable for human life. The man’s scientific background allowed him to find a way to make certain plants nonlethal through alternate growing methods; within the confines of the greenhouse, he could exist free of the leathery stench of the gas mask. Near the beach grew some of the adaptable plants he used, but the man knew it would be a painful visit. The memories flooded back, invaded his mind, intense and vivid: the growls, the shrieks piercing the polluted air, pain searing across his back, Audrey horizontal with a sticky, scarlet halo about her head staining the sand, the large green eyes vacant— Bird calls echoed in the distance, wrenching him from his remembrances. It had been awhile since he heard any bird calls, years even. He quickly smothered the hope welling within his breast; there was little cause for that. Only birds, nothing to smile at. They were about as companionable as plants. The man kept on walking. Brown grass and withered leaves crunched beneath the man’s boots. The minutes were long and dull, dragging on and on and on. “Hey----, will y’come over here?” “What is it now, Audrey?” Her gloved hands rummaged through the ruins of the run-down house until she pulled out a thick binder. She opened it up and proudly revealed the contents. “An old thing of Pokémon cards! The cure for boredom. Know how to play?” He shook his head. “Never played with any of that shit as a kid.” “Really now? What the hell did you do?” “Believe it or not, I went outside and played with my brothers. Not every kid was so enamored with video game crap, baby.” “Damn, that’s some quasi-Amish shit there.”

She laughed clear and loud. Even when annoying as hell, she could make the man smile. “Well, I’m going to teach you how to play! I’m sick of the same old board games back at

the old homestead…” He stopped. Stopped remembering, stopped walking. Not alone— heavy breathing, the rustle of branches and leaves. All too familiar. Hair on end. Bumps along the arms. An unpleasant chill. The man knew what lurked behind him. He could practically hear the drool pooling on the ground from the fanged mouth. Pivoting on his booted heel, the man found himself the target of the large creature. The darkness of the early morning made it difficult to discern every detail, but he had enough experience to recall the coarse fur and light pink teeth, the beady eyes and long claws which had raked across his back.

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

51

The monster came to pounce, but the man rolled out of the way. Whipping the rifle off his shoulder, with great dexterity he took aim and pulled the trigger.

The creature howled as the bullet pierced its shoulder, dark blood matting against the fur. The man shivered; the cry seemed almost human. It brought back Audrey, her laughter, her screams, her desperate ragged breathing filtered through that damned mask. Blood. He could only smell blood, the red halo and those lifeless green eyes— In a burst of fury, the man screamed himself hoarse and took aim again, his sight misty. One shot to the skull. An explosion of blood and brains. Bird shrieks echoed in the distance. The eyes, so human-like, rolled up in the shaggy head, glassy and white.

Hands shaking, the man backed away and continued on, with as much serenity as he could muster.

***

Pink and gold crept into the gray sky by the time he made it to the beach. The light’s reflection overtook the water’s dark surface, turning it shades of rose and vermillion as it swept along the shore.

The man tossed the rifle to the ground and fell to his knees exhausted. He needed a rest for now; the plants could be gathered later. Too bad he could not wipe his eyes; tears had gathered at the bottom of his goggles. Sitting cross-legged upon the cold sand, he wondered if there was anyone else on the other side of this foaming monstrosity. Were he a decent navigator or seamen, he would have tried to find a way to cross it and find out. But for now, this was enough. He had not gone crazy yet. As the man laid himself out upon the damp sand, he felt the sun’s warmth spread all over his face like a friendly embrace. Breathing deeply within his mask, he closed his eyes, listening to each trembling inhalation and exhalation, ebbing in and out like uneasy waves upon the shore. “What a damned beautiful morning…”

13/14 - VOL 3

52

haikuimagismee dmu n d Je n K i n s

lifeis ahairbrushtoomany tinyplasticballshavebeensnappedoff

Manchac Review

13-1

4 - V

OL

3

53

NATE HARVARD HAMMETT is a graduate student, and he works in non-profit management in New Orleans.

KATRINA THOMAS is a graduate student preparing for a career in publishing, and she has been writing poetry for five years.

CODY WATTS recently graduated and he is training to be a professional life coach with the Center for Coaching Excellence.

TRENT PECHON is studying sculpture and working on a bachelor’s degree.

TANYA KRAMER is seeking a double degree in graphic design and multi-plat-form journalism.

C.J. LOVE recently graduated with a double major in history and creative writ-ing, and he teaches in St. Tammany Parish.

JESSICA BERRY recently received her bachelor’s degree in English, and she works as a freelance visual artist.

COLTON RAY is a senior English major with a concentration in creative writ-ing, and he is working on a novel and several short stories.

EMILY STEPHAN is a graduate student studying literature and film.

Taylar Lane, Aleff Gripp, Jose Rivera, Amber Silvers, and Edmund Jenkins also contributed to this volume of Manchac Review.

About Manchac ReviewManchac Review is Southeastern Louisiana University’s creative journal, published continually each semester as Manchac Review Online and every spring semester in traditional print format. Manchac Review Online is an interactive experience in-cluding fiction, poetry, drama, art, music/lyrics, and video shorts. Submissions are accepted year round. If an edition is already at press, accepted submissions will be held until the next edition’s publication. All submissions accepted online are con-sidered for publication in the prize print format at the end of each spring semester.

Upon submission, all works are subject to peer review, with individual editors or instructors representing each genre, for quality, content, originality, and creativity. Students whose written works are conditionally accepted may be required to meet with an editor to discuss necessary revisions prior to publication.

General Submission Guidelines:-- Students may submit as many works as they wish but not all may be accepted

for publication.

-- Multiple authors or artists working on an individual piece must each fill out separate forms.

-- Submissions may include, but are not limited to: short stories, novel excerpts, vignettes, flash fiction, poetry, plays, screenplays, monologues, musical composi-tions, lyrics, films and videos, photography (including photos of ceramics and sculptures), line art, and prints. Novels, novellas, book chapters, and reviews will not be accepted.

-- No work that has been previously published, distributed, or accepted for pub-lication or distribution elsewhere shall be eligible for publication in Manchac Review or Manchac Review Online.

-- All submission information and release authorization sections must be com-pleted in their entirety.

-- Work shall be submitted in the form of one hard copy and one electronic copy on a CD, DVD, or e-mail attachment, sent to the proper party (see the appro-priate submission form for the specific address).

-- Printed word materials should adhere to a 12-point, readable font and be dou-ble-spaced (unless artistic or structural needs call for otherwise).

-- A copy of the code is available in the Writing Center (DVIC 210) and on-line at: http://www.selu.edu/admin/stu_affairs/handbook/2007/2007_files/2007_74_127.pdf.

Please email any questions to MANCHACREVIEW@selu.edu.