Manitou

Editors
Lizzy Bauserman
Margaret Clark
Krista Grendze
Abby Rangaswami
Iona Wagner
Sierra Witham

Faculty Advisor
Chuck Wagner

Art Advisor
Joe Cancilla

Technical Advisor
J.D. Ferries-Rowe

Layout and Publication
Claire Roudebush



Table of Contents
Poetry
Daughter to Father by Sierra Witham 4
Window by Kristie Legue 6
The Dancer by Abby Rangaswami 7
The Morning After by Kaitlyn DeVeydt 9
Dancing Birds by Krista Grendze 11
The Figure Five by Margaret Clark 12
The Four Seasons by Elise Shea 14
We Linger in Dusk by Lizzy Bauserman 15
Snake Ceiling by Sierra Witham 18
India by Abby Rangaswami 20
A Mothers Impression by Margaret Clark 22
China Painting by Iona Wagner 24
Caught by Elise Shea 26
The Doll House by Iona Wagner 27
Medusa by Krista Grendze 29
The Doll by Kaitlyn DeVeydt 31
Self-Portrait by Lizzy Bauserman 32
The Vagrant by Kaitlyn DeVeydt 34
Cookout in Arcadia, IN by Sierra Witham 36
The Hostess by Kristie Legue 37
The Garbage Man by Margaret Clark 39
The Corner Clarinetist by Iona Wagner 40

The Amputee by Elise Shea 42
Prose
Perfect Sky by Iona Wagner 44
Mrs. Scott by Margaret Clark 49
Daisies by Krista Grendze 52
Polished by Sierra Witham 55
A Friday Night by Abby Rangaswami 61
The Lot by Lizzy Bauserman 65
Artwork
Hippie Skull by Gabby Torres Cover
Skeleton and Nature by Betsy Bennett 3
Nevermore by Claire Culbert 10
We Will Become Sillhouettes by Megan Howell 17
Aztec Art by Pablo Garcia de Quevedo 30
American Horror Story by Kallen Ruston 35
Man in Blue by Margaret Clark 41
No-Mans-Land by Margaret Clark 43
Aurora by Gemma Baugh 48
Fitzpleasure by Megan Howell 60
The Photographer by Kurt Barbara 69
3


Betsey Bennett

P
O
E
T
R
4


Daughter to Father
Inspired by This Will Destroy Yous Quiet

Your eyes stab me
as you search for
the girl who once
stared with adoration
while your chubby thumb
plucked a bass string
of a beige guitar,
the girl who once
skimmed the scales
of salmon you caught
on starless June nights
with the back of her
index finger, the finger
I now point at your chest.

If the accusations could crawl
past my itching throat,
they would shout that I am not
a reminder of your ex-wife
and the way her head tilted
back when she laughed
at your smutty stories,
the way her big toe dabbed
the skin of the calm Atlantic
while you spectated from
the shade of a dock, your ears
cuffed with headphones,
your mouth lip-syncing the lyrics of
another REO Speedwagon song.

I am not a passenger to ride
5

shotgun in your stuffy truck,
my peewee picture affixed
to the dashboard so it lingers
over the flickering digital clock.
And I am not a topic of conversation
at a small-town coffee shop,
not bragging material for the boys
between sips of lukewarm decaf.

Sierra Witham

6

Window
Inspired by Someone Like You by Adele

Drops of water blur my sight as I watch
through my cracked kitchen window, where once
I observed my daughters jumping from puddle to puddle,
splashing each other in their pink floral boots
and slick yellow rainsuits as they screamed with joy.

Ive seen them sprinting with neighborhood friends,
collapsing with laughter and then chasing each other,
as though the day would never end.

They kept running, farther and farther away
until I could no longer see them,
but, today, they walk towards me, dressed
in pearls and silk blouses. I watch
as they strut with a husband on one arm
and a child on the other.

Kristie Legue


7

The Dancer
Inspired by Renoirs The Dancer

Delicate rose satin
snakes up my thick ankles,
providing support
for swollen feet.

Voluptuous tulle gathered
and cinched with a cerulean ribbon
fashions a bouquet floating
around my plump waist,
and instantly, I am graced with
the body of a dancer.

Powdered with layers of
makeup, my face glows
with a clear complexion.

Sweeping my untamed bushel
into a tight bun, I secure a bow
at the crown, exposing my now sculpted
shoulders.

Contorting my svelte figure to the side, I
prop my head and curve my back,
a posture imparting poise.

My mind, cluttered with personal
critique, reminds me to hold the handkerchief
as if I were too weak to lift a finger.




8

Drained from the
struggle for still perfection,
I try to conceal the exhausted stare that betrays
my discomfort until the camera snaps
for the finale, and a sense of relief rolls over me.

Abby Rangaswami


9

The Morning After

Envy clutches my chest as the rays tangle
around your body. I pull you into me and out
of the lights reach, the apartment darkening
as I draw your pomegranate lips into mine. Suddenly,
the wind twirls your hair, brushing it from your face. Heat
surges within me, and I fly from our bed to shut the window,
but the wind bangs on the glass, begging for your glance.
As I slide back into bed, your eyes flutter open, the colored
rings ensnare me. Your hands push against my chest, struggling
to break free from the sheets grip. Your foot collides
with the cold touch of the wood floor, and you slide the window
open. As you bathe in the light of day, your mouth
curves into a smile. I watch the wind lead you back
to bed, the sun encircling your face as you near me.
Our noses graze, and the warmth of your breath softens
my skin. I melt into you, our bodies intertwining
into imperfect shapes, that fit like puzzle pieces.

Kaitlyn DeVeydt

10


Claire Culbert

11

Dancing Birds
Inspired by Degass Dance Class at the Opera

We stretch our legs into wings
that will fly us across the room
in our skirts made of clouds
rather than chiffon, and
with annoyance, we watch
the fluttering of a few stray hairs
moving in the breeze created by
the dancers who glide across the floor.
We gather around the lone violinist
and our teacher who shouts
out the next move, a pirouette or arabesque,
that we must execute in a split second.

Our instructor reminds us
that this training will decide
if we fly or flounder,
for training at the opera
is only for birds of grace,
and dancers who have the making of swans,
can easily become sparrows
with clipped wings from a single mistake.

Krista Grendze

12

The Figure Five
Inspired by the painting I Saw The Figure 5 In Gold by Charles Demuth

I see the figure 5 approach,
that unattached
snippet of sequence
that haunts my
sleep and tolls
the time of my waking,
set in the blue hues of
candy wrappers
crunched beneath
the balls of feet.

5s shift gruffly under
the stinging glare
of the streets
numbered lamps.
They squirm and
jostle in never ceasing
movement.
But I stop,
paralyzed by the
uncertainty of my own direction,
stock-still
on the painted asphalt.

On which detail
of this street,
the indefatigable clamor
of this nocturnal cityscape,
should I fix my eyes?
What purpose does this
scene obscure to me
where one hint of
13

significance hides
night after night?

The figure 5 approaches
and takes me
where I stand,
as wavering
in dreaming as in waking.

Margaret Clark


14

The Four Seasons
Inspired by Antonio Vivaldis violin concertos

The violinists finale infuses
the calm air with quivering chords.
Im floating on spring melodies
as we snap photographs, ignoring
the staccato click-claps of my mothers
heels, too sporadic to keep
time with the echoing song.

The Tuesday evenings summer glow settles
softly on the gothic ridges of Saint Chapelle.
Guards mutter directions as we saunter
through the courtyard, drunk
on presto rain droplets.

Three policemen in heavy black
garb, loom ahead, leaning on gold gates. I turn
to catch my last glimpse of red, fading orange,
stained-glass windows. Impatient,
the men shift their guns, as we drag
our feet under the arch.

Forced onto the commoners gray
concrete, cold vibrations seep
through my black strapped sandals.
While the sun cowers behind
groomed trees, we cross the vacant
street, sobered and silent.

Elise Shea

15

We Linger in Dusk

Sailing from my outstretched hand,
the scarred, dirty disk lands safely within his grasp.
I watch, amazed, as he effortlessly snatches it from the air,
flips it over, and arcs it across the yard.

He towers above me
with foreign maturity
and certainty in every motion.

Captivated by his dexterity, I misplace my attention
as the oncoming disk hurtles toward my face.
The white blur catches my eye, and I throw
up my hands, flinching backwards.

Cheeks burning, I turn to retrieve the discarded plastic,
lingering to give myself time to recover. Straightening again,
I flip it too far to the right of my partner,
who catches it anyway.

Sweat clings to the tussles of hair just above our necks,
yet the warmth seeps from our bare arms,
drawn away with the suns coming eclipse at the horizon.

In reverence we observe the quiet,
staring each other down,
and our mothers voice slices our world,
warning us of our impending curfew.






16

At last we retreat, chased away by
mosquitos and the late anthem of cicadas,
but neither one of us dares to break the spell
cast upon the yard by dusk and the death of day.

Lizzy Bauserman

17


Megan Howell
18

Snake Ceiling
On May twelfth of 2008, an earthquake in Chinas Sichuan province caused
approximately 900,000 deaths. An estimated 5,000 of these deaths consisted of
children who were victimized by shoddily built schools. Responding to government
officials refusal to release information on the tragedy, artist Ai Weiwei created a
serpentine sculpture composed exclusively of backpacks to commemorate the
deceased schoolchildren. This poem was inspired by Ai Weiweis Snake Ceiling
sculpture.

The backpacks coil around the ceiling,
clinging to each other like a toddler gripped
his mothers leg on the first day of school.

His scrawny limbs and quivering lips
pleaded for her to stay and shield him from
the teacher with no crinkles around her eyes,
the stocky boys who craved more than the rice
in their paper sacks, and the shock that
trapped him between crimson stained splinters.

Beneath the lights of this museum, his backpack
hovers adjacent to the bag of an architects
daughter, its nametag tucked into a front pocket.

She roamed the smoggy streets in her favorite
yellow dress, dreaming of the day shed
squeeze into a silky, red qipao,
the day her father would clench his teeth
as he interlocked his arm with hers.






19



And despite the echoes of screams
that never escape their eardrums,
despite the quake that shattered
their district, their family, and their future,
the parents find comfort in knowing
this snakes skin will never shed.

Sierra Witham

20

India

Sleeping peacefully
constrained in a car seat,
I awaken to my fathers
announcement of our arrival.

Less than thrilled to be in
the land of mint juleps
and horse races, I stumble
from the car onto the steep driveway.

There they are, fastened
like flowerboxes to the front steps
at the top of the hill.

My Avva,
arrayed in a tattered rose cardigan
and adorned with lavish gold chains,
greets me with a gentle embrace. My
Tha- Tha, stern and rigid, refuses
any show of unseemly emotion.

As I drift toward
the kitchen, I am overcome
with the familiar scents
of cumin, chili, and coriander.

A scarred cherry
table displays
a plethora of
comfort food: plump
idli, tangy tomato chutney,
and buttery crisp
dosa.
21


I wait for Tha- Tha
to recite the prayer
for our last supper.

The Hindu words, so familiar,
run through my mind,
the perfect soundtrack to this
occasion. I absorb the essence
of every scent and sound in the hush
of the final words: Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.

Abby Rangaswami

22

A Mothers Impression

As we sat, calves crossed
and fists knotted under our chins,
my mother turned each glossy page
of the book of art,
The Masterpieces
of the Impressionists.

She took her time, her thumb
and fingertip squeaking as she rubbed
the corner of the page,
laying each work to rest,
when we understood
that thin, flitting strokes created
a jumbled poppy field,
that only deep
golden mustard could color
a cathedrals face in early afternoon,
and that shadows of purple and navy
best suited its complexion at night fall.

It was easy to be caught up in these
blurred party scenes made romantic
as the artists eyes panned their surroundings,
preserving the moment in color.

As we carefully cut out our choices,
my eyes explored the mood,
the brushstrokes, the importance
of the wind in the womans
petticoats as she stood gazing
from the hill, about to turn
to answer her son,
or the way that Cassatts girl
23

sprawled in the big blue chair, legs spread
and back slouched,
like I did, when no one was there
to reprimand, and I jotted down
the moment in words on blue lines.

Later I would grow enamored
with the patterned waves of Van Goghs
brush, then the buzzing typeface
of a novel. But I still remember
those first paintings. The amber
fields, the summer hats,
and the delicate dancing feet.

Margaret Clark

24

China Painting
Inspired by Renoirs Portrait of Mademoiselle Irne Cahen dAnvers

I watch as Maman teaches
little Elizabeth how to paint in pastel
shades on china teacups
near the neatly trimmed boxwood
hedges that line the back garden:

hedges planted by my grandfather
a stout Jewish man with an affinity
for asters and hydrangeas. But that was
before Father opened the bank
and the Cahen dAnvers became rich,
when my days were filled with lively jaunts
in the Parc Monceau, and I wasnt forced
to sit for portraits on our manicured lawn.

If Maman wasnt so preoccupied with Elizabeth,
shed be cross with me.
The corner of my left cheek feels
burnt from afternoon sun
shining through the leaves of the Linden tree
that only shade my long red hair
and pale blue bow.

My white stockings are stained
from the cool grass,
and I tuck my legs under my petticoats
as Maman hands me a blank teacup.





25

I stain it with the dark green of hedges,
the light purple of asters,
the pale blue of hydrangeas.

Iona Wagner

26

Caught

Her hand twists the brass
doorknob, igniting a flame
under her chest, bubbles
of adrenalin pop in her skull.
The door is never unlocked.

The stench of soggy orange chicken
clenches her throat as she creeps inside.
Frenzied eyes scan black granite
countertops covered in egg roll wrappers
and scour the kitchen for one hint
of familiarity before settling
on their engagement photograph.

Her stare twitches. Two flimsy
papers rest against the frame: fortunes.
As red flares beneath her freckled cheeks,
she slinks past the bottle of merlot perched
on the Steinway, following the red polo,
silk panties, dark wash jeans.

She pauses outside the bedroom doorway,
an inhalation of pleasant memories,
cut short. Swinging the door inward, she exhales
and watches as shock pales his face, his hands
smoothing the wrinkles of his wool sweater,
while laundry overflows
onto rose patterned sheets.

He tests two steps forward,
offering the half glass of wine.

Elise Shea
27

The Doll House

Three thirty.
In this quiet bedroom, a woman
watches with a tight smile
as wool twists around a wooden wheel
like the corn snake on her garden trellis
hidden amongst indigo morning glories
and trumpet vine.

Two twenty-five.
In the music room,
the daughters brunette brow furrows
while her fingers waltz across an ebony
fingerboard. She sways gently, and the cello
glides with her
as the melody shifts
to an elegy
she dedicates to the olive shag carpet,
withered under the weight of stringed instruments and
her black slippers.

Five forty.
The family prays around a dark cherry table
while, above them, a golden chandelier casts
yellow light that wraps around their heads
like a halo.

This is a dream house
outfitted with a childs train set,
three pianos,
and a spinning wheel.
After ten years of meticulous work,
nothing is overlooked.

28

But
the family was never there,
and each clock
has stopped at a different time.

Iona Wagner

29

Medusa

All I hear is the smooth
gliding of scales
against skin,
squirming knots
that will never untangle.

The tears I try to repress
roll down my cheeks
and turn to
pebbles, cold and hard
as my gaze that petrifies
even the most innocent
to lumps of granite and marble.

Do they know I was
alive and human as they
before proud
Athena and her watchful owl
cast me down for the
most forgivable of sins?
I was not to blame
for the sea gods lust.
What do those heroes know of wisdom,
if their own supposed patron,
cannot wield power properly?

Krista Grendze

30


Pablo Garcia de Quevedo


31

The Doll

Shimmering remains of blush coat
the creases of my fingers. A dolls
reflection peers back at me. I watch her
paint a pink grin on white-washed
skin, her marbled eyes encircled
by prickly black lashes. Ugly,

Worthless, Nobody sneer
the beauties that pass me,
their plastic hardening with every meal
skipped or purged, and every strand straightened.

A current of tears
corrodes my painted skin, and when I peer
at the mirror, I see the dolls
porcelain face melting like wax.

Kaitlyn DeVeydt

32

Self Portrait
Inspired by Frida Kahlos painting, The Frame

The crossover of color
is a welcome flaw;
I know no boundaries
as I paint the worlds beauty
to adorn my own.

Nature has its pinks, its radiant
reds and golds, all coming to life
in the exotic plumage of birds,
the loud petals of lush flowers.

My magnificence lies in my blood-blushed
cheeks, my striking black brow.
My cheekbones, sculpted and distinct,
give pause to sudden glances,
a forced consideration of my greatness.

My brush lingers only on the frame.
I know my beauty;
it is static, perpetual.
No one knows the beauty of nature,
always shifting, impressionable.

I am resilient, dependable;
no rain can dampen my color,
no wind bend my stalk.
I never migrate;
my form is my temple.




33

As others find strength in my form,
I, too, build my memory
from water and dye.
Despite my portraits early perfection,
strokes of a flower appear in my hair,
garnish my figure.
Fanciful shapes cannot rival my face;
I add them in mockery of their nature,
a celebration of my liberation.

Lizzy Bauserman

34

The Vagrant

Coins clunking and clanking mock
me, worthless chump change rubbed
between fat pasty fingers. They
smooth down black tailored suits and throw
spare pieces of metal at my shoeless feet.
My last quarter, they scoff,
yanking out the cross chain from under
their dark button-up. Good men

echoes around them, and I snatch
up these discarded tokens. The light
reflecting off Washingtons nose almost
warms my sunken cheeks. I press
the coin to my lips and for a moment,
let the wealth seep into my skin.

Kaitlyn DeVeydt

35


Kallen Ruston
36

Cookout in Arcadia, IN

The September breeze skims
my arms as I saunter toward
a camo lawn chair, one of twelve
scattered around the fire pit.

Warmed by sunlight seeping
between branches of a coffee nut tree,
I catch chatter of high school
football over the locusts song
until my sister says grace:
God bless the holy ghost;
whoever eats the fastest gets the most.

But we linger in our places,
some smirking at those stuck in the
wrath of smoke as coral cumulus
clouds accompany the sun
to the soybean field horizon.

The first to fill their plastic plates,
my cousins chomp on ribs
like savages while I revel in red
potatoes and roasted carrots.
A neighbors mutt begs for scraps,
and, after a couple cans of cold beer,
Pappy decides his chocolate eyes
merit more than a few bones.

I ask Pappy, Do you have a recycling bin?
He retorts, Yeah, its called fire.
We banter until the light is not sufficient
to make out the proud red on our necks.

Sierra Witham
37

The Hostess

Hurrying towards the door, I greet
a middle-aged couple on their Wednesday
evening date.

I escort them to a small faux-leather booth
and place laminated menus and folded linens
on the table, telling
them to enjoy their dinner before
I walk away to sit until Im needed.

Customers trickle in as I listen
to the bus boys complaints
of children who drop
more French fries and chicken fingers
onto the carpet than into their mouths.

Uninterested, I look around,
imagining each customers story.

The old man at the bar dreams
of the day his beloved
will beat breast cancer
and return home.

The couple in the booth, once smitten,
now hold their marriage by a thread, struggling
to figure each other out.

But, my favorites are the women at the bar
who meet every day for drinks.
They lounge around all day,
relying on their husbands hard earned money,
and when not at home, they rendezvous
with friends just like them.

38

They schmooze over new Jimmy Choos and
Prada handbags. After a couple
glasses of wine, their laugher echoes throughout
the cozy restaurant as they gossip to the owner
about their perfect lives.

I dream of the day when Ill be at a local restaurant,
wondering what the young hostesses will make of me.
What will my story be?

But my thoughts are cut short
by the creak of the door
as a new couple emerges
from the bitter cold.

Kristie Legue

39

The Garbage Man

Malodorous fumes slither
between the slits in
the loose metal plating. They fill
the soles of my black buckled
boots and stew in the threads
of my overcast clothing.
My bones jolt and snap back
and forth to the rhythm
of this metal mammoths romp
down the alleyway.

The angled rubber treads
rumble in creaking succession,
sinking into potholes
and lumbering over
asphalt mounds.

I dismount and heave
the stretched
black plastic sacs
into the trucks cavernous
throat adding to this
jumbled bowl of leftovers.
Back hatch closed,
the beast gurgles and
growls through
cartons of clotted milk
and heaps of junk mail,
the greedily devoured debris
of breakfast.

Margaret Clark

40

The Corner Clarinetist

That boy with the trumpet shouldnt play
West End Bluesnot like that.
His pale blue shirt is too well-ironed,
and no jazz player can get enough
air with a collar that stiff.

My hands wind around the dull silver keys
of my clarinet. Its slim black body has
aged better than mine, and I smile as I touch
my lips to a dry reed.

That boy on the corner doesnt know
a thing about the blues. Either you grin
or you dont; melancholy cant
show in anything but your eyes and your music.

Im playing along with him, but hes too
busy puffing his cheeks like Dizzy Gillespie to notice.
As he tries to muddy the clarinet solo, too, I step
towards him, taking over verse.

When he finally sees me, the sharp tone
of his shined trumpet stops. His dark eyes
reflect the morning sun like new 33s, and,
with shaking hands, he lowers the instrument
to his side and smiles.

Iona Wagner

41


Margaret Clark


42

The Amputee

The doorframe supports
a teetering crutch. A foot
hops away, each print darker
with heat that clings
to the pale, wood floor.

Rooted in the center, she stands
on a calloused foot. Frizzy,
auburn hair struggles against
the claws of her bun. A white
hospital bracelet encircles
her withered wrist, brushing
the knot of jean below her hip.

Dust specks dance
in the single ray slipping
through the cracked window.
Her cold fingers rise to twirl
in the sparkles, and she feels her leg
lift into an arabesque: calf tight,
knee locked, toes pointed. The corners
of her lips curve, cracking the statuesque
face. Warmth rouges her marble
cheeks, but with a swish,

the untied knot drops
and the weightless leg crashes
onto the spring floor. Fingers fall
limp. The light shifts, a spotlight
on the singular steel crutch.

Elise Shea

43


Margaret Clark

P
r
o
s
44

Perfect Sky

From the time shed met him, shed loved him. At her grandparents summer
home in the South, Alice distinctly remembered running through the brown grasses
just past the back garden of the estate, stalks towering above her forehead like thin,
tanned fingers reaching for the skyline, pulling at the blueness that stretched
indefinitely past the horizon. She also spent most of those summers lying on the dirt
(much to her mothers chagrin) and examining that blissfully perfect sky that never
greyed, never faded. It was every bit as vibrant as her mothers favorite indigo dress
and every bit as durable as her woolen winter coat. It was imaginative and bright but
reliable too. And, that perfect sky was Jean Bonfils.
He loved impressionist painting just as she did, loved Debussy and Satie just
as she did, and wrote novels in his spare hours, just as she did. His personality
outshined hers in charm and kindness, and his eternal optimism was something
admirable. But, just as he was artistic and gentle, so was he intellectual and level-
headed. He was well-read in philosophy and mathematics, and he debated
magnificently. Predictably, he was one of the most sought after lawyers in Paristhat
was how theyd formally met.
Her sisters husband had died young of a very sudden illness, and, blinded
with grief, Brigittes mother-in-law had suspected foul play. Jean had met with the
two sisters in his second-floor office and seemed to understand the complexity of the
case with only a few words from Brigitte, who was endlessly dabbing at the corner of
her eyes with a rose-patterned handkerchief, trying, and failing miserably, to avoid
the lace border. After the meeting had ended and Brigitte had left for her
apartment, Jean invited Alice to a caf for tea.
They sat at petite wooden chairs facing the road. She reached over to put her
green tea down on the table that separated the two.
Thank you, again, for helping Brigitte, she murmured, slightly readjusting
the small bouquet of violets shed pinned to the brim of her hat.
He nodded. Youre most welcome. To be frank, its a fairly simple case.
She has a very clear alibi. That sort of business with her mother-in-law is
unfortunate though. Its sad to see family turn upon each other, especially in grief.
Alice smiled slightly. I know. Im sure as soon as everythings sorted out,
old Madame Jenolan will forgive my sister. Shes just very sad, you know.
Yes, of course. He turned his face towards the quiet road.
Alice nibbled on a chocolate macaroon. Well, I suppose.
I wasoh, I beg your pardon; I didnt mean to interrupt.
45

She tried not to blush as she looked down at her lavender skirt. Oh, its all
right. I didnt have anything to say really.
If you say soI was just going to ask what brought you to Paris.
Alice raised her head and met Jeans hazel eyes. My parents own an
apartment near the Seine, and they said I could stay whenever I liked once Id
turned eighteen. And, Im twenty this next month, so, um . . . how exactly did you
know that Ive just come to Paris?
He smiled. Ive only left the boundaries of Paris twice in my life. As great in
size as this marvelous city is, Id have seen you at some point. And, if youll forgive
any impropriety, I dont often forget faces as lovely as yours.
She knew her face was quickly becoming an alarming shade of red, but she
forced herself to maintain eye contact. Im flattered.
Your mannerit reminds me of a song by Debussy, he added before taking
a small sip of citrus tea.
The tension between the two seemed to ease, and Alice found herself
laughing lightly, A song? How so?
Are you familiar with The Girl with the Flaxen Hair?
She nodded.
Im glad. Well, obviously your hair is blond in color, but, as I said, its your
manner, really. Youre quiet and understated, but your mind constantly seems to be
turned to something very beautiful and ethereal.
She smiled gently. Youre very kind.
He shrugged. Whether or not its for the best, I tend to speak my mind.
I think its a very admirable quality.
Now Im flattered; he looked to a small silver pocket watch he retrieved
from his green waistcoat pocket. He frowned as he examined the time, but his voice
didnt sound the least bit rushed. It would seem that Im already late. He called
for the waiter.
Alices face fell. Theyd only just begun to get along, and, suddenly, he was
leaving. Im terribly sorry Ive kept you, Monsieur Bonfils.
No need to be so formal, Mademoiselle.
She stood from her chair, and he did the same. Well, if I am to call you
Jean, then I really must insist that you show the same informality.
It would be my pleasure, Alice. I hope you dont find me too forward, but I
was curious as to whether I could escort you to lunch again on, perhaps, Thursday?
Alice dropped any pretense of coyness and smiled brightly. That sounds
lovely.
46

In wasnt until later that evening that it dawned upon her that their encounter
had not been as perfect as it had once seemed. There were five women that lingered
in her memoryfive society women dressed in lace and pastel satin. Five women
who had, throughout the entire luncheon, carefully eyed Jean and Alices every
moveshe knew this to be the truth because she caught them doing the same during
their next visit to the caf and the one following that. She never remembered their
faces clearly, just a pale nose that turned up slightly at the tip or a shadowed green
eye. They were all so very lovely, but, somehow, in that beauty resided inherent
cruelty.
It seemed that women were quite aware of Jean, but that didnt prove to
trouble her much. Jean was a handsome man; it was to be expected that he would
amass a certain number of onlookers. What did bother her, however, was how they
seemed to stalk him like lions, refusing to back away until they received absolute
affirmation that a fortunate lioness had managed to permanently latch her claws into
his pale backin short, a certificate of marriage.
Three months after Alice and Jean had met, their somewhat regular afternoon
outings abruptly stopped. She was dressed in her best gown, pale blue with a
beautiful piece of lace draped over the skirt, waiting for Jean to appear at the door of
her small apartment near the Seine. Her recently manicured nails tapped on the
polished glass table near the door, lightly scratching her maids hard work. She
stood there, a foot away from the door, for nearly an hour, ignoring the ache in her
feet and the itch on the side of her mouthwhat would Jean say if he saw her without
shoes or with smudged lip stain? But, eventually, she realized he wasnt coming. It
was well past djeuner, and couples were already returning home. She took off her
heels near the door, set her delicate straw hat on the glass table, careful not to
wrinkle the lace ribbon tied around it, and pulled the pins from her hair, one by
one, dropping them with a light ping on the glass. Then she promptly went to her
room and slept.
The next morning, milie, her maid, informed her that her dress was
wrinkled beyond repair, and Jean was getting married.
Alice didnt leave her bed for three days; she refused visitors, only allowed
meals to enter her room, and spent hours tearing up anything that even slightly
reminded her of Jeanany sheet music she owned by Debussy was left in an
especially irreparable state. However, once three days had passed and she was done
with her rage and her sadness, she moved on. Or, rather, she had prepared herself
to move on, but, when Jean sent a letter a month later asking her to meet him the
47

following afternoon at the Jardin du Luxembourg, she had accepted without the least
thought.
The following day, as they drifted past the fontaine Mdicis, Jean explained in
his own unique, rather embellished, but careful way that Claudette, his new wife, was
a childhood friend. Theyd married because Claudette was twenty-eight (five years
older than Jean), and her parents had both recently died of consumption. The
pretty redhead had nowhere to go, and Jean had done what he thought was
expected. However, the two shared no romantic attachment.
Alice was forlorn, but she pasted a smile on her colored lips all the same.
Im terribly sorry to ask this of you, Alice. I wouldnt if I could avoid it, but
you see Ive tried very hard, and I really must see you. Its not quite proper, I
know. He reached forward to cradle the gloved hand nearest to him.
The soft tone of his voice gave away what he was asking, and she pulled
away, turning towards the fountain, not caring that the front of her gown was growing
damp.
Not quite proper? Not quite moral seems like a far more suitable
description. Youre asking that I give up my reputation. Call me old fashioned, if
you will, but I still believe in stability and commitment. With fumbling fingers she
pulled on the gauze ribbon that encircled her hat. There was a breeze throughout
the garden, and she felt flushed even though the old trees lining the stone path
provided ample shade.
She cringed as she felt his hand on her shoulder.
I am terribly sorry, Alice. I understand. I shouldnt have asked. Its not
right of me.
Jean continued on, but Alice was no longer listening. Her gaze was fixed
upon the sky above her. She hadnt noticed before, but, that day, it was so cloudless
and so blue. The topmost branches of the trees were so very tall, but even they
couldnt touch it. When she really examined those little twigs, they almost looked
fingers, reaching up. . .
All right.
What, dear? Jeans hand disappeared from her shoulder, and Alice turned
away from the fountain.
I said all right. Well try, Jean.
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and Alice took another look at
that sky. The sky that was perhaps not as perfect as shed once thought, but certainly
lovely and true.

48

Iona Wagner

49


Gemma Baugh


50

Mrs. Scott

Mrs. Scotts white speckled brick house, with the roof that sloped from three
points always gave me the feeling that her Snow White cabin was just the top floor of
a greater, grander house below the bustle of Meridian. Every house on her street
squatted in a similar style and peeked through the cover of the citys last towering
oaks. I would never have been able to anticipate when Aunt Lillian would turn onto
her street if it werent for the houses signature hunter green awnings, big canvas
awnings with white trim, like the ones at the tennis club, where I begrudgingly wore
my high white socks and my clean, white, bulky sneakers to stand and shuffle
(huffing and puffing all the way) across the court with girls who sported multiple
headbands and strappy spandex tank tops. I dreaded all of the shuffling, and the
symbol of those green awnings always incited an irrational gulp of apprehension
before walking through Mrs. Scotts door.
Mrs. Scotts lips were red, thick, powerful, Chanel-fire-engine red. The first
time I met her, I just stared in awe at her face, unlike the subdued and creamy pink
complexion of Aunt Lillian. Her powder blue eye shadow soared above her eyelids
and her hair was quaffed in two lavender-grey waves that crested around her gold
rope earrings that dangled above her shoulders. She was a petite creature, in her
seventies, and was more of a force of nature than a woman, something between a
Madame Butterfly and a strict grandmother. She stood in her purple jacket with gold
buttons, her purple skirt with heals to match, and stared at you with a glint in her eye
and those red lips pursed, and you were scared.
Aunt Lillian had to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, so those
were the days that I stayed with Mrs. Scott. The deal was that if I could help her with
some jobs around the house, she would teach me things.
What things? I asked. Between schoolwork and shuffling, I felt that I had
reached a ten-year-olds capacity for hobbies.
Mrs. Scott is the kind of woman who knows how to live. Any woman who
can raise four children and wear those outfits to boot knows something about being a
lady.
If she was going to make me wear dresses, or train me to balance books on
my head, I would rather take more tennis lessons, I thought.
Mrs. Scott wasnt prim and proper like I thought she would be. Her bark was
as sharp as her glare, both of which could cross rooms or pews and catch the target
of choice. I spent most of my afternoons carrying boxes from one room to another
while she lectured and gossiped on anything from politics and family to church bell
51

choirs. She called me Jennifer, not Jenny, which would have annoyed me, but she
said everything with so much authority that, of course, I had always been Jennifer.
Often I was rearranging the porcelain angels that crowded the mantle, the
living rooms own personal heavenly host. When I moved the wrong one to the left
or right, out came a snappy, Dont be dense, the one with the blue wings. Now, I
said blue. Blue, dear. Its that simple, just listen to directions from behind me. I
turned to see her tiny frame balancing on the striped ottoman, arms crossed and face
determined.
Most days she wanted me to practice a new skill. During November we
knitted, in December we decorated for her annual Christmas party, and in January
we played card games, which Mrs. Scott said was the only other lifetime
entertainment besides reading, or tennis, which she would not let me complain
about. I played the piano every time I came over. Her entire dining room, which was
a large part of the house, was taken up by two massive grand pianos. The benches
were pushed up against the wall to make room for a harp and an organ; there was
barely enough room to fit the lamps that lined the row of instruments. I would sit on
the piano bench and play scales, while Mrs. Scott ruffled through magazines in the
sitting room, shouting at me when I made mistakes and sporadically gasping at
something interesting in the newspaper.
Mrs. Scott was not afraid to talk about money. It was very pressing on her
mind, and I learned all about loans and mortgages and how you should never trust a
bank and never trust a bookkeeper, or her college roommate Mae Louise who was a
brown-noser who got into all sorts of wild mysticism after she got a divorceMost of
Mrs. Scotts money lectures turned back into stories about people. We sat side by
side on the piano bench together, playing my scales, eating lemon tarts, and talking
numbers. I sat and munched on my tarts, nodding and agreeing, slightly embarrassed
that she was so forward about everything.
Mrs. Scott was born in Indianapolis and Im not sure that she ever left. There
were portraits of her daughters everywhere, huge watercolors of the girls smiling in
puffy, white dresses and equally puffy hair, but I never saw any family photo, or
heard mention of a Mr. Scott. I liked to imagine her as the widow of a great opera
singer or an ambassadors wife who traded secrets for lemon tarts. In my head, she
had always been someone who lived a daring and extravagant life in a world of
culture and knowledge, and after that life, she had chosen to grace Indianapolis with
her royal retirement as a favor to the uneducated laymen. Specifically, this
uneducated layman, who now knew how to properly care for a garden, play the
piano, and dust absolutely every corner of a house.
52

Mrs. Scott held some sort of secret that the rest of us kept looking for, an
unwavering sense of self and a mystery that made her irresistible. She was the queen
of Meridian Street, immovable from her throne until the day she suddenly became
very human. I guess that all of Mrs. Scotts words couldnt make the money
problems go away. I received a letter from her on a Monday, wax sealed and on blue
stationary, with cursive so beautiful that Aunt Lillian had to read it aloud to me. Mrs.
Scott was moving away, to live with her younger brother in Massachusetts. She was
sorry that the Easter brunch would be cancelled, but she enjoyed keeping in touch
with her students and friends and if I would enjoy it I could write to her at her new
address.
When I drove by the house with the green awnings the next week, it looked
smaller, and I didnt feel that there was a mansion underneath anymore. I guess I
hadnt noticed that the yard wasnt very nice, or that the brick sort of sagged in
places, or that the awning was torn. The grandness was gone. Aunt Lillian said that
nothing was different about it, and wasnt it a shame that such a wonderful woman
was forced to leave her home. To me it didnt feel like I had lost a friend or a
grandmother, or even a neighbor. It just felt like the street wasnt the same, like Mrs.
Scott had packed up and taken the history and the music of the city with her.
Passing the house made me feel guilty after that. I never wrote to her, mostly
because she still scared me. I remember the fear and the awe more than anything
else. But I remember the best part too. When I had completed a song to her
satisfaction, she would stand back and clasp her hands together, and those red lips
would spring into a brilliant smile. Beautiful, Jennifer! Lovely, lovely, lovely! And it
almost made me glad that she had yelled at me because I had earned it.

Margaret Clark
53

Daisies
Inspired by Van Goghs Caf Terrace at Night

Marcel walked across the square in the gusty afternoon; spring had finally
arrived to Arles, France. He grinned as he saw the first buds of the flowers in the
window sills of the shops lining the Plaza. Seeing a daisy, he plucked it and hurried
toward the small caf across the square where he could almost hear Paulines
laughter.

* * *

Marcel Reyer was one of the few people to really know Pauline. The others
knew only four things about Pauline Abel. First, she was a waitress at the caf in the
Plaza du Forum; second, she was a quiet, handsome woman of twenty five with dirty
blond hair; third, she lived alone, and fourth, she always wore a daisy in her hair.
The rest was a mystery; she had simply come to town one day on a train from Paris
and decided to stay. Rumors flew around that she was pregnant with a well-known
politicians child or that she was a foreign spy. But Pauline had stayed for almost a
year without any signs of a child or a secret identity.
Marcel was only fifteen, a cheerful, dark haired young man, who had a
charming manner about him that brought even the most reclusive people out of their
shells, including Pauline. Every day after school, he would stop at the caf, buy a cup
of tea, and chat with Pauline. His friends would ask him why he did this, and he
would always reply: Shes just lonely, thats all.
He could not say that he was enamored with Pauline. He wasnt head over
heels in love per say; he was too young for her, but he felt as if he had found an old
friend or a long lost sister that he had been searching for without knowing it.
Marcel learned that Pauline was a horrible singer but an accomplished dancer,
that she liked rainy days just as much as sunny ones, and she grew flowers in every
space available in her cramped flat. She was excellent debater and was always talking
about the latest political issues from Paris. They discussed anything and everything
from the new bread at the bakery down the street to the economy of Spain.

* * *

54

Why do you wear a daisy in your hair? Marcel asked suddenly.
He and Pauline had just been chatting about the new artist who had taken up
residence in Arles, a rather eccentric man really. This question surprised her and a
small frown crept onto her face for a moment, but she composed herself and
continued bustling around the small tables sitting on the patio, collecting saucers and
cups while thinking of an answer.
Oh, I just like the flower. It reminds me of my childhood home; there were
daisies everywhere.
Marcel didnt push the subject. He knew he had upset her a bit, so he
dropped it. Suddenly a tall, dark-haired man walked into the bar area of the caf, not
too far from the small table at which Marcel was sitting.
Excuse me, I was wondering if you know a woman by the name Pauline? he
asked the waitress behind the counter. Pauline, startled by this mans sudden
appearance, hurried into the backroom without him noticing.
Yes, she works here. Im sure I just saw her minute ago. If you wouldnt
mind staying here, Ill try finding her, the waitress replied.
As she scurried off to find Pauline, the tall man helped himself to a drink,
casting his face, full-front, towards Marcel, to reveal a bushy moustache and a scar
stretching across his cheek.
What are you looking at boy?!
Marcel, who didnt realize he had been staring, jumped and looked at his
watch. He really shouldve gone home, but he wanted to make sure Pauline was
alright. He stayed for another fifteen minutes. Both his and the mans patience were
wavering. Fifteen more minutes passed. The man helped himself to a few more
drinks and made his way to the tables inside the caf near the back room. It was
getting dark. Marcel picked up his jacket and books and left. Surely Pauline would
be fine; he would check tomorrow.
The next day, he left his house as early as he could, running to make it to the
caf before school started. He was out of breath when he reached it and asked for
Pauline. She came out of the restaurant bearing a large bruise across her cheek,
hauntingly near where the scar had been on the tall mans face. She was not dressed
for work but, rather, for travel with a case by her side.
Where are you going? Marcel panted, still trying to catch his breath.
Away from here. As much as I want to stay, I cant. He cant find out where
Ive gone again. She almost smiled at the last thought. Pauline fished for something
55

in her pocket and handed him a letter. Here, open this after Im long gone. Good-
bye Marcel. She faltered at the last words and hugged him.
Good-bye Pauline Abel. May we meet again.
She smiled, took her case in hand and walked down the street. Marcel wanted
to run after her, shout in protest, anything to keep her there, but he knew that she
needed to go.
Later that day, out of habit, he went to the caf with the daisy in his hand, almost
forgetting Pauline wasnt there anymore. The tall man was there, demanding to see
her, ignoring the waitress protests that she was not there. Marcel waited for the man
to leave, a good twenty minutes later, and opened Paulines letter. It contained only a
picture with a date and place written on the back in elegant script.
The picture was of a smiling girl with white flowers scattered in her hair like
miniature suns. Beside her, a young, tall man with a gruff face and bushy moustache
stood as if posing for a wedding ceremony.

* * *

Seated at what had been their table, Marcel studied the worn photo for several
minutes trying to remember every detail of the smiling girls face. He ordered his
usual cup of tea but it cooled with the lack of warm conversation they had once
shared. Marcel soon got up, paid for his drink, and left, leaving that daisy, new from
the first day of spring, in a vase already full of roses so that part of Pauline could
linger there a little longer.

Krista Grendze

56

Polished

When Verona Clark was four-years-old, a stinging sensation ascended her
nostrils as she skimmed the array of colors on a wooden shelf. After contemplation
characteristic of a four-year-old, she decided on grey.
Her dimples revealed themselves as she reached for the nail polish, but they
returned to hibernation when Taylor, Veronas sister and elder by two years,
glowered at her selection. Veronas hand froze, hovering inches from her color of
choice.
Really? Taylor asked, her voice drenched in disapproval.
What?
Its so...blah.
The younger grabbed the glass container anyway. I think its pretty.
Verona didnt need to tilt her neck up to see her sister roll her eyes; she could
follow the familiar trail of her sisters pupils behind the comfort of her own eyelids.

* * *

When Verona Clark was twelve-years-old, a stinging sensation ascended her
nostrils as she squinted at an old Glamour. The magazine lay on the glass table that
Verona convinced herself was a footrest in its past life. She was waiting on a worn,
beige leather sofa with the grey polish sitting atop her thighs. A bold, block-lettered
title dominated Glamours cover: 20 CELEBRITY BODIES EXPOSED.
Disgusting, Verona muttered loud enough for her sister to hear.
Taylor removed the three colors she had been wavering between from the
shelf and strutted to the sofa. Nodding toward Veronas usual selection, she asked,
Why do you want grey again?
I dont know. She did know. She bit her bottom lip, mentally cursing
herself for pretending not to know. Its neither white nor black.
Huh.
Verona studied this grey for the first time. When the girls mother dropped
them off at Madame Royale Nails - which Verona would call if she wasnt
sure shed butcher the pronunciation - Verona removed a grey without noticing the
tint, picked up the most recent edition of Time, and plopped herself onto the sofa.
This grey had a sticker on its cap that read, Furious Cloud. Furious Cloud was
darker than last months Infant Elephant, but it still existed in that continuum
between right and wrong, between purity and vice, between obedience and
indulgence. To Verona, grey was the truth, albeit truth perpetually on the fringe of
falseness. The truth deserved more than an apathetic huh.
Ew. That is disgusting.
57

Verona glanced at her sister, who was engrossed in the pictures beneath the
magazines conspicuous title. Right?
How can someone let their body get that way?
Veronas forehead strained. Strained like grey. How can someone read
that?
A high-pitched chime declared their mothers entrance. Taylor sprang from
the sofa, shouting, Hey, Mom, what do you think of this red?

* * *

When Verona Clark was sixteen-years-old, a stinging sensation ascended her
nostrils as she perused the ingredients on a Sprite label. She was lying on her queen
bed, watching an old episode of 30 Rock. Veronas mom marched into her room.
Why does your face look like that?
A Tina Fey fanatic, Verona squirmed for the remote, pushing pause before
meeting her moms eyes. Sorry, what?
Mrs. Clark sighed acceptingly. I asked why your face looked like that.
Verona reached for the soda can. Was Sprite considered soda even though it
didnt contain caffeine? Once the half-full Sprite was in her grasp, she held it up
high, waving it in princessesque fashion. Carbonic acid.
Ahh. Taylor and I are going to Madame Royale. I was wondering if youd
leave the cave and join us?
Verona sighed, not acceptingly. Mom, do you know what nail polish is?
Attractive?
Verona shook her head. Nitrocellulose, resins, plasticizers, and yeah, some
coloring agents.
Okay...
So you want me to pay ten dollars for someone else to brush nitrocellulose,
resins...pla, pluh...and coloring onto my nails? Because my own hands seem capable
to me.
Since when are you so interested in chemistry?
Verona shrugged, wondering why her interest in science was such a crime. It
was her affinity for learning that made waking up exciting.
Its not even your money. I would pay, obviously.
With evident dimples, Verona said, Then you should thank me. Im saving
you money.
Her moms shoulders succumbed to gravity. I just want to spend time with
you. The left side of her mouth twitched. Plus, the forearm massage feels nice.
It feels like a waste of ten bucks.
58

Oh, Verona. Her mom had mastered that unsurprised yet slightly
disappointed tone.
MOM! YOU SAID TWO MINUTES, Taylor yelled from downstairs.
Mrs. Clark yelled back over her shoulder, COMING. Her head returned to
spinal alignment. You sure you dont want to come?
Verona nodded with a faint, forced smile. Mrs. Clark took a few backward
steps, her face mirroring her daughters. As soon as her moms feet pivoted, Verona
added, But, hey, will you bring home some grey?
No need. The greys already home when youre here.
Ha.
She started for the stairs. Yes, Ill buy some grey.
Thanks, Mom. Enjoy wasting your money! shouted Verona just before she
pressed play.

* * *

When Verona Clark was twenty-one-years-old, a stinging sensation ascended
her nostrils as she watched the bubbles convulse in the first sample of champagne.
The sisters decided - or, rather, one suggested and the other opted not to argue - to
pick up the samples and test them in their own kitchen. Fewer sales spiels, more
opportunity to waste their consciousness: the decision epitomized senioritorial
compromise.
The two sat across from each other, their bottoms trying to rest on the
metallic chairs their mom must have bought solely for aesthetic purposes, their
elbows supported by the granite table they had abused for years.
What do you think? Taylors excitement radiated off of her, just not far
enough to infect her sister.
Verona thought that Taylor was making a mistake, that marrying someone she
met a year ago was like buying a hardcover book after reading the flaps but not
bothering to skim the first page. The plot may please her at Barnes & Noble, but the
tone will end up all wrong. Shell regret her purchase before she finishes the first
chapter. Then, in fear of gossip, shell refuse to call it quits and find herself stuck,
staring at that overpriced book for the rest of her slowly passing life.
I like the bubbles.
Taylor chuckled as she rose from that iron bulge of a chair. More bubbles on
the way, you Maid of Honor, you!
Verona resented that title. Immediately after her mom mentioned her sister
was planning to ask, Verona refused.
(Verona: How about I stand next to her when she signs the petition for
divorce?
59

Mrs. Clark: You know that wont happen.
Verona: You know it should.
Mrs. Clark: Verona, youre doing this.
Verona: Mom, I dont care if other people think Im a brat for saying no.
Mrs. Clark: I know you dont. But I care if other people think I raised you to
be a brat.)
Oblivious to her sisters grimace, Taylor set two unused Dixie cups and
another bottle on the table. Do you think Madame Royale would give us a
discount? I was thinking we could all get French manicures with my initials on our
thumbs, like, instead of one of those floral designs.
French manicures, Verona inquired without inquiring.
Taylor poured, not conservatively, into both cups. Yes. Normal, white
French manicures.
Veronas head was shaking before her sister finished.
Verona! This is my day.
What about Bulgarian manicures? joked Verona.
Verona!
Taylor, this is May 26
th
, months before your day. A couple days before your
day, I will go to Madame Royale with you. Why hadnt she studied Mandarin in
college? And I will let Mom finance my French manicure, but my tips will be grey.
Taylor dramatically jutted her chin toward the ceiling. Must you always be a
contrarian?
Im not a contrarian.
Its not like Im asking you to have pink nails.
White isnt far from pink. Youre still buying into the feminine stereotype.
How?
Thou female folk shall be pure.
Taylors eyes dropped from the ceiling so they could manage a complete roll.
What would you do if I made you get your nails painted pink?
Unrealistic hypothetical situation, Verona thought. You would stick to white
like everyone else.
Say it was to fundraise for breast cancer.
Verona made herself take a sip of the second sample, wishing Taylor were
willing to serve non-alcoholic drinks at the wedding and record the names of
whomever acted drunk. Not to publish, just to laugh at later, when the chapters of
Taylors marriage seemed burdensomely long. God, what foundation?
Verona could tell the fianc was struggling to think of one. Oh! Susan G.
Komen.
I dont support Susan G. Komen.
You dont support researching for the cure of breast cancer...
60

No, I support researching for the cure of breast cancer to such an extent that
I despise the Susan G. Komen Foundation.
Taylor gaped at her sister.
Less than twenty-one percent of Susan G. Komens assets actually go toward
research, Verona recited from a documentary she watched between the sixth and
seventh seasons of 30 Rock.
What? What are they doing with their money?
Marketing, of course, Verona sneered.
For what then?
Breast cancer. And higher salaries. The CEO racks in more than $600,000.
The sunlines in Taylors forehead proliferated rapidly. I thought Susan G.
Komen was a non-profit?
Verona lifted her index and middle fingers, signing air quotes. Taylor pushed
against the table, giving herself enough space to vacate her chair frontally, and
headed for the next champagne bottle. Verona grabbed her hand. Taylor?
Yeah?
Im not a contrarian.
The sunlines reappeared. All right...
And my tips will be grey.

Sierra Witham

61


Megan Howell


62

A Friday Night
Inspired by Edward Hoppers Summer Evening

My house was a small, white ranch plopped on an empty lot with yellow grass
overtaking the yard. Pieces of siding chipped away, slowly shedding into the wild
bushes planted to cover the mess. The house looked vacant on the outside and felt
so on the inside. As I slid through the back door coming home from school, I could
hear my mothers flirtatious cackling in the kitchen.
Oh my gosh, Brad, you are just a riot! squealed my mother, with her blood
red wine sloshing back and forth in her glass as she swayed in laughter.
She caught a glance of me and said, Oh hey sugar! Come on inside and
introduce yourself. Dont be rude.
The man jumped down from sitting on the kitchen counter to shake my hand.
His handshake was firm and intimidating, the kind of handshake you would give to
someone you wanted to warn. Brad was tall with a sharp jaw line and a mop full of
mouse brown hair that looked like it hadnt been washed for a day or two. He wore
a tattered, white T- shirt and worn out jeans; he seemed similar to all of the other
men mother dated: young, tough, and rugged.
I slid out of the kitchen and made my way upstairs, eventually escaping the
noise of my mothers cackling. As I reached my room, my mood suddenly lifted. I
remembered that I had a date that night. Almost every weekend some contender was
willing to take me out. It was like clockwork. My mother and I rarely spoke to each
other Friday nights because she would go out on her dates and usually not return
until noon the next morning.
Friday nights were the best nights of the week. Unlike the week nights, where
I would come home to a drunken mother passed out on her bed with an infomercial
playing in the background, I had plans. While none of my dates took me anywhere
fancy, they took me out of this hell -hole for hours at a time. If they wanted, and
most of them did, we wouldnt even have to return to my house that night.
I quickly slipped on my high-waisted, pink, pleated, mini skirt, a matching
bandeau, and a jean jacket. I let my curly blonde hair down and gave it volume with
some teasing and hairspray. My look was finally finished with bright, pink lipstick
and white platform sandals. With a few spritzes of perfume, I was ready for the
night.
63

Once I heard the doorbell, I grabbed the purse from my night- stand, stuffed
in the essentials, and rushed to the front door to let him in.
Hey, you ready to head out?
Yeah, I just need a minute to lock up the house.
Isnt your mom home? Cant she do it herself?
She left a while ago.
He scowled, as if he had already been irritated by something I said. I assumed
his impatience would wear off as the night went on. He hopped over to the drivers
seat of his black mustang; it must have been old from the rust covering the edges of
the door. He wasnt saying anything, so I felt the need to start a conversation and ask
him what he wanted to do that night. He said he knew this quiet and relaxing place
near a lake. This idea was different from other dates I had been on but not
surprising.
The air was hot and humid, and I could feel my skin stick to the leather on
the seat. The windows were a little foggy and the sun started to set. We sat in
awkward silence, as he drove down the vacant, narrow street. I wanted to glance over
to see if he had any expression of annoyance on his face, but from what I saw out of
the corner of my eye, he appeared nervous and stiff. This kid was different from the
others I had gone out with. He was unbelievably quiet and didnt even pretend that
he had an interest in getting to know me. His name was Chris Brinkley, and he was a
senior. I had never really known Chris that well. We had mutual friend groups and
said hello to each other in the hallways but never really held a conversation. I could
tell that if I didnt take the lead in conversation, no one would.
Dont you just love driving out on the open road?
Yeah. Its pretty liberating.
So where are we going again?
Actually, were here.
He parked in the grass of what looked like a small lake in the countryside.
So this is it. My favorite spot.
Its so peaceful, do you come here a lot?
Not as often as Id like, but its a great place to go if you just want quiet and
privacy.
Yeah, that totally makes sense.
It did make sense. It made sense as to why he rushed me out the door when
he arrived at my house. It made sense that he wanted someplace quiet to go with
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me. I knew exactly what he had planned for the night, but, for some reason, I felt
myself wanting to play along with his plan. Tiptoeing the line of danger and harmless
flirting was an adrenaline rush. We promptly exited the car and sat down by the lake.
The grass was mushy and wet from light rain in the afternoon. The cicadas started
up and filled the silent gaps between conversations.
Wanna go for a quick swim?
The minute he asked this, a minivan slowly crept up onto the grass with its
headlights flashing in our eyes. An older woman sprang out of the car and opened
the side doors, letting out a boy about four years old and a girl about twelve. The
man followed suit and unstrapped the luggage. They must have planned on camping
out here for the rest of the weekend as a family trip. I found myself gawking at the
family.
Chris looked irritated and bit his lower lip. He got up and whispered,
We should probably go.
We hopped back in the car, and I prepared myself for another quiet car ride
back.
In an anxious and frustrated voice, he asked, How about we go back to your
place? Your mom isnt home, right?
Yeah, she wont be home for a while.
When boys usually ask this, I give them the excuse that she will be working
late or is out on a business trip. This time, I didnt feel as if the explanation was
necessary. I knew that he could care less about my mothers whereabouts, as long as
she was out of sight.
Okay, perfect.
He turned on the radio to fill the silence. J Coles Power Trip was blaring
from the speakers. His shy demeanor suddenly changed with the music. The smirk
reappeared on his face, and he started bobbing his head forward and back, leaning
back in the drivers seat. I forced myself to look out of the window in order to
restrain myself from bursting into laughter. While he was in his world of rap music, I
could not help but think about the family camping at the lake. I remembered their
faces and the way they all looked, as if they were genuinely excited to be spending
time with each other. On their Friday night, they were with family, having a good
time, while I was out with this random boy and my mother was with a strange man.
It dawned upon me that I couldnt remember the last time I had spent a night
with my family. Before my father left, when I was about ten, we all used to sit in the
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living room, chowing down on pizza while watching a movie from Blockbuster. This
was typical on Friday nights back then. I used to think it was lame, but now I would
give anything to go back in time and relish the laughter and comfort of those
evenings. Even though my family wasnt together anymore, I still had my mom when
she was sober. For the first time, I had this urge to just talk to her. I yearned for us to
become as close as we were when we snuggled up on the couch watching Rush Hour
II. I wanted to tell her that I was there for her and that we should think about
becoming closer. We were all each other had, and we barely spoke. I suddenly
craved a relationship with someone who wanted nothing from me in return.
Alright, I guess were here.
He pulled up to the curb and we stepped out of the car and walked to the
front porch. No one was home as I had predicted. We stood under the light of the
front porch and he waited for me to open the front door. I stood back and leaned
against a side of the house. I couldnt convince myself to go inside. I knew what was
going to happen once I stepped into that house. I felt as if I owed myself more than
a relationship built on teenage hormones.
Once he noticed I had drifted back, he sat down next to me and eagerly
asked, Dont you wanna go inside?
I tilted my head to the side and said, Im just too tired.

Abby Rangaswami

66

The Lot

She liked the sound of the thing: zip, clack, zip, a fraction of the sound her
dirty white tennis shoes made with each step in the rock and gravel-covered lot.
Whenever Winnie found a rock, she would drop it in the small zippered side-
pocket of her army-green cargo shorts. She would place them one by one into rows
according to size on the big, rusty, cellar door embedded in the ground, face to the
sky, in the very center of the mostly empty lot.
Winnie crouched down to examine her latest cluster of rocks, moving
carefully through each item on her checklist; any stone must possess each trait to
even be considered for the honor of a flight across the stagnant surface of her
backyard pond. Since her father had taught her the skill, skipping stones had been
the perfect end-of-the-day ritual for an eleven-year-old girl with no brothers or sisters
in a part of town that afforded few opportunities for play. When her father was alive,
Winnies family had lived in a small one-story house at the edge of a poor
neighborhood with the sole defining quality of weeds, dead and alive, at all corners
and cracks of the pavement and no trees, except for the small stand beginning in
Winnies backyard and ending next to the highway. Since his death, the house had
become a rundown eyesore, though now it fit in more with the rest of the
neighborhood.
Despite the harsh scenery, Winnies childhood had been a rich one, full of
games with mom and dad and make-believe when, more often than not, they werent
around. A full-time job for the both of them still left the family in sufficient
economic shape, but when Winnies father died, the money became scarce and so
was her mothers time for her. A regular evening for the two of them was now
Winnie coming home from her daily excursions in time to send her mother off
again for the night shift, not long after she had returned from her first job. Winnie
knew her mother still loved her; after all, the money always had a way of finding its
way back to her chipped piggy bank a few days after vanishing.
These days Winnie had her rocks, and she had her never ending quest for the
perfect skipping stone. Presently, Winnie had just finished her final evaluation of her
choice stones. Each test would affect the number of skips she could achieve, so this
judgment was crucial. Her highest score was five, but that was surely luck, as it had
been accomplished with an ordinary stone, one that had gone through her rigorous
checklist, of course, but it hadnt had any sort of special feel about it.
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Today, she had been studying one stone in particular, off-white and speckled,
like a sparrow egg; something about it gave her pause. She knew she couldnt just
throw it away and continue on her journey. Now and then, she would find herself
caressing the special stone, and it soon became an object of great comfort to her.
At the center of the town, dead to the world but alive and eerie to her, the lot
had always made Winnie uneasy; a common hangout for the town druggies, its
daytime emptiness wasnt lonely, but domineering and foreboding. It was, however,
the best place for finding stones. Her quest had led her back and forth across this
desert of gravel and abnormally large stones from a former construction site, though
the company in charge of the project hadnt shown much interest from the start.
When it left town, so did the jobs, most families, and any hope of an upward climb
for the town as a whole.
The heat of the stones might have burned inexperienced hands, but Winnie
had built up hard calluses from burns and explorations of the rough-barked tress in
the backyard. Afternoons were, after all, the safest time for Winnies quest; broken
economies mean broken streets, and, because of Arizonas afternoon heat, danger
only emerged at night.
Looking up at the sky, Winnie knew from the place of the sun that she ought
to head back home so she could catch a visit with her mother before she headed off
to her second job. She turned from her piles of unsorted stones and neat rows of
sorted ones and made her calm but urgent way home; there was no way shed be
caught this far into the center of town when it was late, not after every warning her
mother had given her about bad men who were worse than the coyotes she heard
baying at the moon for rain every night.
She arrived home after eight or so minutes of a quickened pace, with the
screen door banging shut behind her, and very carefully set the egg-stone down on
the battered garage sale end table by the door. This was her special place for any sort
of bauble she found that required further examination in the light of her bedroom
lamp after her mother left. She kicked off her shoes and ran to the kitchen where
her mother had that nights take-out set on the kitchen table with one leg supported
by an old dictionary and joined her for the latest regaling of the various lizards and
bugs Winnie had seen skitter across her precious stones.
Alright, babydoll, time to go, said Winnies mom after twenty minutes of
detailed critter descriptions. Remember to
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Keep the door locked, dont go outside, fill the humidifiers, and lights out
before 10, I know! declared Winnie.
Yes, well, tonight our rules are extra important. I dont want you sneaking
outside, not to the street, the lot, anywhere. Okay?
Okay.
Ill try and be home in the morning this time, she said, nervously tugging at
her sleeves and then shifting in her seat to stare out the window behind her, one
hand still fixed on her flannel shirt. Winnie hated when her mom did this because
she couldnt read the look on her face.
Winnies mother left soon after, giving her a kiss on the forehead and a
preoccupied glance around the den before letting the screen door smack against the
doorframe after her.
Winnie was worried. With all of these anxious glances and faraway looks her
mother had given in their short time together, there must be something going on, she
concluded. This happened every so often, and her mother always came home in the
middle of the afternoon the next day, when Winnie remembered to stay home and
watch out for her mothers reappearance. She would come inside and pass out on
the couch. Each time her mom stayed away longer and slept even more, to the point
where Winnie practiced making herself dinner with the meager supplies in the
refrigerator and kitchen cabinets.
Winnie ran to her room shortly after her mother left. She knew one place she
could look for evidence of her mothers whereabouts tonight. She didnt do this
every night, only on the ones that felt uncertain. She knew that the money in her
piggy bank could tell her if her mother would be okay; if her mom needed help, the
money would surely save her. This time, however, something thumped onto the
wood floor. Turning on her bedside tables small, buzzing lamp, she bent and
snatched up the folded wad of bills. A torn note attached to the rubber band
securing the wad read: I love you, babydoll.
Winnie no longer had the reassurance of the vanished money, and, for the
first time, Winnie was truly afraid.
She grabbed a flashlight and a jacket, slipped her speckled stone and the wad
of cash into her pocket and ran out the door. She could feel that this was important,
so she jogged all the way down to the entrance of her neighborhood. Luckily, there
was no one around, but the sun had almost set; she had to hurry. She decided to
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head into the small center of town where her mothers second job was supposed to
be.
Winnie searched for hours on end and came up short of leads as to her
mothers whereabouts, all the while rubbing her thumb raw along the stones edge
and feeling the weight of the money knocking against her leg. She felt she was
running out of time with every street corner she turned, and, suddenly, she
remembered her mom offhandedly mentioning the lot. It was the last place to look;
she had already visited the 24-hour dry cleaners her mother had told her about, but
the bored-looking woman at the assistance desk told her that her mother had only
worked there for a couple of months, taking as many hours as she could, and then
suddenly leaving her notice a couple of weeks prior. All Winnie knew was that she
had to find her mom, though she didnt want to face her fears of what finding her
mother in the lot would mean.
There was one streetlight on the whole block and it stood, flickering silently at
the far corner of the lot. Slumped against it was Winnies mother. She sprinted over
to her, tripping once but resuming her urgent pace.
She knew her mother was gone before she reached her, but she still shook
her body, begging for her to wake up and trying to ignore the patchwork of track
marks that marred her mothers pale skin, barely visible against the rolled up sleeves
of a red flannel shirt. She cried until she had to run to the side of the road and
retch, collapsing to her knees in anguish. Winnie looked up at the brightening
horizon, and back towards her mothers body, towards her neighborhood, her
house, the trees and pond in her backyard. Then, she stood and stared back at the
horizon.

Lizzy Bauserman

70



Kurt Barbara





















2014