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LIMITED EDITIONS

2010Community College of Philadelphia

Limited Editions accepts manuscripts, photographs and drawings from all students at the Community College of Philadelphia for publication and consideration.

GUIDELINES FOR SUBMISSIONS: • Manuscripts must be typed, preferably double-spaced, on 8 ½ x 11 paper or via email. • Black-and-white photographs and graphic art should be submitted in envelopes or mounted on illustration board and protected by dust covers. • Include name, address, phone number and social security number with each submission. Please retain copies of submitted manuscripts because they may not be returned.

Submit to: Julie Odell Limited Editions Faculty Advisor Community College of Philadelphia 1700 Spring Garden Street Philadelphia, PA 19130 (215) 751-8658 [email protected]

Faculty Advisor’s Note Many thanks to the editorial board for fiction and poetry: Alexander Bove Jeffrey Markovitz James Miller Toni Calvello Crystal Bacon

Many thanks also to the editorial board for photography: Art Danek Anthony J. Wychunis

We would also like to thank Gary Grissom of the Office of Marketing and Communica-tions for his graphic expertise and the Office of Student Activities for their continued support of this publication. Steven Aicholtz and Allen Farrington from Duplicating are responsible for printing this issue. Final thanks go to all the students who submit-ted work for this issue and the wonderful Creative Writing and Photographic Imagine faculty here at the College who encourage and nurture our student writers and photographers.

Limited Editions is sponsored byThe Office of Student Life

Community College of Philadelphia2010

Photograph by Brittany Cooke cover

Photograph by Antoine Brister 2

Story by Kelly Karivalis 3

Photograph by Igor Kozhukhin 6

Photograph by Wing Yi Lai 7

Photograph by Yevqenya Kats 8

Story by Timothy R. Crowe 9

Photograph by Kwok Li 16

Photograph by Samai Somdasack 17

Photograph by Danika Smith 18

Photograph by Greg Leddy 19

Photograph by Fred Rosso 20

Photograph by Suzanne Fackler 21

Photograph by Camille Norris 22

Story by James Gain 23

Photograph by Juan Carlos Reyes 28

Poem by Johnathan K. Johnson 29

Photograph by Len Parry 30

Poem by Lisa Reyes 31

Photograph by Ed Canning 32

Photograph by Vuong Le inside back cover

Photograph Ligua Richter back cover

Limited Editions 2010Contents

Antoine Brister

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The sun was hot and the dog was ugly. Flies circled around his head, keeping him company as they begged outside of the butcher shop for the Tuesday scrap meat. Despite the bites and stings they gave his mouth, the dog loved the flies. They always came back, everyday, and they always stayed near him. And the dog knew that wherever he went, the flies would follow. “Get outta here you mongrel, you mutt!” the butcher shouted as he kicked the dog who was slow and nonresistant. “You come here every day and I don’t give you nothing! Whaddaya want? Anotha kick in the head?” The dog didn’t move, but instead stood as he was and took more kicking and yelling. The town was buzzing around him. Tiny feet dashed through the dust chasing chickens and dodging pick-up trucks full of tarp covered cargo. Every nook of the slum held secrets the children knew only as a game. The adults knew of these secrets as inevitable dangers, and the government knew nothing. The dog knew of these nooks as his home and disappeared into them when he finally got his scrap meat. In the corners of the nooks of his slum, the dog buried his own secrets. Food he had scavenged from everywhere was saved when he knew times of hunger were coming; he had survived this way for years. The dog was ugly and the dog could en-dure. When it rained, dirt turned to mud that oozed throughout the slum, destroying homes and shops and cars and gardens. But the nooks always remained intact; nothing could destroy them. In-stead of cleansing the town, the rain made it dirti-er; it stank of poor health and beat spirits. Broken families and empty homes, stray children. And the only money the slum ever saw passed through in the back of pick-up trucks to cities of tiny lights that did not exist. The slum was all there was in the world, the people were all each other had, and the dog was lonely because the people hated him.

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Ugly Dog

by Kelly Karivalis

Hidden treasures and the flies were all he had and all he ever knew.

Peeping over a wire fence was the morning sun and the head of a young boy. His black hair was greasy and long, covering his eyes. As the dog woke, the child approached him with a handful of meat, hopping over the brown glass puddles. The young boy kicked him and waited and got angry. “Why don’t you fight me back, stupid? Why don’t you run? Why don’t you beg for my scrap meat like all the other mutts?” The dog wagged his tail; young boys were often quick company during the daytime. Dirty fingers tugged at his ear and the flies flew away momentarily. The boy sat down next to him and frowned. “If you don’t eat this meat, I’m gonna have to,” the young boy said. The dog looked at him and licked up the scraps with his fat tongue. “Good, cuz I already ate the good parts. And I had a Coke with it too. My boss gave me extra change yesterday cuz I found good dogs for him. They bit me when I kicked them, not like you. If I made money like him, I’d drink Cokes all the time. I’d drink five in a row. And then I’d run to the roof of my big house and burp over the whole town and then everyone would hear it and they’d think it was a monster or something and then they’d all run away. And the butcher would run away from his store and I could take all the Cokes in his fridge and then take all his scrap meat,” the young boy laughed and kicked him again. “Don’t thing I’d give you any! You’d be long gone anyway. No, you’d still be here. You’d still be sitting in this stupid alley with your flies and your dumb tongue everywhere. I guess I’d have to give you some of the meat I’d steal-- you’d be the only one left cuz you wouldn’t run away like the rest of the town. You’re stupid.” The dog was confused; no human had ever sat down next to him like the young boy did. His

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company made him feel like he had just eaten a hot meal, something that had happened only once when a home near his alley had caught fire during the family’s dinner and all the dogs ran inside to scavenge. But today was even better than that day. The dog wagged his tail and stood up. “Whatcha want?” the young boy asked and the dog stared at him. “What? What!!? Hah, what, you want to come with me? You want to be one of the dogs I bring back to my boss? Like Hell you’ll stay alive past sunset. No dog, stay here.” And with that the young boy sprung up and splashed through the puddles, kicking up dust and mud as he ran out from the alley. The dog barked and ran after him. They bolted through the streets togeth-er, watching their feet for chickens and heads for trucks and ears for angry peddlers. The young boy ran out of the town and into the sandy fields that buffered the slum from the unknown outskirts, throwing his face into the sky and his legs into spaces of nothingness. And the dog followed close behind him. “Where are we going, dog!? WHERE ARE WE GOING!?” the young boy screamed with laughter, exploding with energy. There was dust and blue skies, and then there was the pound. The young boy had reached his destination, and without doubt, the dog followed.

“This mutt! You bring me this scrap? Beauti-ful, beautiful,” the boss laughed, his teeth glowing gold and white on his dirty face. “I have searched far. I have searched long,” the young boy joked. “This is the best fighter in South America, I swear on the grave of my whore mother!” All the commotion was an excitement for the dog. He wagged his tail and barked; he was happy with these humans for he knew they were speaking about him. The dog did like to feel spe-cial. “He agrees! The dog is a gift from God-- he is a savior,” the boss shouted and kneeled down to the dog’s level. Their brown eyes met, both wrinkled from being born into the squinting sun-

light of the slum. The dog rested his head on the boss’s hands that were rough around his face. And the boss scanned the matted fur and smiled. “He is our savior. I will name him O Salva-dor de Bosta, The Savior of Shit!” and he slapped the dog on the cheek, blowing cigarette smoke in his wrinkled eyes as he scoffed. “You are beautiful, you damn mutt. You are beautiful.”

Beauty was contorted through the mazes of allies, presented on doorsteps and windowsills by the slits of sinking sunlight who met the ends of shadows for the duration of a few revered min-utes, where light and dark were start and finish, where purpose was clear for a man who knew he was doing right by standing just as he was. The slum had beauty just as any other place might. As viewed by its people, relative to how they lived, which was simply for the sake of growing as old as they could, simply for having children and feed-ing them and feeding themselves and making it to the next day, it was peace. It was a moment a man could love for everything it gave him. It presented no secrets, no surprises, no wrongs or rights or purposes or dangers. No gains or progressions or answers. All that it was, the sunset was beautiful. And chained to a leash held in the rough hands of the boss, the dog was ugly. “O Salvador de Bosta, your kingdom waits for you,” he said as he led the dog from the yard into a grey building and then down concrete steps into a cellar full of barking. It was difficult to dis-tinguish the animals living in the cages upon cages as separate entities, and the dog followed the boss with a slight caution. In the middle of the dirt aisle, he stopped, and with a shove, the dog was caged and the flies continued to swarm around him. With the night came the moans from the cages, sounds made with no knowledge of words or definitions. The dogs of the pound had no feel-ings to express; they were begging. A good part of the moaning was for food. The dog had no scraps in his own cage, and could not imagine the other animals to be blessed with any. Some of the moan-

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ing was for freedom. The dog heard moaning for mothers as well, and for sleep, and for the sun, and for sex. At that point the dog became very still, picking up a form of delirious begging that was strange to him. Moans full of wrath that were begging, he assumed, for blood. And as the dog stood and looked out from behind the bars of his cage, he saw all of them. They were fight dogs.

The boss brought fresh fruit to the pound the next morning and called all the men and boys together for a meeting. “We train them hard today, and all this week. The strongest fighters will be used in the Dirty War at the end of the month. I have some dogs I expect to win more money than we have seen in any of our years of operation. We got half of Brazil’s underground coming to this-- it’s beau-tiful my men! It’s the fucking good days!” Excitement and shouting came from the men and boys together because they expected the good days to mean the days they would make enough money to be happy. The days the boys would run into town and spend their money on food and candy and the little shooters that took down small animals, while the men would spend the money on drugs and whores and real guns. The young boy thought it was all a game, one he intended to win someday. He pushed the hair out of his eyes when the boss talked to him and started the day by doing what he was told. And as the dog jumped to his feet when he heard someone coming into the cellar, he saw the boy walking down the steps with a metal leash in his child hands. “You lasted the night, stupid! Now I’m s’posed to bring you outside where you can play with the others. You’ll like that, won’t you? And then I have to run errands for my boss in town. Someone’s s’posed to watch you guys too, so you all don’t get killed. But I know you won’t-- you’re gonna stick around forever just so you can be lazy in your alley again. You wanna die there,” the young boy said and gave the dog a pat on the

head as he knotted the leash around his neck and led him outside. The dog squinted his eyes in the sun when he rose from the dank cellar. The solid dirt be-neath his feet kept them moving as the young boy introduced the grounds, the trees and the metal gates and the men who all looked the same. He brought the dog into a yard surrounded by a chain link fence where a few others were tied to posts sticking out from the ground. “You’ll stick through this,” the young boy said and tied him to an unoccupied post with the red paint chipping. He left and the dog stood with his fat tongue falling from his mouth, watching everything around him, wondering where all the scrap meat was. The other dogs were ugly too, with matted fur that was brown or black or grey and patches of pink skin peeking through with flies all around them. Dried blood on their noses. They were all waiting, begging for something to change so the slow torture of the heavy chains on their necks would cease. Wind came with the night and the next day, the dog sat down but the boss approached him, grabbed his leash, and led him to a shallow dirt pit fenced with wooden boards, where he wrapped silver duct tape furi-ously around his snout and jaw. Another dog was there, his mouth was open. “You dance now, O Salvador de Bosta.”

The sun was setting and he stood on a low roof that was made from scrap metal and wood paneling, with the alley below him and the body in his child arms, leaning with his toes curled over the edge and the flies swarming. Everything was illuminated, and with a thud he dropped the dog onto the pile with the others, watching him roll down to the bottom as the young boy wiped the sweat off of his forehead because the sun was hot and the dog was dead.

Igor Kozhukhin

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Wing Yi Lai

Yevqenya Kats

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Ten Dollars Worth of Angels

by Timothy R. Crowe

“I’m screwed.” The simple words seemed to sum up my predicament perfectly as I stared at the fuel gauge needle sitting well below ‘E’. I let out a worried breath as my eyes returned to the dark road. The night seemed to engulf me, the headlights reveal-ing only empty highway with nothing that held any hope of reprieve from my desperate plight. The warm summer night air cooled the sweat on my brow as I snapped the radio off, cutting short the advertiser’s overzealous pitch for Firestone Tires fifty percent off retail price, as though the silence could somehow help me out of this mess. My eyes scanned the sides of the road with the heightened awareness one only has when they are lost in unfamiliar country. However, the scenery was all the same-- cornfields, soybeans, silos, and far distant farmhouses. There was nothing that offered me any sign of hope. I felt stupid, realizing that my one moment of daydreaming had caused this hopeless situation. I had left Michigan three hours before, intent on reaching Kentucky before sunrise. I had wanted my business in the bluegrass state to be over with quickly, my mind on the newborn child and wife I was leaving behind. It was a six hour drive I was quite familiar with, and I-75 was an old familiar friend. This fact made my cur-rent situation even more ridiculous. It was the Belvedere-St Mary’s Ohio exit 137A and B that had done it. It was a trick of poor planning in road construction, which right now seemed to me the best scapegoat. Why put two off-ramps side-by-side like that? My mistake had to be a common one. I had needed gas, but instead of hitting the Exit A, that would have taken me to a gas station

less than a quarter mile away, I hit the Exit B that deposited me onto another highway headed west. This highway had no exits, only farmland. There had been no place to turn around and hit the east bound lane and thus correct my oversight. Still, at that point I was only slightly annoyed. My tank was near empty, but the sign said St. Mary’s was only twenty miles away. I knew that my ‘84 Escort may not be loveliest car on the road, but she was great on gas. I would make it to the town, refuel, and get directions out of this embarrassment and back to good old I-75. Still, I watched the gauges needle go deeper into empty with every mile, and as it dropped, my anxiety began to slowly rise. I lit one of many nervous cigarettes and lovingly pat-ted the steering wheel. Come on, baby. You can make it. Three cigarettes later, my head lights il-luminated the sign reading St Mary’s City Limits pop. 2, 224. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had made it, but I knew it had been close. Unfortunately, this relief was quickly shattered. St. Mary’s was a small town that had the tradition of rolling up its sidewalks and locking its doors by ten thirty every night, and it was now after three am. The tidy little rows of houses in this quaint little slice of Americana reminded me of that Christmas poem. All snuggled in their beds, visions of sugar plums danced in their heads--not barreling through the night in a car that stank of old carpet and stale cigarettes. There was only one gas station, and its dead lights and dark doors mocked me as I went passed. After I took a hearty swig from my Moun-tain Dew, I felt even more annoyed looking at its green plastic bottle. I had bought it at a gas station in Michigan. Why hadn’t I taken the five minutes

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to fuel up then? I cursed at the lit-up dash board, angry at myself, but more than willing to take it out on St. Mary’s. Hadn’t these townie sum-bitch-es ever heard of twenty-four hour God-damn ser-vice!? I would have given my soul for a yellow Shell sign shining like a beacon in the distance, promising endless rows of glorious gas pumps. “My Kingdom for a friggin’ BP!” I said aloud, hoping the joke would help my mood. It didn’t. What added insult to injury was the fact that I now had no idea where I was or which way to go even if I had the gas to get there. My mental compass told me that I had made a long loop, and that if I kept going straight I would inevitably come back to I-75. But my mental compass had already failed me miserably tonight. It was about then that I noticed a man walking his dog on the deserted sidewalk. Why anyone would be walking their dog at this time of the morning would have normally been a peculiar mystery to me, but in light of my situation at the moment, I honestly didn’t give a rat’s ass. I pulled over and quickly explained my blunder, and asked which way to I-75 and more importantly, where I could find the nearest open gas station. Indeed my mental compass had been correct this time. He explained, over the yelping barks of his Yorkie, that if I stayed on this road it would take me to Findlay and the Interstate. Gas, however, was going to be a bigger problem. Findlay was also the nearest open pump, and it was a good fifteen miles away. My heart sank as I thanked him and pulled off. I looked fore longingly at the gas gauge. Fifteen miles--there was no possible way. I was below empty now, and no amount of gentle stroking of my car’s steering wheel was going to coax fifteen more miles from that unforgiving gauge. So here I was, as I summed up earlier, completely screwed. I was a few miles outside of St. Mary’s at almost four in the morning, my car aimed at a destination it had no conceivable

chance in reaching. I was frustrated and aggra-vated, and in this frame of mind it had never occurred to me that I could have just parked and waited for the station in St. Mary’s to open in about three more hours and solved my problem there. Instead, I had made the rash and impatient decision to just keep going and take my chances, and though I was positive my car would run out of gas any moment, each foot it did roll put me that much closer to Findlay and fuel. My mind had already set itself into survival mode-- I had a gas can in the trunk, I could start walking and with a little luck catch a ride to the gas station then find a way back. But luck had not been a co-passenger with me that night, and I hadn’t passed a single car since I had left the sleeping and gas-dry town of St. Mary’s. As I passed a large billboard telling me to be sure and visit St. Mary’s Flea Market on Rt. 4 every Saturday and Sunday from 9 am to 6 pm, I scanned the endless fields of corn and soybeans on each side of the road. A second plan occurred to me that seemed more reasonable, if a bit unsavory. I could stop and knock on a farmer’s door and try and buy a few gallons of gas. Just one gallon would do the trick, and I would gladly pay ten dollars for their trouble. Yet, as I looked at the farms I did pass, most had long driveways of a hundred yards or more and I saw no lights in any windows. Having grown up a farm-boy myself, I knew that the prospect of driving up to someone’s farm and knocking on a door at this time of the morning was as likely to be met with the barrel of a shotgun as it was to be greeted with homegrown hospitality. This night had already been bad enough. I did not want to end it lying on my back on someone’s porch with a chest full of buckshot, my dead eyes set on the rising sun, as the state trooper stood over me writing a report of an unlucky prowler who had crossed the wrong Farmer John. However, under the circumstances, it seemed I was going to have to take that risk.

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It was then that I saw that blessed little house. A small one level house, just a few yards off the road, and the lights were on! It was like the lights of salvation from heaven above, and just in time. The little escort was beginning to spit and sputter, the fuel pump sucking at the last drops of gas in an empty tank. The engine finally gave out as I coasted to a stop next to a mailbox nailed on an old unpainted fencepost in front of the house. I switched off the lights and laid my head back, letting out a long sigh of relief. As I stepped out of the car, my tense back gave a sorrowful moan. The house in front of me was indeed small, no more than perhaps three rooms. It was covered in tar-paper shingle siding, which was supposed to give the facade of being made of stone, but only made it look shabby, cheap and old. A porch of unpainted posts and boards ran the length of the front, with a metal glider from the 1960’s, and a chair that was originally supposed to be on the inside of a house, not on the porch. I could see that a small wire fence surrounded the little homestead, and from its rusty, bent-up condition I knew it had most likely been installed when Eisenhower was still in office. I went through the metal gate and up the short walk, and saw the light from the two front windows, and the open front door glowed with soft warmth. From the slight flicker, I could tell it most likely came from a kerosene lamp. As I approached the screen door, I was instantly confronted with the figure of an old man standing on the inside. He was wearing faded jeans that had the dirt so engrained in the fabric that no amount of washing would remove it, a flannel shirt tucked in at the waist and open at the neck, revealing a healthy tuft of grey chest hair. The old man’s face was leathery, with wrinkles that looked hard-earned through a life of labor in the sun. His farmer’s tan beneath his liver spots seemed to be a permanent tattoo on his withered

skin. Despite his age, he seemed solid and strong, an effect only the hearty farmer holds into his elder years. He gave me a large, friendly smile, and his eyes, though slightly jaundiced yellow, were kind and vibrant. This instantly put me at ease. The sight of him explained a lot. The elderly in ru-ral areas often went to bed early and got up before sunrise, hence the reason why they were burning a light at four in the morning. “Hey there, son.,” he said, with just a touch of southern accent so familiar to an old Kentucky boy like me, “What can I do ya for?” I quickly introduced myself and apolo-gized for coming to their doorsteps at such an ungodly hour. I explained my situation, and asked whether he had any gas for which I would be more than willing to pay ten dollars for just one gallon. He smiled and listened with the patience of the old, then stepped out onto the porch and intro-duced himself as John Rose. I laughed to myself as I thought of the Farmer John scenario I had dreaded earlier, but the hand he offered bore me no malice. Old man or not, his firm handshake underlined a tremendous strength beneath that hard-calloused palm. “Well,” he said, rubbing the two-day stub-ble on his chin, “I do keep a gas can for my lawn-mower out back. Should be a good two gallon or more in it. I’ll run and fetch it. But you don’t owe me a thing, young man. Just have yourself a seat here. I’ll be right back and we’ll get ya home.” Before I could protest on the payment, he was off the porch and headed around the back into the darkness. I decided to just wait until we had finished with the gas to insist on his taking my ten dollars. Standing on the porch, I could see just up ahead another farm, set back from the road by a good three hundred yards, with an outside light and tall corn silo. Like the rest of St. Mary’s there was not a light in sight. Good thing I had found Mr. Rose when I had, I thought, or that could have been the scene of the prowler’s demise. I was

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just beginning to bask in the feeling of relief when a woman’s voice called to me. “Would you care for some iced tea?” I turned to see an elderly women stand-ing at the screen door. Like Mr. Rose, she seemed the product of a life spent on a farm. A one-piece house dress with a rose pattern, her wolf-grey hair tied in a tight bun on top of her head. Her bright green eyes seemed to be made cat-like and large through what must have been powerful prescrip-tion glasses. Her demeanor, like that of her elderly companion, was one of gentile hospitality and kindness. “That’s okay, ma’am”, I said, “I don’t want to put you through any more trouble.” “Oh, pooh!” She said with a wave of her hand, one of which I noted bore a dull gold wed-ding band, “Ain’t no trouble at all. Everybody needs a little help sometime. You sit yourself down and I’ll bring you some tea.” Her decision made and all matter of argu-ment over, she was gone back in the house with a bang from the spring loaded screen door. I smiled and thought of my grandmother. There’s no saying no to the elderly once they have their mind set. It’s just better to acquiesce and be appreciative. I had no more than sat down than she reappeared hold-ing out a glass full of iced tea. The glass had red and yellow poke-a-dots and a small chip at the lip. I remembered that my grandmother had a similar set. The tea was cold and very sweet, just how I liked it. She took a seat in the indoor-turned-out-door chair, and I caught that unmistakable sour scent of the old. It was comforting, reminding me of beloved grandparents, but equally disturbing, as one subconsciously realizes they are being exposed to the early scent of progressive decay of the hu-man body. Now that my mind was free of anxiety, I began to relax, and noted the smell of the fields and the sound of the chirping crickets playing their night song. My elderly company told me that

her name was Elsie Rose, and that she and John had been married over fifty years. She inquired as to where I was going, and I explained that I was from Kentucky but lived now in Michigan with my wife and two children. I was going back to Kentucky to finish up some property tax business on some land I had inherited. She explained that she and John had moved to Ohio from Tennessee back in the early fifties, had raised their children, and were now retired. “All my children have moved away now,” she said, a trace of sadness in her voice as she stared out into the night. “I miss seeing them, and wish they would come home. So when I see another mother’s child stranded,” she said turn-ing a sly glance at me, “It seem only right I get that child back to her safe and sound. That’s what God would have me do.” I had just thanked her for the tea and pleasant company when John suddenly appeared from around the house, bearing an old beat up five gallon gas can in hand. It took us only a few minutes to pour what turned out to be a full five gallons into the tank, and prime the carburetor. Once I had the car started, I stepped over to the old man with the ten dollars already in-hand. Now it was time to insist. “Listen, Mr. Rose,” I said my voice firm and determined,” you take this money. I feel hor-rible about disturbing you wonderful people here in the dead of the night. It will make me feel bet-ter, and it’s only right for me to pay for your gas.” The whole time I talked his eyes were squeezed shut, has hands in the air waving me off, and shaking his head in defiance of my argument. “Absolutely not, young man,” he insisted, “I have children myself. And I would only hope that if they were lost and stranded on some back road that the Good Lord would send some angels to help them to get on home safe. So you keep ya money.” “But. . . ” I began, but he had already

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turned and headed back toward the house with a final wave over his shoulder. “Get on home boy, and God bless ya.” With that said, he was back in the house. I smiled and stuffed the money back in my pocket. No arguing with the elderly once their mind is set, I thought again. It was best just to acquiesce and be appreciative. I climbed back in my car to see the gas hand back at a wondrous quarter of a tank, and headed for I-75 and the bluegrass state. It was two days later and I was once again on good old I-75, this time headed north, back to my wife and children. My business had been settled easily enough, and I was now cruising through Ohio in the middle of the day, and this time with the fuel gauge needle buried well past ‘F’. I had not mentioned to my family in Ken-tucky what had happened. After all, it was my own procrastination and lack of attention that had put me in that bind, and it was not a mistake I wanted to broadcast. Yet as I neared Findlay, I could not shake the feeling of guilt for not com-pensating the Roses for their hospitality. As I got closer to the Findlay exit, I had already made up my mind as to the course of action I was going to take to ease my conscience. I had the gas and time, and this time I knew where I was going. I would drive up to the Rose’s, deposit ten dollars in their mailbox, and drive away. That way there would be no objection or chance of refusal. I soon found my way back to the road between Findlay and St Mary’s. The fields of corn were bright green in the sun with the smell of hay in the hot summer air. As I neared St Mary’s I suddenly realized I had passed the still insistent flea market billboard and had not seen the little house. I promptly turned around. Obviously I was disoriented, as my surroundings looked complete-ly different in the light of day. On my second at-tempt I became more puzzled, as once again I did not find the little house. I did notice the farm I had seen before from the Rose’s porch, and a man

on a tractor mowing the field in front of his house. The Rose’s house had to be right here somewhere. I turned around in his drive way and headed back. On both attempts I had noticed a lone chimney on the side of the road and the remnants of a burned-out house. It was on my third trip back from the flea market sign that I realized this was the site of the Rose’s little home. “Dear God!” I exclaimed, “Their house burned down!” As I pulled up beside the mailbox and I got out of the car, I noted that I could still see the tire marks in the mud where I had stopped here two nights before. When I walked up to the gate of the little worn fence, I already knew that there was something terribly wrong with what I was looking at. The house had indeed burned down, and burned to the ground at that. All that was left was the scorched foundation blocks and the chimney. The ground inside was covered in black charcoal, with burnt cans, broken dishes and other debris scattered about in the ashes. A set of mattress springs lay charred in one corner. But that was not all. Weeds, some yellowed with age, were growing within the foundation walls. The mattress springs were completely rusted. In front of the chimney a small tree had taken root, standing nearly three feet tall, with small leaves on its tiny limbs.I looked around, my heart suddenly beating fast. Blood was pounding in my temples as I stood there completely baffled by a slowly encroaching realization. I finally said it aloud, just to make it feel real: “This house burned down years ago!” I had always thought of myself as some-one very level-headed, who believed in only what was tangible and immanent. However, this defied everything I had come to know as real and solid in the world. My mind tried to grasp for reason in this strange development. Had I dreamed it? Was it some form of hallucination? But then how

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do you hallucinate five gallons of gas? I had been on fumes, and the car died right in from of that mailbox. Had the tea that I had drank from the poke-a-dot glass with a chip on the lip, its taste lingering on my tongue for over an hour, had that been pretend tea? No. I couldn’t be the same house. I was mistaken. I had come to the Rose’s in the middle of the night full of stress and anxiety and now, in the light of day, I had merely come back to the wrong place. That was the answer. That was the only thing that made sense. How-ever, when I looked back at the farm ahead, the farmer still cutting his front field, and at the old mailbox nailed to that sun-bleached fence post, in my heart I knew there was no mistake. The words from one of Shakespeare’s play ran through my mind, though I could not remember which one: there are greater things than anything dreamed of in your philosophy. My head felt dreamy, and the world seemed surreal as I climbed back into my car. I was unsure how to proceed. My instincts screamed with the fear of the unknown, and gave me an urge to just start the car and take off like a bat out of hell. Forget this place; forget the Rose’s, and forget their phantom house! Yet, I had to know. Deep down, I knew I had to know the truth. If not, I would always wonder if I hadn’t been irrational all along, and merely set off in a mad panic before looking at the situation with a cool head. I could hear the drone of the tractor engine in the distance, and it gave me my plan. As I drove up the drive way of the farm, the man on the tractor had already taken note and was driving to meet me half-way. It was confirma-tion of the weariness I felt that night, the distrust of the farmer when it comes to strangers on his property. He stopped as I came to a stop, and I looked up at him from my car window as he sat on his John Deere and cut off the engine. He was a tall, muscularly-built man of middle age. Like

John Rose, he had the look of one used to toiling beneath the hot sun. He pulled off his cap with the Dale Earnhardt 3 logo and wiped his face and forehead with a handkerchief as he spoke. “Can I help you?” He said, with a tone that seemed slightly annoyed at having his work disrupted by this unknown intruder. “Yes,” I began, “I was passing through and decided to stop by and check on some old fam-ily friends we haven’t heard from in awhile, but I’m having trouble finding their house. By any chance, do you know where a John and Elsie Rose live at around here?” The man eyed me intently, and his face took on the look of one who was being forced to relate bad news. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh,” You found the right place. I saw you down there at the old house. I was the one who called the fire depart-ment. They said it was old wiring. The place went up like a tinderbox in the middle of the night. By the time I saw the flames and got down there it was way too late. The place was a ball of fire and the roof had already caved in.” I felt a huge lump rise in my throat, and the mist of tears in my eyes. “And John and Elise, they…” I began to ask, but he merely shook his head and cut me off. “They never made it outta bed.” he said, a bit of water in his eyes, whether from the sun or sadness I could not tell. “They said that the smoke got to ‘em before the fire did. I hope that’s true and they didn’t suffer none. John and Elsie were good people. I bought this farm off of ‘em, all but their little home place. Their kids moved off a long time back, and we kinda looked after ‘em. Sad way to go.” My head seemed to swim, that surreal feeling becoming more intense with each revela-tion that came out of his mouth. “When did this happen?” I managed to ask, noting my voice sounded feeble and child-

15

like. “Let’s see…” he mumbled. He scratched his head as though it would help him calculate the time, but only managed to make his sweaty hair stand on end. “Been five years ago this month.” Five years! I simply nodded, as I could find no words. “Well,” he said turning his tractor back on and slapping the cap back on his sweaty head. “Sorry to be the one who had to tell ya. You have my condolences. Love to chat, but I gotta get this mowing done before the sun goes down. God bless ya.” And with that prompt and stoic condo-lence, he was gone in a whirl of spinning blades and diesel smoke. Five minutes later I found myself standing in front of that little burned-out house. How long I stood there, I cannot tell. My mind pondered on many things. Had someone drove passed that night, what would they have seen? Would they have seen a man and old woman enjoying some tea on the porch of a run-down farmhouse, or a man standing alone in the middle of a burnt out ruin, talking to someone who was not there? Funny what the mind can conjure up when con-fronted with the un-natural. Yet the question that pressed upon my brain was not whether the expe-rience had been real, of that I had no doubt. My only question was, why? Why had I been given such an odd blessing in the middle of the night on some deserted Ohio road? I tossed it over and over in mind, but found no answer. I was tired of thinking, and just shut my eyes and listened the world around me. I could smell the corn and fresh cut hay from the farm next door. A warm wind rustled through the small tree beside the chimney, and the whole place had a peaceful calm. A peace and calm that seemed to settle within me, like a warm and welcoming fire for the benefit of my soul. I could almost hear John Rose’s voice in the soft rustles of the wind in the rows of corn:

“I have children myself. And I would only hope that if they were lost and stranded on some back road, that the Good Lord would send some angels to help them to get on home safe. So you keep ya money. Get on home boy, and God bless ya.” I smiled. It was answer enough. It’s best to just acquiesce and be appreciative. Looking around, I also knew that, once again, it was good advice. The sun was beginning to set, and the crickets had once again started their nocturnal song. It was time to go, time for me to “get on home” to my waiting family. However, I wasn’t going anywhere without paying my debt. I walked over to the mailbox, laid the ten dollar bill inside, and respectfully closed the lid. I turned my eyes up into the sky, looking for the first time in my life for the heaven they say is beyond the clouds. “Ten dollars is a good deal for two angels.” I said with a smile. As I climbed back in my car and started the engine, I knew that this had been an experi-ence for which I would never speak of again, and never tell to a living soul. I looked back at the burnt–out ruin that had once been the home of John and Elsie Rose for the last time, visualizing the house with its soft flickering lights of salvation as I had seen it just days before. “Thanks John and Elsie,” I said aloud with a slight catch in my voice, “Get on home now, and God bless ya.”

16

Kwok Li

17

Samai Somdasack

18

Danika Smith

19

Greg Leddy

20

Fred Rosso

21

Suzanne Fackler

Camille Norris

22

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Age has nothing to do with innocence. I knew a man once who remained innocent all his life. But he was the only one I knew of. As he has nothing to do with this story, I will move on. But as a matter of fact, I must tell you, there are many ways to lose your innocence but only one way to keep it.

With his arms wrapped around the trunk of the tree, James paid little attention to the incom-ing silver clouds that stumbled over themselves. Instead, he watched the leaves whip into little spirals where the two walls formed a corner in the backyard. Those spirals spiraled upwards and disappeared only to form again a few feet away. Actually, this story should start with sweet LouLou. She was standing off to the side, under the drooping and long branches of the willow tree. During the right season, the willow tree could be quite beautiful, but it wasn’t the right season, and its roots battled against the heavy brick wall that ran the exterior of the backyard. Her worried gaze shifted back and forth from the Sickly shed to the back door of the house, as if waiting to see the winner of a tug-of-war match. She was biting her nails, sending bits of them dancing into the wind. This wasn’t just a hobby or bad–habit for LouLou. She couldn’t live without it. She was good at it and most importantly, she used the time to think and at this very instance, she was thinking hard at trying to predict the future. A short set of legs dropped down from a tree branch and Stevie Beard swung back and forth like a monkey, which caused the branches to rustle. LouLou knew who it was and didn’t bother looking.

“It’s going to happen today,” LouLou pre-dicted seriously, momentarily removing her pinky finger from its daily trimming. “Nah, not today,” Stevie answered auto-matically. LouLou knew he was going to say that. She also knew Stevie didn’t always believe it. He always put it off and was also fond of arguing. He would just argue about it until everybody stopped arguing. He wasn’t mean and certainly never screamed. He was patient and calm and just liked to argue. “It’s been too long. Today just feels…like it will get worse,” LouLou replied. “It’s only been a little while. You always think today is the day,” Stevie said. On the bright side, Stevie Beard always argued for the brighter side of things, or at least he tried. He was a short boy and hated keeping his feet on the ground – truly hated it. He was the kind of boy who would do things like tight-rope walk a tree branch, squat down and swing like an acrobat, and the other kids would mutter with-out knowing it, “I want to do that.” Ms. Diffner let him do it because he had always done it. He would climb the staircase on the outside of the banister, inserting his toes in each hole, and jump the railing at the top with ease. Stevie looked at the Sickly shed. “They never come out this late,” he said, but quickly corrected himself. “Not with the dead anyway.” A third voice came from a boy hugged around the trunk of the tree. “Today is it. You can always tell,” James said. “See, I told you,” LouLou blurted out. “If you guys say that every single day, sooner or later, you’re bound to be right,” Stevie said,

The First Funeral Procession

by James Gain

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swinging his legs so he could feel the bark rub against his palms. LouLou and Jamess stood in silence. The three of them stared back and forth between the Sickly shed and the house. Stevie let himself swing to a stop. “It’s gonna be Willy, too!” LouLou erupted, spitting a bit of nail to the ground. “No way it will be Willy,” James shot back, walking forward to be even with LouLou. “It won’t be Willy!” Stevie agreed from above. LouLou twisted around with a small smile, “Then you do think it’s today.” Stevie ignored LouLou. He pulled himself up, threw his right leg on the branch, wiggled himself to a standing position and walked to a suitable jumping height and leapt. He landed like a spring and a moment later, stood between LouLou and James. He took one last look at the Sickly shed, the back of the house and the children playing in the yard. “You’re right,” he said. “To-day is the day…it’s too quiet.” “I’m asking Ms. Diffner today,” LouLou said. “No you’re not,” James said, just as fast. “You promised.” Stevie shook his head wearily and turned to James. “Why do you always tell her she’s not? She always says that and she never does it. Nobody does. . . nobody ever has…nobody. . .” “I’m not nobody,” LouLou said. “Lou, don’t be so…” Stevie started, but James cut him off. “Nobody has ever gotten anything from Ms. Diffner!” “Ever,” agreed Stevie. “No point,” James said annoyingly. “Only make her mad,” Stevie said in his calm but argumentative voice. “She hates when

kids ask. Probably hold back anything she knew, just for asking.” “Plus, you promised,” James repeated. “A promise is a promise.” LouLou hated it when they ganged up on her and she didn’t have anything to say. Of course, she kind of did it on purpose. She knew what they were going to say, they had said it before, and being angry at least made her feel she was doing something about it. Every single day she had this itch, and every single day she didn’t do anything about it, but every single day it came back and the pressure was building. She knew that some of the children came to the house with their names, and others were named on their arrival. She could remember a time when she actually thought Righter was her last name, but she didn’t think it now. She was convinced it wasn’t. She knew, for certain, Right-er was not her last name. There wasn’t anyone old enough at the house to remember if she came in with that name and it was hard to know exact ages, because nobody had them. James and Stevie both seemed a year or two older and they had told her from experience, the itch would pass. And she believed them at first but it hadn’t gone away. Stevie told her she was being impa-tient. James said, no matter what, don’t ask Ms. Diffner. But Ms. Diffner was the only person that could help, and LouLou didn’t believe she was as bad as they made her sound. Why would she get mad for just asking? And if she isn’t going to help me anyway, thought LouLou, what difference does it really make? “If nobody has ever gotten anything from her and nobody ever will, what have I got to lose?” LouLou asked, happy with a new conclu-sion to an old conversation. Stevie and James both assumed they would

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have a good answer, but when they opened their mouths, nothing came out. LouLou was right. She had nothing to lose. She was also right about another funeral procession happening today. To-day was the day. “You may have nothing to lose,” James said. “But you don’t have anything to gain either. So, why would you do it?” I hate it when he says smart stuff, thought LouLou. Stevie was sure to chime in now. “You just don’t think she can be that mean because she doesn’t act mean. She doesn’t scream a lot, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Stevie chimed in, which gave LouLou a moment to think of an answer. Pulling a finger from her mouth, she added, “But why does she take care of us? Why would she keep that from us and take care of us at the same time? Doesn’t she want us to have families?” Neither Stevie nor James answered. They all waited for the inevitable. Even if the funeral pro-cession didn’t happen today, sooner or later, like the sun, the moon, and the stars, it would come around. It always did. Maybe they’re right, LouLou thought. But she couldn’t believe Ms. Diffner would keep information just because someone asked for it. Who would do that? And if that was the truth…fine. Even if she didn’t want to hear it, if it was the truth, than it was the truth and she wanted it. Something had to change. She couldn’t live with it like this. LouLou hadn’t truly decided if she was going to ask Ms. Diffner but she knew if it kept bothering her this much, she was going to ex-plode. At that very moment, Ms. Diffner stood slack against a filing cabinet gazing into an oval mirror. The mirror was laid into a wooden frame that was also an oval. It was golden but was worn

down and the wood peeked through in places. Twelve knobs, like the numbers of a clock, went around the oval. She would stare at herself for hours. Normally, she stood tall, totally erect and held her chin stiffly out from her straight back. Her calm demeanor and direct movements lent her an aura of power which was entirely true. Her skin was taut and clean, and vitality leapt from her eyes. She was strong for being so skinny, and she exuded such confidence that the very idea of questioning her on any matter, whether to do with taking care of children or not, seemed fruitless. In a deep trance, she was lost in her pale-blue eyes that were cropped between the dark hair that fell straight down on either side of her face. She quivered in front of the mirror, little shaking convulsions that abruptly ended when three loud bongs rang out from inside the Sickly shed. As she moved to get her coat, all the children in the yard came to a stop. It wasn’t so much a stop as it was a screeching halt. LouLou, Stevie and James knew what would happen next. They had seen it too many times and they didn’t bother looking as Ms. Diffner opened the back door and walked down the stone path, stopping thirty feet in front of the Sickly shed. Everybody was thinking the same exact thing. Who would it be? Which Sickly had suc-cumbed to the disease? Even Ms. Diffner didn’t know what hap-pened inside the Sickly shed. Nobody knew. You didn’t go in unless you were a Sickly. Would it be the Chief? Could Willy have finally given in? Chatter had turned into rumor and rumor into hope that Willy might beat the disease; after all, he lasted longer than anyone

26

before him. LouLou wasn’t thinking about hope but she felt it. She felt something else, too. Her eyes pulled away from the shed and gravity turned upside down in her stomach. Ms. Diffner looked at her with the corners of her mouth slightly curled. She tilted her head to the side and raised her hand to her mouth, pretending to bite her fingernails, and then yanked it away like a soldier’s salute. LouLou lowered her hand from her mouth as she guiltily ejected one last bit of nail. The shed door that served as an entrance to the Sickly home opened, revealing the darkness within. Ms. Diffner faced forward and straight-ened her clothes and straightened her back and straightened her neck even straighter than they al-ready had been. She made herself ready for presen-tation as was her custom. She always respected the dead and took great care to see they were buried properly, although really, that was Mr. Jumper’s job. The funeral processions were always quite a scene. Funerals should always be a spectacle; after all, the inevitable has arrived, the miracle is over and what had been is no more. Hopeless dread filled the children’s faces as they waited for some-one to appear in the doorway. The anticipation was palpable and beat like a heart. Breath held, lungs momentarily stopped, blood creeping to a stand-still and it felt like Mother Nature’s invisible child stopped blowing for a moment. Who would be the next Sickly that died? Moving slowly out of the darkness, Willy stepped into the light. A small smile broke across the children’s faces to know he still lived. The tension let out only for a moment because even though Willy was alive, someone else wasn’t. It has to be Cara, thought LouLou. Cara was the second oldest Sickly and the next most likely to be dead. But breathing heavily, Cara stumbled out the door next. Ms. Diffner and the

normal children didn’t find the Sicklies terrible to look at, but that was only because they were used to it. Both Willy and Cara were short and thin, too thin. Their skin was ashen and empty and sat heavy and wrinkled, falling from their bodies. As the Sicklies aged, their faced screwed up more and more, like pain wracked their bodies at all times. Willy’s shoulders slumped forward and long, pathetic hair came from the sides of his head and stretched downwards to mix together with a thin, bedraggled beard. Wheezing, Willy stopped in front of Ms. Diffner and Cara next to him. Two lines of Sicklies, younger looking than Willy and Cara, walked out in two parallel lines, as they always did for the procession, and between them, resting on their shoulders, was a board, the board they always used, and on the board, resting forever under a sheet, was Jacob. The wind snuck under the sheet and it whirled and whipped around. The sheet was pinned under their shoulders, as was the cus-tom, so it kept hidden the dead. The children knew it was a rare disease that leapt from child to child, and the more still they stood during the funeral procession, the less likely the disease was to find its way into their nose and infect them while they slept. All the children knew this because Ms. Diffner had told them. This is how children learn things. Adults tell them and children believe. “When a Sickly dies, the disease escapes and it’s attracted by motion, you see,” Ms. Diffner would say when they needed reminding. Also, she loved when the kids stared at her with rapt attention. “The disease floats about, light as the air, lighter even, but if you stand absolutely still, it can float right by you. But if you run around, you whip up the wind and the disease can ride right up your nose and grab your brain!”

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Ms. Diffner loved these dinner lectures. She might whip her head around to the corner of the room to stop a child mid-chew. “Scientifically, of course, they haven’t proven it; they can’t find a cure or anything but trust me, I’ve been around for a long time and I have perfected standing still. How do you think I’m still alive?” Nobody ever answered Ms. Diffner. As the dead body got closer and closer, Ms. Diffner stood in the center of it all, tall, erect and perfectly still. The children knew Ms. Differ would give something she called a eulogy. “Jacob was a very young boy. I think about him before he was taken, before he was unfairly taken by it. He was such a nice child. And it pains me to stand weak in front of the power of fate. We kneel before history, before all those who came before us, and we ask, what could have we done differently? Why us? Why Jacob? We ask! But nothing is said in return. If we are to suffer, we ask why. Why? Jacob deserved an answer, we all deserve an answer. There is no answer; we receive nothing in return for our struggle, but struggle we must. We will remember Jacob; we will remember his smile, his kindness and we will use it as our strength. Jacob, good night child. Perhaps now…now that you are past the point of no return, you have the answer we are all denied in life. Rest in Peace.” LouLou was searching for anything that might push her in the direction of Ms. Diffner. And it was true; Ms. Diffner always remembered something about the children from before they were taken. Jacob was a nice boy. It must be hard for Ms. Diffner, too. She appeared to take each death seriously and she still had to run a house with children everywhere. She just didn’t have time to deal with every request. LouLou decided Stevie and James were wrong about Ms. Diffner. She was certainly right about one thing and the

words bounced around LouLou’s head, “…but struggle we must!” Willy bowed his head, as did Cara, and the procession hobbled along the stone pathway that led to the doorway through the exterior wall that formed the backyard. James tweaked the direction of his eyeballs ever so slightly, making sure not to move, so he could see through the open door. There stood a man in a ratty suit with a crumpled tie. His name was Carl Jumpers and the children saw him now and again. He helped Ms. Diffner when she needed helping. He was a square-faced man, except for his high, round cheek bones. His nose was flat and turned at right angles back towards his face. His chin stuck out strongly and, just like his nose, his jaw-line angled straight back into a thick neck. He looked like he might pull a tree from the ground. The Sicklies filed out the door and paid no mind to Carl Jumpers. A moment later, they returned without the body. That was it. That’s all anybody knew, and these nights were the worst for the normal chil-dren. There had to be twelve Sicklies and now there was only eleven. Come tomorrow, there would be twelve again. It was inevitable. The disease would get another child. It always did. Once the Sicklies filed back into the shed and closed the door, Ms. Diffner raised her arms and hands in the air in one straight line like she might be directing a plane to the runway and just as quickly, she dropped them. “Now!” she would announce, and all the kids moved awkwardly, without any intention. They just moved. Like a symphony of children, they moved under the baton of Ms. Diffner be-cause that was only fair. That way, the disease had an equal chance at everyone.

Juan Carlos Reyes

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Placed Within the Blue

by Johnathan K. Johnson

Our tiny canoes

Oars softly clapping, pulling

Through a cobalt sea

The difference between small

And the great blue that surrounds

Golden gods made us

A tribe to rule island seas

Bronze bodies, wet locks

My people, swept in a tide

There! The isle! The Paradise!

An island alter

My mother’s dreams set. “Selah!”

Loved, and made to be

“Panginoon ay Biyaya”

Baptism of holy son.

Placed within the blue

Caressed and carried by bliss

Poseidon’s delight

Cradled me, in limitless

Depths of marvel… I yearn still.

I absconded joy.

Somewhere, secretly it drifts.

Awaiting its kin

Searching horizon afar

Penetrating… the dark deep

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Len Parry

30

31

Flow with No Ebb

by Lisa Reyes

Over and Over

Repetition of the waves.....Pounding

The leak is slow and silent

Unnoticed

It empties its contents

The spills pool

in my legs

my arms

my eyes

My shoulders tighten with the lack of sunlight

Only to rise

With the repetition of the waves. . . Pounding

Ed Canning

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Vuong Le

Ligua Richter