Cover design “Narrative Copy” by Jimmy Walton

Volume 49 2010-11

A publication of the Department of English Franklin, Indiana

The Apogee is an annual publication of the Department of English at Franklin College. The faculty advisor posts submissions anonymously to the magazine’s web page; the staff selects the work for publication without knowing the identity of the author or the artist. Magazine policy generally limits selections to three per artist to ensure the greatest variety possible. Special thanks to Alan Hill, Vice President for Enrollment and Marketing, and David Brailow, Vice President for Academic Affairs, whose generous contributions made this issue possible.

Table of Contents

The Folded Poem Craig Parker 1 Silent Serenade Kate Hufford 2 Tryptych Maggie Crouch 4 Window Tim Grimes 5 The Future Carlee Hudock 6 Flower Renee King 9 paroxysm Bart Leonard 10 That Place Ben Fisher 11 A Moment of Grace Craig Parker 12 No, I’m not a Jonas Brother K. Lynch, J. Crothers 14 Snapshots of Love Tiffany Tibbot 15 Crash Course in Redecorating Tiffany Tibbot 16 Ceramic Josh Allison 17 Random? Hm. Chelsea Parks 18 Mollified Boogeyman Mary Redding 20 The Remains Ashley Konsdorf 24 A Lifetime of Wishes Carlee Hudock 25 The Last Stone Ashley Konsdorf 26 The Man Zac Wilson 27 Twisted metal Krista Coy 32 my promise to be careful what Craig Parker 33

buttons I push Conservation Matters Keara Williams 34 The Roots of This Town Ashley Konsdorf 36 Washed Up Carlee Hudock 37 Vase Josh Allison 40 Penance Kate Hufford 41 Only a Mother Knows Kristen Stout 42 The Deception of Silence Nikki Sullivan 44 Football Is a Girl’s Sport Paige E. Hamilton 45 Sea Breeze Krista Coy 49 Forbidden Love Notes Maggie Crouch 50 Cast Off Craig Parker 52 Old Main Drew Sparks 54 Overthinking Tiffany Tibbot 55 Symmetrical Silence Ashley Konsdorf 56 The staff 57

The Folded Poem by Craig Parker

I wrote these lines on a paper airplane about how I made a paper airpoem and launched it with casual and complete accuracy straight at your heart but it was caught on the updraft of your expectations and poked you in the eye so it didn’t matter anymore how much of myself was folded into it with your palm pressed to your face all you could say was don’t do that again and all I can say as I start to fold myself into something new is you’d better learn to blink

1

Apogee Award for Excellence in Fiction

Silent Serenade by Kate Hufford

Mel leaned over the tomato cage and inhaled deeply, relishing the plant’s

prickly scent. Her fingers brushed through the leaves, encouraging more of the aroma into the air. In between the lush green leaves, ruby red tomatoes peeked out at her. A summer breeze brushed playfully past, ruffling her short hair. Lifting her face to the sun, Mel smiled softly as the rays warmed her tan cheeks.

The soft whir of a bicycle made her eyes snap open. Mel spun in excitement, anxiously waiting for the source of the sound. Seconds later, a small girl in a yellow sundress zigzagged down the street. Shoulders dipping in disappointment, she turned back to the sagging plants. Her fingers absently tugged at a ripe tomato, freeing one of the stems from its weighty burden. The rich, too-red color of the fruit drew her thoughts back to the previous week—to why she was straining to hear bicycle tires scraping against the pavement.

The first time Mel saw him, his floppy, red, fisherman’s hat had merely amused her. Face hidden behind the pages of a book, she had suppressed a giggle as the athletic young man biked past her house, hat drooping into his eyes. As the days passed, he continued to go by—always at the same time, always shirtless, always wearing the same red hat. Thinking of him as part of her day, Mel had come to enjoy his appearances. Growing tired of using a pronoun to identify the biker, she chose to call him Flinn. Sometimes, Flinn languidly glided down the road, one hand guiding the bike with the other swinging gently by his side. On others he would be crouched over the bicycle’s frame pedaling furiously; Mel liked to imagine that Flinn was racing with the wind, or challenging it to catch him.

Shaking her head, Mel stood up and snapped back out of her memories. How pathetic was it to yearn after someone she had never even really met?

2

Still staring at the tomato, Mel snorted quietly, realizing that she had been endeared to Flinn by his choice of headwear. But… it makes him different. I like that, she thought. She also liked his muscular frame and strong jaw. Whatever the reason, Flinn broke up the monotony of Mel’s summer days. Content to admire silently as she worked and waited, Mel knelt back down among the plants.

Kit leaned anxiously to one side, zipping around a passing car and ignoring the irritated look the driver shot him. Glancing at his watch, he grumbled under his breath. I’m late. What if I miss her? What if she’s already gone inside? Disappointment flooded through him at the thought of continuing his 20-mile ride without getting a glimpse of his usual pick-me-up.

The wind ripped at his hat as he pedaled faster. Kit yanked on its red brim, ensuring that the rush of air wouldn’t run away with it. Pebbles skittered across the road as he rounded a corner too quickly. As the house he was looking for came into view, Kit slowed the bike’s breakneck speed. His eyes roved hungrily over the front lawn, but to no avail. Kit stretched fretfully over the handlebars, straining to see around the side of the house.

Finally… Grinning widely, Kit watched as the girl he’d been looking for drew a hand through her dark, pixie cut hair. Russet skin and sharp cheekbones stood out in the sunlight as she studied something in her hand. A dark smudge of soil flecked her jaw where she had drawn her hand absently down her face. His gaze traveled from her downturned eyes to her cupid bow lips…

Abruptly, she disappeared from view as his bike carried him relentlessly forward. Kit sighed as he pulled his eyes back to the road ahead. He imagined the whir of his bicycle as a soft serenade, begging the girl to look up and finally meet his imploring eyes.

3

Triptych Collage, Maggie Crouch

4

Award for Excellence in Nonfiction

Window by Tim Grimes

Today, the second floor of the library is hot and deserted. The sun

streams in through the window, illuminating the faded gold spines of thousand-year-old books. I, like most, am glad that spring has finally come. I take off my new, crisp, black and white flannel shirt and settle down to another hour of trying to write another essay for another class about something I could really care less about.

My eyes drift to the window. The naked trees are starting to fill again with the nests of the blue jay and the cardinal. It's a nice day. The type of day people like, but never truly appreciate. As a song with a dancetastic beat blares through my headphones, I see one of the large jocks (football, probably) unknowingly stepping in time to the song. A group of fresh, wide-eyed high school seniors saunter across campus, ignoring both their guide, a sophomore girl who’s trying to make brick-and-mortar buildings sound interesting, and their fear and anxiety over what they want to do with their lives. For today, the sun is shining and they’re missing sixth-period calculus. For today, that is enough.

5

The Future by Carlee Hudock

She drove her car to the spot. The special spot. The spot that no one knew

about—at least, no one important. She parked her car off the side of the so-called road; the pavement turned to gravel, which turned to dirt, which turned to nothing but grass and faint ruts in the ground from the last time that same vehicle made the journey to this same place. She turned the car off but left the keys dangling in the ignition. They bounced off of one another; a slow, rhythmic sound that reminded her of bells. Da-ding da-ding da-ding. Her eyes glistened as she stepped out of the vehicle, and she began to walk.

The sun beat down upon her tanned shoulders, and sweat began to gather at the base of her neck, darkening the auburn hair that clung to her back. She pulled her hair up into a high bun, and as she did so, she looked up to the sky. She saw light, fluffy clouds and began to look for a familiar shape—a dog, a cat, a heart, anything. But she saw nothing.

It was their weekend getaway: a getaway they promised themselves they’d take at least once a month to keep their marriage alive—not that it needed any help. They spread out a blanket with a bottle of wine and neither one of them could tell whether they were drunk or just giddy with life—the wine was light; it might as well have been grapes—but their laughter made their stomachs ache, and tears streamed down their faces. They stared at the sky, and he saw a dolphin leaping from one of those miraculous collections of water particles suspended in the air. She saw a cloud. He had always been a creative man, seeing beyond what most people saw. He joked that she was fortunate for that—if he had only been able to see the very things in front of him, he would have never been able to see past her rude, sarcastic ways and into her even more callous soul. She punched him lightly, acting offended, and he rolled over backwards, acting hurt. Then he leaped up, grabbed her, and kissed her laughing lips, but all acting was gone, and that was how they spent the rest of the evening, staring at the stars and listening to the ocean crash against the rocks, hundreds of feet below the very cliff by which they sat.

The climb was getting steeper, and the sweat that glistened at the base of her neck now trickled down her spine and into her yellow tank top. Gnats gathered around her face as the trees began to thicken. She did not bother to

6

swat them away. Her mind was on the cool bead of sweat she felt rolling slowly down her back.

It was her wedding day. In January, she had picked out the most beautiful dress she had ever seen for her wedding in August. As she stood in the doorway, about to walk down the aisle, she realized that a comfortable wedding dress in January is not a comfortable dress in August. Her bridesmaids in their light, yellow summer dresses—curse them—formed a circle around her, trying to fan away the heat. It did not help. Her back was soaked, her mouth was dry, and the music began to play. One by one, her perky, dry bridesmaids walked down the aisle, and she forced a happy smile as she lugged her heavy load toward her future husband. He smiled a genuine smile and held both of her damp hands.

“The next time I do this marriage business, I think I’ll choose December,” she whispered.

He laughed out loud just as the music stopped, echoing through the non-air-conditioned church and provoking some uncertain smiles from the congregation. Then he smeared a bead of sweat from above her lips and leaned in to steal a quick kiss. The minister coughed disapprovingly.

“Sorry, sir,” he chuckled. “She just looks so darn good right now. You think we can speed this thing up?”

She then snorted a very loud and unladylike snort, provoking even more uncertain smiles from the congregation. As they danced later that night, she felt lighter than a dolphin-shaped cloud, wedding bells ringing in her head: da-ding, da-ding, da-ding.

The trees were thicker now, and the climb was steeper, but she could see an opening ahead. Just as she was about to reach flat land, she lost her footing, scraping her knee on a jagged rock. She sucked in her breath, watching the blood ooze slowly to the surface of the wound.

It was the first time he had brought her to the spot. She was eight and he was nine. He told her that he knew of a magical place that no one else in the world knew about. They rode their bikes to the very place where her vehicle was now parked and dropped them in a mad rush to get to the magical spot. They were sprinting, and as they came upon the treacherous climb, covered with thick trees, rocks, and brush, he tied his jacket around his waist and told her to hang on to the back.

They made it almost to the top when her sweaty, slippery hands lost their grip, and she fell, sliding a few feet down the hill and skinning both of her

7

knees. He helped her to the top as she cried and sat her down on a fallen log. He began to rip part of his t-shirt to wrap around the scrapes, but the instant the cloth touched her skin, she yelped in pain.

“You have to blow on it first!” she whimpered. “That’s the way Mama does it. That’s how she makes the sting go away!”

He leaned down and blew his cool breath on her knees, shushing her and telling her that it would be all right. Then, he wrapped the makeshift bandages around the scrapes, held her hand, and walked her to the special spot.

When she got to the top, the sun was the only thing she saw. She squinted and began to walk toward the edge of the cliff where she sat down, feeling the cool breeze whip across her body; hearing the birds chirp in the distance; almost tasting the cool water that crashed with a thunderous roar below her. She felt the comforting weight of him holding her; the soft pressure of his lips on hers; his cool breath calming her. The sun was setting now, and the heat melted into her soul. She lifted her tired body into a sitting position and stared down at her hands. On her left sat a beautiful solitaire, surrounded by two smaller diamonds. Our past, present, and future, he had once said. On her right sat a single, thick band, too big for the finger it rested on. She stood up, thinking about the past and the present, and she jumped.

8

Flower Drawing by Renee King

9

paroxysm Photograph, Bart Leonard

10

That Place by Ben Fisher

This place It smells like Innocences Lost to summer In a sense Like pollen Stuck to bodies Damp with Early evenin’ Sweat And blushes Left from Berries burst And wicked, golden Chardonnay Of honeysuckle Tendencies All smiles And sighs And silence

This place It feels like Leaden hands As heavy as A fever Like ev’ry Quilt or afghan Wrought by Some old father’s Mother And denim Soaked from Running in The rain when you are Far too old Of sodden summer Ponderings All moss And stone And sorrow

This place It breathes like Sucking air Across a disc of Peppermint Like breezes Soft or sudden Over Brand new open Wounds And billows Formed of Cooling mouths To cure a scalding Cup of tea Of rushing Wabash Memories All bliss And pain And madness

11

A Moment of Grace by Craig Parker

As a child, my love of playing baseball was equal only to my ineptitude at

playing it. My grandpa had equipped me with a side-armed throw that was wildly inaccurate, nature had supplied me weak vision that required thick glasses, and I had provided myself a profound ability to second-guess every split-second decision I would ever make. Any one of these might have made me a weak player, but combined they made me an absolute catastrophe, someone who wasn’t just bound to screw up one play but several simultaneously.

The first year I was relegated to right field, the place statistically proven— so I prayed—to least likely have a ball hit to it. There were maybe nine or ten pop flies hit to me that season. I caught one.

The second year the coach decided that there was actually a new kid worse than me, and I was moved to left field. I might have argued the point, but I was eight and he was ancient with a giant gut, a job at the local Coors warehouse and a trunk full of beer that he shared with the occasional opposing coach or umpire after the night games. So I shook my head, held my breath and hoped for miracles.

Left! Left was a world away from right, statistically proven—by some mob of mathy jerks somewhere—to be the most likely place for a ball to be hit. I was reminded of that at every game in the dugout before taking the field, typically in a whisper so our half-lit coach wouldn’t hear.

Some anonymous kid: “It’s coming at you so don’t fuck up.” But not Mark Laurent. Mark was shortstop, my cut-off man and the best player on our team. He was the most natural athlete I’ve ever known, graceful and confident. And unlike the other good players, he didn’t feel the need to be mean to the weak ones. He wasn’t inclusive, but he didn’t taunt, and that was good enough.

One early evening game, I was out in left chanting with the rest of the team “eh, batta,” with an occasional “he’s got nothin’” thrown in, each followed by a silent plea that the batter not single me out for the jibe, choose to hit it in my direction, then psychically will me to flub it.

12

!

10

Then, of course, with a man on second, one of them hit it right to me. Those were always the worst. If you had to run hard for them, at least then you had an excuse for not getting there. But not this one. It sailed high and hung forever. I didn’t have to take more than two or three steps till I was under it. Then all I had to do was wait.

And wait. And think. And rethink. And take one more small step forward, just in case. Then I was too far, I had to reach back to make the catch, no time to back-pedal, I just leaned, my left arm stretched as far as it would go. The ball hit my glove right at the tip. It came down hard enough to push my wrist down, which worked like a spring catapult and shot the ball straight back up into the air. And I mean straight up, what felt like six or seven feet up, and the whole world slowed. My knees gave out and I knelt on the grass, still looking up at the ball, my glasses twisted on my face. I had it, my eyes were glue, the ball had reached its apex and was falling back down, I was going to make the catch, it was absolutely ridiculous, catching and throwing it back into the air and catching again, but I was going to do it damn it, this one was mine.

Then, in my periphery, I saw him. Mark was flying at me. Literally flying. He looked like he belonged there, like he’d always been sailing over me, his left leg bent at the knee beneath him, his right extended out behind, toes pointed, he would have made gazelles envious. He flew over my outstretched glove, snagged my ball out of midair, then turned and threw mid-leap back behind him and landed in two graceful steps onto the ground. It was beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I heard the cheers from the small crowd and knew Mark had thrown the runner out at second before he could tag up. Still I couldn’t look away.

Mark trotted back towards the infield. As he passed he cocked his head at me, “You okay?” I nodded, straightened my glasses. I could hear scattered laughter as I stumbled to my feet and moved back the few yards to my position. There was still one more out to go.

After the game, my mom said to me, “Man, that Mark Laurent sure made a good play.”

“I know.” I lowered my gaze and didn’t tell her how spectacular my view had been. At the time, I would have given anything to have caught that ball.

Nowadays, I look at it as one of the most spectacular moments of my life.

13

!

10

I dream of it sometimes. I kneel in the field, Mark in flight above me, miraculous and slow. I take off my glove and reach up just a little higher this time, barehanded. Not to catch the ball, but to graze his knee as he passes over me. His grace races down my arm and I feel for a moment what it is to be him, like I had been created mid-flight and all my footsteps longed to be leaps. We soar together and it occurs to me: this is just how we were meant to be.

No, I’m not a Jonas Brother, I’m a grown-up. No, I’m not a virgin, I use my cojones.

Digital design, Kelly Lynch and Julie Crothers

14

!

10

snapshots of love by Tiffany Tibbot

like a projector whose slides are jammed, stuck somewhere between the second date and our first kiss, you take out your toolbox with the intention of getting to the root of the problem quickly, unfamiliar with its contents. but as these things usually go the solution isn’t that simple so we end up taking it apart,

piece by piece. until, lying all around us are parts of the whole we barely recognize, let alone can replace

with ease so we grow distraught and resolve to step away for a while, see if the picture becomes

clearer with some space and time. soon we’ve forgotten the mess that lies scattered across the dusty floor, shoved under end tables and chairs. granted, I give you credit for an attempt to fix what we’ve now deemed worthy as just

another lost cause. you could only shake your head when you entered the room because it never seemed so bad, when the door is closed it’s easy to forget what we left. oh, and I tried too, down on my hands and knees feeling around for the tiny screws that held it all together. commitment, effort, or time – we didn’t really have any of it to spare so it just sat, broken irreparable in our eyes. one day I find you there, the lights at a low fade and a sepia toned glow shooting from that

old projector. you sit so still and the silence only breaks when the floorboards creak as I cross the room to find my spot next to you on that worn sofa. and your arm finds its place resting lightly across my shoulder, my head nestles in that perfect spot between your chin and collarbone. with the snap of a slide change we move on, the second date a blur and our first kiss somewhere in the past.

15

!

10

Crash Course in Redecorating by Tiffany Tibbot

They never thought they’d have to worry about car troubles in their house. But

that faded blue Mercury sitting in their master bedroom wasn’t going to be taking care of itself.

It was out of nowhere. The car, that is. It was a direct route from road to wall until it was firmly holding the place of what used to be a lovely cherry wood king sized bed.

He’d been sleeping in it. The bed, that is. But now he was lying, in quite the same fashion as before it happened, on the hood of a Mercury.

It was sort of like the reverse effect of a bucking bronco. Not the car brand. The horse kind. His body had propelled forward and suddenly he was elevated, gripping the windshield wipers like a cowboy clutches the saddle.

For her, it was more akin to being hit sidelong by a defensive lineman. She was on the john when it happened. It was rather surprising. One always worries about being tipped in a port-a-potty, but never on your own ceramic throne.

There they stood, in their bedroom….or the garage? Whatever it was, it was yet to be determined.

He cocked his head at her slightly, the way a dog does when it’s concentrating really hard on understanding human. And she raised her eyebrow at him, mimicking the way her mom had done when she was a teenager.

They both shrugged their shoulders and slumped against the front fender, or what was left of it. The police had come and gone. The owner of the vehicle, an older man with more intense cataracts than Niagara Falls had been taken to the hospital. He was only slightly injured, some bed sores here and there. His insurance would cover it all so said the insurance lady who was obviously doing one of those forced smiles across the phone lines.

It had happened in the middle of the night. Or the morning. Whichever you prefer. It was 3:25 a.m.

Anyway you dealt it, they needed some sleep at this point. He yawned. She stifled hers but stretched her arms in a wide arc over her head.

They looked at one another again. He gave her that “you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’ look” and she smirked back at him with that “you’ve got to be crazy but it’s the best we’ve got” disbelieving head shake.

16

!

10

But they both stood, wiped the dirt from their flannel pj pants, and went around to opposite sides of the car.

He opened the driver’s side door, she the passenger’s. They climbed in, reclined the seats, and stuffed a pillow behind their heads.

She leaned across the center console, kissed him on the cheek as he turned the key just a notch, enough to tune in to Soft Rock 95.5 and they dozed off as Springsteen crooned “Used Car.” “Now, mister, the day the lottery I win I ain't ever gonna ride in no used car again…”

Ceramic, Josh Allison

17

!

10

Random? Hm. by Chelsea Parks

I need more time. What does that mean? Reality awakes from its never-ending dream A bubble-wrapped heart you popped one by one Open casket hoping you’ll see after death is finally done Telephone operators on hold Yearbook pictures one year older So you go for a bike ride The leaves at the bottom don’t have to fall as far Grip your coffee mug tighter, another long night for a blind bat Yet the shadow is evidence of the sun The monarchs know where to fly Birds return to their nests Trees break at God’s sigh I drew sticks to see The only one to blame was me Too bad pens don’t have erasers Upside-down horizon from your paper wooden porch swing Raise your brow, squint your eye, is it really different? Lemon squares and visitor tags, two worlds held at tape’s dispense Exclamation marks hide behind the question mark’s suspense The penny was always on tails you just never wanted to say it. Don’t pick at the scab the worse you’ll make it Piggybank homicide channel 6 Work first play later after while alligator My mind bends to understand your heart Beat the clock you tell me I got a headstart Go, stay, leave, come The answer a circle made with fingers and thumbs Open hands left hanging on the right and the left Your shoes I won in a raffle No one seems surprised or baffled Red drips through splinters Yet pizza sauce matters more

18

!

10

Caught staring at the scoreboard again on the bleachers far-side Snowmen don’t have scars But still You died on an “X” to give a never-ending “O” And all we do is “Z” Silence wears the crown as if it didn’t know A hammer and a nail was all it took Marred face unrecognized look As if you would finally see it No contacts or glasses No backstage passes No suits or T.V. shows No this was more than a love note I have time Free, because You gave it to me

19

!

10

The Mollified Boogeyman

by Mary Redding

There’s a park on Epson Street, a glorious park where the children go to play. The park is equipped with all a kid could ever want: there’s a teeter totter, a jungle gym, a swing set, and slide with a long dark tunnel. Beautiful trees surround the park, allowing the perfect game of hide and seek. The trees seem to go back forever with a mysterious never-ending thickness about them. Here the children run around all day in the summertime.

At the swings, a man sits reading a newspaper. He is a rather handsome man of average build. Despite the summer heat, he sports an expensive suit. No one would ever suspect anything heinous about this man as he comes every day, looks past his newspaper, and watches the children play.

One day a little one stayed at the park a bit late to play. He was a boy no older than eight with light black skin and chicken legs. He ran from the slide to the jungle gym to the swings, ecstatic to have it all to himself. Well, except for a man reading a newspaper on the swings. He smiled to the man and hummed a simple tune as he pumped his legs and began to fly higher and higher. Finally when the swing was high enough he slid out of it and soared into the air. With arms stretched, he screamed with delight. The boy’s feet landed heavily with a “stomp.” Looking back, he smiled to the now empty swings. Looking around the park, he found that he was now all alone and that the sun was beginning to set. He started towards home, when he heard a twig snap from behind.

Turning towards the woods, he looked through the thickness but saw nothing. He turned again towards home when he heard another snap. Turning frantically towards the woods, he was relieved to see only a bunny. He slowly walked to the bunny, trying not to scare it away but the bunny hopped off into the brush. The little boy followed, wandering through the trees deeper and deeper into the woods. He followed his ears as he heard little snaps here and there. Finally he found a small clearing in the forest and stopped there to listen.

The dark had now settled into the trees. There was an eerie silence in the air and the young boy was suddenly overcome with fear. He looked around at

20

!

10

the encompassing forest and felt that somewhere in there he was being watched.

Shivers came over him and he turned back the way he had come. Which way was it? All the trees looked the same. He looked around unsure of which way to turn. He felt overwhelmed by fear and tears swelled behind his eyes. He desperately wanted his mother to suddenly emerge from the woods and scoop him up into her arms and carry him home.

He quivered and began to cry as he thought he was never going to get out.

In sheer panic, the boy darted in one direction and then in another and another. He wandered amongst the trees for what seemed to be a lifetime. He wept and wailed in a panic. Snot dribbled out his nose but he did not think to wipe it. Mommy.

Suddenly in front of him, the shape of the trees seemed to shift. Yes! There was a clearing up ahead. The little boy could see the swings and the slide and the jungle gym just up ahead. He felt a boost of pride in his chest for finding the way out all by himself. As the little boy headed towards the clearing, he heard something follow from behind.

Turning abruptly, he saw nothing but the trees, but he felt the same unwelcome sensation of being watched. He spun and walked at a quickened pace only to hear footsteps at a quicker pace. He stopped. They stopped. The little boy let out a whimper and tears of fear and frustration rolled down his face. Anger grew inside his chest. He turned and faced the woods. Picking up a fallen branch from the grass, he threw it as hard as he could at the brush. He waited nervously for a moment before turning slowly and walking again. As he walked, no sound followed behind him.

Then abruptly, the boy felt something soar swiftly past over his left shoulder and land just in front of the clearing. The boy shrank back and fell to the ground. He stayed absolutely still, anticipating that the small dark shadow would attack. However, when the dark shape did not move, the boy cautiously crawled towards it.

As he got closer he saw that the black blob had long, pointed ears much larger than the rest of its body. It also was furry and had a round tail. The boy carefully and curiously leaned closer. My bunny! He reached out and softly stroked the innocent little creature. He felt a strange wetness on his hands that was coated into the fur. The boy looked at his hand and saw a dark substance stained. Looking back at the bunny, he noticed that the bunny was lying on his side with its head twisted in an unusual way.

21

!

10

Just then he heard a snicker. Looking up, he saw a large shadow peeking out from behind a tree, watching him. The figure stepped out from behind the tree and blocked the clearing…

The next day no children came to play. The park was bare. Police tape blocked the clearing to the woods. Not a soul was at the park that day except for a middle-aged man with a five o’clock shadow in a wrinkled suit reading a day old newspaper. There he sat all day, staring right past his paper off into space with a leering smile on his face.

As the sun began to set, he got up to head home when he heard laughter coming from the woods. It sounded like a child’s laughter of sheer joy and innocence. Slowly the man turned and crept towards the woods. He lifted up the yellow tape and set out to stalk his prey.

Entering the forest, he heard an enchanting tune. He searched amongst the trees for the youth that the voice belonged to. Farther and farther he traveled on, and closer the voice sounded. Finally, he reached a clearing. The voice sounded so close now. Stepping into the clearing, the voice seemed to be coming from above him now. Looking around at the thick forest he could not distinguish which direction the song was coming from. Then abruptly, the song stopped and an eerie silence crept over the woods. That’s when the man realized that the darkness had set in.

A shiver came over the man. Looking around the trees, he got the peculiar sensation of being watched. He decided that perhaps he was just imagining things and made up his mind to head back. Although the trees seemed to look the same, the man had been out here many times and knew them quite well. He walked lightly through the trees with a wry smile on his face thinking of his circumstances of the previous night. As he walked, he suddenly became aware of footsteps behind him. He stopped. They stopped. He continued walking and heard the footsteps at a quickened pace. He turned abruptly. The trees stared back at him. Once again, he felt that somewhere there were eyes watching him. Unwelcoming him. He turned again towards the clearing in the woods when he heard swift footsteps running right behind him. He spun violently, ready to protect himself from whatever might attack. Looking around, the man felt queasy as he saw a little bunny sit there. The bunny seemed to be looking right at him.

He turned again and marched towards the clearing, determined to leave the woods. On his left he heard a laugh. A child’s laugh. But this laugh did not sound joyful or innocent but malevolent and mocking. Then just in front of the clearing he saw a head poke out from behind a tree. Then in a flash it was gone. The man hurried past the tree and ran out of the woods getting caught

22

!

10

up on the yellow police tape. Pulling it up he ducked under it and turned to leave. That’s when he saw the swing swaying back and forth.

He heard that tune again, that sweet, wonderful tune. He saw a small figure of a child run onto the jungle gym and enter the tunnel slide. The man’s chest filled with excitement and adrenalin as he hurried over towards the entrance of the slide. The tune stopped as he arrived and waited. He heard again a child’s laugh from inside the tunnel. His heart swelled and his body began to tremble.

Suddenly a heinous, hellish figure sprang out at him. It was a boy no older than eight. He had brown skin with a pigment of drained white. Dried blood encompassed the mouth and some of his teeth. The worst were the eyes which were purely black. The creature made a sound mimicked by neither man nor beast. It was the sound only demons knew how to make. The creature seemed to possess impossible strength as he overpowered the man and clawed and scratched and clawed and scratched…

There is a park on Epson Street where children once went to play. It is said that if one is brave enough to walk by, wicked laughter can be heard. And on the swings, spirits sway; and, in the trees, a ghost at play. At one time, children could play safely, but times have changed. Now there are scarier things to be wary of. One of them being the mollified boogeyman who preys on the young.

23

!

10

The Remains Drawing, Ashley Konsdorf

24

!

10

A Lifetime of Wishes by Carlee Hudock

A young woman rocks in her rocking chair, enjoying her porch and warm spring weather. The breeze dances past, a calming wind, and whips her hair that lies un-bound. Her husband silently sneaks up close behind and brushes his lips against her skin.

Wrinkles replace her silky skin. She sits alone on a metal chair, Breaking the silence with her trembling voice, “Close the window, would you please? The weather is dreadful out tonight, though I’m sure it’s bound to let up soon.” The only response is the whistling wind.

With the key in her back, he begins to wind, and what had once been golden is pallid skin. Her still dark hair is up and bound, and she sits un-rocked in the rocking chair. He stands up; comments about the weather, and she waits for the sound of the door to close.

She stands, holding her blanket close. She hates the sounds of the screaming wind and the ancient howls that used to weather away her soul and creamy skin. She stares in the dark at the empty chair; at the walls of the room in which she is bound.

She pulls at invisible chains that have bound her wrists, and stares, out the window he closed, at the rhythmic rocking of the wooden chair that swings and sways with the touch of the wind. She aches to feel the sun on her skin and prays for the chance of better weather.

Her tears stream; her shrieks mock the weather, and she fights against the straps that have bound her tiny arms, sagging with loose skin. She hears their murmurs as they close the door, but she is left alone with the wailing wind. From her bed, she stares at the vacant chair. The sun kisses her skin and she welcomes the weather as she rocks in a chair with her hair un-bound. Her eyes close and she dances with the wind.

25

!

10

Apogee Award for

Excellence in Poetry

The Last Stone Collage, Ashley Konsdorf

26

!

10

The Man by Zac Wilson

Consider your origins: you were not made to live as brutes, but to follow

virtue and knowledge. —Dante Alighieri

It was late when the man turned right onto 34th street. The rain that was pouring down onto the streets of New York City seemed to emulate his mood; he was depressed. He had been working for the past several weeks on a gratuitous number of serial murders, trying to connect the dots and slay the beast behind them all. Instead of turning right again and continuing home, the man turned left into an alleyway. He had recently taken to finding new and creative ways home. In the past week alone he had discovered a homeless man, to whom he had given a fifty and a second chance, and a stray dog, to whom he had given a home. This night was more eventful, however.

While traversing the system of alleyways that had begun at 34th street, the man came across a man and a woman. One stood above, the other lay below. The man in the alley was instantly recognized by the man as Chad Atheos, the shoe-salesman, tea-drinker, and murderer whom he had been searching for. The woman was no longer among the living; the soul that had inhabited the mutilated, hemorrhaging corpse had long since departed for Paradise. The man saw that the murderer wore not only a vicious smile that expressed his euphoria, but also a silk tie, sports coat, and a very nice pair of loafers. He had no trouble deciphering just how the handsome Chad could have led a lone woman into a place like this.

When Chad looked up and saw the man, the smile faded from his lips. Then, without so much as a “hello,” Chad produced a side arm from inside his jacket and fired two rounds at his uninvited guest. The first round went wide, but the second grazed the man’s right leg. He stumbled, then fell to his right knee. Chad, without staying to see if his target was actually dead, started to run. The man drew his Smith and Wesson .38 caliber Chief’s Special and took two well-timed shots at the murderer. Unfortunately, Chad had already turned a corner, and the bullets that would’ve smashed into his skull instead slammed into the corner of an old brick building that framed the alleyway.

The man got up, holstered his Smith and Wesson, and checked his wound. The bullet had barely grazed his right leg, but it was deep enough to cause the man pain. After the couple of seconds it took to assess the situation, the man

27

!

10

gave chase to his newly confirmed suspect. As he passed Mr. Atheos’s most recent victim, he looked down and saw that the corpse was not covered with bullet holes as the man had first suspected. Instead, she had deep gashes all across her body; some of them were so deep that they formed holes and revealed bone. As the man ran on, he wondered just what Chad Atheos had in his arsenal of death. When the man turned out of the alley, he saw Chad run out into a worn-down harbor district. The man continued to give chase, not worrying if the murderer would try to start another firefight or not; Chad would be too interested in fleeing.

He rounded the final corner and made his way into the decrepit harbor. Though he couldn’t see the convict anywhere, it was obvious where he had gone; two buildings down from where he stood, the man saw a warehouse with its door ajar. As he half ran, half limped up to the door, he redrew his pistol and checked to make sure his magazine was full. He came up to the door and tried to peer inside. He couldn’t see anything, however; the darkness was too deep. That wasn’t what caught the man’s attention, though; it was the door. It was not only still ajar, but it appeared to have been beaten almost off of its hinges; its deadbolt was still engaged. The man saw this and wondered if perhaps he should call and wait for back up. He decided against it; he didn’t want to give Chad any time to escape or set some sort of elaborate trap. He produced a flashlight from his coat pocket, readied his Smith and Wesson, and stepped into the darkness.

Immediately he began to search for signs of the murderer. After his eyes adjusted, the first thing that the man noticed was that the alarm next to the door had been smashed. Well, I suppose that’s for the best, he thought. He didn’t want anyone else to come into the fight if things came to the worst. He walked up to a crate. The room was filled with the same type of crates; rows and columns of the things covered the large room from end to end. In the far corner of the room the man noticed a stairway that led into the basement of the warehouse.

When the man swept his flashlight across the room, he saw Chad standing at the back of the room. He was promptly greeted by two gunshots from the pistol in Chad’s hand. Both flew high, and the man ducked behind one of the crates so as to avoid any more members of the welcoming party. He then turned off his flashlight and threw it to the ground; it would only give away his position.

“I knew you’d follow me in here, cop,” Chad yelled across the room. “Couldn’t resist bringing down the big bad killer all by yourself, huh?” A savage joy was evident in his voice.

28

!

10

A little full of ourselves tonight, aren’t we? thought the man. Just then a lightning bolt struck down somewhere outside. The resulting flood of light came in through the windows and covered the room. Peeking out, the man saw that Chad still stood where he had been, now with a huge grin on his face. Then a second later the light faded, and the room was once again dimmed by night. “Come on, you worthless cop, I’m right here.” Chad was egging him on now. Don’t worry, I’m coming.

The man began sneaking closer to his enemy. He weaved through the crates while Chad continued to ramble on. “I’m going to get you good, cop. Your own mother won’t be able to recognize you after I’m through.” Only one row of crates separated the two men now. The man waited. “You still there, cop? Did you run home to mommy? I would’ve thought that—” Just then another lightning bolt slammed into the earth. While the room was lit up once again, the man took his chance; he came up from behind his crate and surprised Chad with two bullets. One penetrated Chad’s right shoulder, the other his left. It was enough stopping power to bring a man down while still allowing time for professional treatment to be secured. The man hoped he could arrest Chad instead of kill him.

“Aw, shit!” Chad screamed. The man smirked. Chad Atheos may have thought that he was big and bad, but he still bled like anybody else. From behind his crate, the man was waiting to hear Chad slump to the ground. Instead he heard footsteps.

He’s running? The man wondered how Chad could move at all, let alone run. When the next flash of lightning struck, he saw that Chad was nowhere to be found; what he saw in his place was a trail of blood, pointing towards the stairway that led to the basement. There’s only one way he would have gone, thought the man, and proceeded towards the stairwell. As he was about to go down, he noticed a sign on the wall:

Defective goods to be stored downstairs

The man proceeded downwards, wishing he had kept his flashlight. It was much darker in the basement. When he stepped off of the final landing he couldn’t see anything but a small globe of light in the center of the room. The dot of light jumped up high into the air, then fell to the floor while the man watched warily. Realizing too late that it was a match, the man held his ground as the few crates in front of him were engulfed in flames.

“You’re mine now, cop.” Chad was standing in the middle of the pyre, a gas can at his feet. As soon as he saw him, the man emptied his gun into the murderer’s chest. All of the bullets found their mark. Chad staggered and

29

!

10

looked as if he was about to fall, but he did not. “Stupid cop, do you still think these bullets can do anything to hurt me? I’m not some malleable human you can bend and break on a whim!” With that, Chad began to change. His jaws jutted out, his eyes turned coal black, his ears grew and became pointed. Hair quickly covered his entire body. As realization dawned on the man, he muttered one word: “Werewolf.”

“Is that what I am, cop? Some child of the moon, consumed by insatiable rage?” Chad’s voice was much deeper now. “Or am I an alien, come from another galaxy to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting populace?” On the word “or,” Chad had started to change again. His hair fell out and his skin turned a pale, greenish color. Several bulbous, yellow eyes formed all over his head. His wolf claws turned into two shining curved blades.

“Who needs to buy guns and knives when you can do this, eh?” Chad said in a whispery voice, brandishing his sword-hands at the man.

The man still stood there, not saying a word. “So come on cop, what am I?” Chad waited for an answer while his skin turned blue and three spikes popped out of his chest in addition to his two hand blades.

The man lowered his gun and removed himself from his defensive stance. He decided that now was the time to end the game.

“You’re arrogant,” the man said, “and foolish. You don’t control your transformations, they’re too sporadic. Look at yourself; that suit of yours is ruined.” The man then released his corporeal form and became a truly amorphous substance; not quite a solid, not quite a liquid, not quite a gas. He slid out of his clothes and reformed himself next to them. The man was exactly as he was before, only naked, with was no scar where Chad’s bullet had grazed him across the leg earlier. “See, now that is how you change without needing to buy a new suit every time you do it.”

“Y-you’re just like me!” Surprise was evident across Chad’s face.

“No, Chad Atheos, though we are of the same species, I am nothing like you; you slaughter the innocent.”

“But that’s what we’re made for!” Chad exclaimed “We are wolves and they are sheep. We take from them whatever pleasures we desire.”

The man countered: “No, we are not wolves but shepherds, meant to guide and protect the flock. They are so fragile on their own, you see.”

“You’re a fool to waste such powers!”

30

!

10

“And you’re a fool to think that I am wasting them. I cannot allow you to live if you continue to work such evils.”

Chad threw back his head and roared. Spikes shot out from every part of his body. He screamed: “And what do you plan to do? You know the powers of our kind. We cannot be killed by blade, poison, or disease.”

“I know our limitations, but apparently you do not.” And with that the man once again became the amorphous gray gel he had been earlier. He lunged at Chad and enveloped him, covering every square inch of his body. The man had learned a long time ago that his kind needed air, any air, to sustain themselves. Chad would not last long in the vacuum that the man had created. Chad struggled; he formed many teeth, claws, and blades, trying to cut his way out, but to no avail. Though the claws tried to rip and the teeth tried to gnash, the man’s amorphous body melded around each attack.

The fire intensified. It took fifteen minutes for Chad to die and the tremors of his corpse to finally cease.

After he was sure that Chad was no more, the man slithered off of him and back into his clothes, forming himself so that they would once again fit him perfectly.

He then ran back up the stairs, leaving Chad Atheos’s shriveled, misshapen body to burn in the fire and the darkness along with all of the other defective goods. The man walked straight from the warehouse to his home. The storm had dispersed; moonlight now shone down upon the city. Once he got back to his apartment, he hung up his coat, loosened his tie, and set out a fresh bowl of kibble for Terrance, his newest friend. He then slumped into his favorite chair and turned on old reruns from The Andy Griffith Show. It was one of his favorite shows. The man might not have been human, but inside him beat a heart as strong as any other.

31

!

10

Twisted metal Ceramic, Krista Coy

32

!

10

my promise to be careful what buttons I push by Craig Parker

I am programmed to program you, say excuse me and please to laugh at jokes I was programmed by others to like to warm your hands with mine after shaping the snow to please the people I was programmed to please I am programmed by my grandfather’s hands to bite my knuckle while driving at a callous he had to spin the ring on my finger when waiting in line to labor at making you love me seem easy I am programmed by my grandmother’s mouth to wonder if I’ve loved you too little today to pucker my lips far too much when I kiss you to bristle then puncture the one who mistreats you I am programmed by my father’s absence to misplace the line between nose hair and moustache to disbelieve most things I’ve not seen myself to push you to find someone more whole than me I am programmed by my mother’s laughter to sharpen my tongue on the stone of your ego to soften the stroke when I see that you’re bleeding to force you to chuckle at the wound I have caused I am programmed to watch you struggle to program yourself to find your left sleeve to believe for the moment there is nothing more lovely to search with my hand for the hole you can’t find

33

!

10

Conservation Matters by Keara Williams

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful bird named Belle. She had pink and

purple feathers, a gold beak, and huge doe eyes. She lived in one of the oldest trees in a tropical forest with her mother Anna. Many of the animals loved her and her mother because they always stood up for what they believed in and they kept the tree safe. One sunny day in the forest, Anna became so ill that she was unable to get up, so Belle decided to go gather some fruit since it always cheered her mother up. While Belle was out, suddenly she heard a loud, thunderous noise. She became frightened because the humans had been coming to the forest destroying all the great trees, and she hoped that it was not her home this time. She rushed back to her nest to try to warn her mother. Once she arrived, all that was left of her home was a tree stump. Her mother and her home were gone and she now she had to fend for herself in the world that was being taking over by humans who wanted to use her home for their own selfish ways. Conservation of the natural world matters. We need the natural world to provide an escape from the real world. We need the natural world because we are a part of it and must therefore grow with it instead of destroy it.

The wilderness is considered a great escape for those who use Mother Nature as a relief from the world created by men. According to John Muir, “Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where Nature may heal and cheer and give strength to body and soul alike” (23). Nature is as essential to life as food and water and contains a spiritual outlet for many to be closer to a higher power. “On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens and of other bird voices there was now no sound, only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh”(77) is an excerpt from Rachel Carson’s novel Silent Spring. Her use of a hyperbole shows that even the smallest things in nature that we have become accustomed to can disappear when nature is not protected.

As humans we tend to think that we are the “rulers of the land,” but in reality we are part of the land, and by destroying it, we are destroying ourselves. In Aldo Leopold’s The Land Ethic, he focuses on how “a land ethic changes the role of Homo sapiens from conqueror of the land—community to plain member and citizen of it” (31). Leopold felt that we should treat the land as we treat ourselves. He developed a term called the “land pyramid,” which argues that “each species, including ourselves, is a link in many chains” and that “land, then, is not merely soil: it is a fountain of energy flowing through a circuit of soils, plants, and animals” (38). Sigurd Olson also acknowledges that in order to develop an

34

!

10

“ecological conscience” that a land ethic has to have “a feeling of morality towards the earth, reverence, and love, a feeling deep within us that we are responsible for whatever we do to the earth.” Olson believed that conservation was “a point of view involved with the entire concept of freedom, human dignity and a good way of life.” With this idea, he felt that since freedom, dignity and morals are important to humans that the conservation of the land should be just as important.

The planet that we live on has been here since the beginning of time and we have not explored it enough to destroy it so we need to grow with it. Carson argues that “it took hundreds of millions of years to produce the life that now inhabits the earth—eons of time in which that developing and evolving and diversifying life reached a state of adjustment and balance with its surroundings” and “the rapidity of change and the speed with which new situations are created follow the impetuous and heedless pace of man rather than at the deliberate pace of nature” (77). With all of the years that it has taken the earth to develop, it is not done yet so we need to help more with the development and create an environment that embodies the diversity between the land and its people. Olson implies that we have to conserve nature because “as a people and a race we have not yet gone far enough in our development to ignore our primitive past.” We need our natural world because it is a part of our past, and when we destroy our past, there is no present or future for us.

We need the natural world. We need an escape from reality. We need to be one with nature. We need to develop along with our planet. Carson concludes that “no witchcraft, no enemy action has silenced the rebirth of new life in this stricken world. The people had done it themselves” (76). If we continue to regard conservation of the natural world as trivial, our sense of pride in our land will be lost because there will be no land to cherish. “The public must decide whether it wishes to continue on the present road, and it can do so only when in full possession of the facts,” Carson states (82). If the destruction of the natural world continues, the only time we will see Belle is in a picture in a book that was once her home.

Works Cited

Carson, Rachel. Chapters 1-2 from Silent Spring. Selzer 75-82. Leopold, Aldo. “The Land Ethic.” Selzer 29-45. Muir, John. “Save the Hetch Hetchy Valley!” Selzer 19-26. Olson, SIgurd. “The Meaning of Wilderness.” The Sigurd F Olson Website. David

Backes. Web. 28 Feb 2010. 4 Mar 2010. Selzer, Jack, ed. Argument in America: Essential Issues, Essential Texts. New

York: Pearson, 2004. Print.

35

The Roots of This Town Drawing, Ashley Konsdorf

36

!

10

Washed Up by Carlee Hudock

It was two o’clock in the morning when the sirens started sounding, or was

it a motorcycle revving its engine? As I cleared away the sleep from my eyes and shoved my glasses to my face, I noticed the time on the clock and that the police car/motorcycle was no more than my cell phone, ringing and vibrating at the same time. My sleep-numb fingers fumbled to flip the phone open, and by the sixth ring I croaked,

“Mmmmmmhello?”

“Maddie-baby!”

I dropped the phone in the process of sitting up.

“Maddie? Maddie, it’s your dad,” my father said. Thanks, Dad. As if I needed the clarification.

“What are you calling for? It’s two o’clock in the morning,” I replied, not even attempting to hide my annoyance.

“Hey, kid. I need you to do me a favor. I’m on 9th and Oak at the Crown Lounge. Them niggers done fucked with my car while I was inside havin’ a beer. My truck won’t start. I need you to come get me.”

I sighed, “Dad, seriously, you need to work on your vocabulary. You sound like an idiot. It’s the twenty-first century. It’s called a different skin color, not a different species. How would you like it if you were judged for being white?” I did not want to have this deep of a conversation in the wee hours of the morning.

“They’ve already judged me. They’ve been fuckin’ with my truck,” he slurred.

“Dad, you’re drunk. You shouldn’t drive your truck anyway.”

“Well, I suppose they didn’t realize they was doin’ me a favor then. Come get me.”

It was a useless battle.

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

37

!

10

I pulled my boots on. 9th and Oak? Good call, Dad. Great place to be in the middle of the night.

The Crown Lounge was not exactly a place of royalty. Once a honky-tonk bar for men like my father, the Lounge went downhill along with the neighborhood. Now, it is a place known for its fighting between the drug-dealers who rule the neighborhood, and the patron alcoholics who just want their beer and classic rock.

It was cold outside and it took awhile to get my truck started. It was my dad’s old truck—the same truck he used to take me to school in. As I cupped my hands around my mouth and blew out hot, steamy air, I remembered one particular drive that we had taken together:

It was 1994 and I was five years old. It was only November, but there was already three feet of snow on the ground. Daddy and I were going to find a Christmas tree together. We got into the truck, but had to let it warm up a bit before we could start driving.

“It’s bad for the engine to drive it cold,” he said. “Remember that.”

I didn’t mind. He had made hot cocoa and we both sipped it as we waited. When we finally got to the Christmas tree field, Daddy helped me out of the truck and we went to find the man in charge. Daddy knew him—he said they had had a few drinks together at the Lounge. I always wondered why I couldn’t have drinks with Daddy. I liked lots of drinks, especially the hot cocoa kind.

When we found Bill (that’s what Daddy called him), he and Daddy shook hands and Daddy introduced us.

“Bill, this is my daughter, Maddie. Maddie, this is Daddy’s friend, Bill,” he said, but just as he said it, I realized that I was standing in thick mud where the snow had melted, and the mud was sinking over my new Beauty and the Beast snow boots.

“Oh, no! Daddy! Oh, no!” I screamed, tearing up. I loved Beauty and the Beast. Belle was the only brown-headed princess, just like me.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay. Daddy will wipe them off as soon as we get home. I’ll even run them through the wash if you want,” he said gently.

Bill laughed. “Geez, Timmy! It’s about this time when ya wish ya’d had a boy!” Bill snorted at his own cleverness.

38

!

10

“Naw, Maddie’s my little princess. My little Beauty,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. I didn’t even care about my boots anymore—I was a princess.

As I pulled up to the Crown Lounge, I could see my father outside—correction: I could hear him before I could see him.

“GODDAMN HOOLIGANS!” he kept shouting, among other things.

“Dad, Jesus Christ, shut up! Someone is going to call the cops. You keep shouting the N-word, and you’re going to get shot,” I hissed at him. “Give me your keys and go sit in my truck.”

I took his keys, got in the truck, and tried to start the ignition. Nothing—but not because someone had messed with it. The battery was dead. And there was no gas. I walked back to my truck.

“Dad, how did you drive here? There’s no gas in the truck and the battery is completely dead.”

“I’ll tell ya what happened. I was down at Stephen’s Inn when Ted called me an’ said he needed some help up at the Lounge. Said some dude’s were givin’ ‘im trouble. So I came up here to help ‘im out and just ran inside real quick. When I came back out, my car wouldn’t start, and I know damn well it was them goddamn people next door,” he said, emphasizing people as if it hurt him to do so.

“Dad. Did you take the keys out of the car when you went inside the Lounge? Did you leave your car running?” I asked.

“I just ran inside for a minute,” he said.

“What time did you get here?”

“About 10 o’clock.”

“Dad, it’s 2:30am. You called me at 2:00am. You left your truck running for four hours.”

“IT WAS THEM DAMN COLOREDS NEXT DOOR!” he shouted.

I couldn’t believe it, and yet, this was typical. I called the only person I could think of who might be willing to help at 2:30 in the morning: Brian. He came with jumper cables and three gallons of gas. The whisky was slowly draining out of my dad’s system, and he was walking over to Brian’s car to greet him with a thank you and a handshake before Brian even had a chance to step out. When he did, my dad stared with his mouth wide open, as if a neat trick were being performed, like I used to do when he would puff giant smoke rings from his cigars. He shook Brian’s hand but was unable to form the “Thank

39

!

10

you.” It never crossed my mind beforehand, but I realized in that moment that maybe I should have told my dad that Brian was black.

I drove my dad home that night in his truck. The ride was silent. I had nothing to say. I watched a tear slip down his face; his face shone blue in the moonlight. When I pulled up to his house, he sat there. He looked down at his hands, his trembling hands, and I wondered how much longer I would know this man that I call my father. Then he looked me in the eyes for the first time in a long time, and just as I thought he was going to say something miraculous—something to make everything better, to make me his little girl again, to make him Daddy again—he looked away.

“G’night, my little Beauty,” he murmured, and stumbled out of the truck.

Some princess.

Vase, Josh Allison

40

!

10

Penance by Kate Hufford

My penance, my flight; how many more miles to conquer this night? Stars born of guilt, wind whipped with spite. Soul pounds the ground with every step. Through black-veined beats, the pace is kept. Treacherous blood fed honest eyes, that urged the tongue, “Wipe clean the lies…” And acidic tears sprint cheek to lip, As earth reaches up With steely grip. The pain I’ve drawn, Thine eyes hath shown. Now my heels bleed, For you alone.

41

!

10

Only a Mother Knows by Kristen Stout

Sun poured through her beloved green country kitchen, creating dancing

shadows on the walls. She stood peacefully gazing at the handiwork that she had just finished up last night after her daughter went to bed. The trailer did look a lot better with a little green plaid wallpaper, even if it was the cheap kind. As she trudged over to the counter, she tripped on the corner of the worn linoleum. Frustrated, she clenched her hands, “That’s gotta go as soon as possible.” Glancing at her pocket book, she knew it certainly would not be this month. With sagging shoulders, she thought, “Maybe we can do something about that in the next month or two.” She gazed out of the window and sighed contentedly as she watched her daughter play basketball in her grandparents’ driveway across the street.

Sore and tired from standing on her feet all day, she stood next to the stove stirring the pot of leftover pot roast. Work had been harder that week than she had thought it would be, and it was still another week before payday. Looking into the pale, thin water her children came to know as broth and the two spuds floating in it, she prayed, “One more night—please, God, just make it last one more night.” Dark circles under her eyes told more stories of her life than anyone else could. Her boss was working her hard and didn’t seem to understand what it meant to raise two children alone while only making $15 an hour. She looked down at her yet-again naked left ring finger and wondered when the time would come for her to marry again. The bruises across her face had long vanished and although the emotional scars were still prevalent from the messy divorce, she was at least ready to try to love again. “There’s got to be somebody out there who will love me for who I truly am—a man who will share and laugh with me,” she thought wistfully. Sighing, she continued watching the broth, hoping it would boil soon. She sometimes wondered if the divorce had been worth it. As she swirled her spoon around the pot in a figure-eight, she contemplated, “Sure, he wasn’t perfect. He had his flaws just like everybody else, but at least he was someone to come home to every night.”

Just then, a loud clamor came from the front door as her daughter ran inside from her grandparents’ yard. As usual, her youngest daughter—her only one left at home—had forgotten to take off her shoes, because she was too busy attempting to retell her entire day to her mother all at once. Before her

42

!

10

daughter could continue any further with her stories, her mother sternly scolded her, “Julia, take your shoes off! How many times have I told you that I want that carpet to last as long as possible? Go back and take your shoes off.” Without breaking stride, Julia ambled back to the door and continued talking—jabbering really—to her mother. Laura just smiled. Her daughter drove her crazy sometimes with how much she talked, but as much as she enjoyed the quietness of her home, she wouldn’t give up these moments with her daughter for the world. “Set the table, baby,” Laura reminded her. “Dinner is almost ready.”

Julia climbed into her seat at their lop-sided kitchen table, said her prayers, and began eating hungrily. Laura chewed slowly on her bread and butter, ignoring the hunger pains. “Oh well,” she thought, “it will go away eventually.” She grabbed another slice of bread and poured some broth on it, washing it down with some milk. While listening patiently to her daughter relive all the details of her day at school and soccer practice, she stood up to finish washing the two nights’ worth of dishes waiting for her. Handing her daughter a drying towel, she listened. As her daughter continued with her stories, Laura laughed uncontrollably at yet another one of her daughter’s antics, and she was thankful all over again for someone to come home to every night. It was moments like these that she remembered why she had given up on her marriage—her children were enough for her.

Finally after tucking Julia into bed, she glanced expectantly at the blinking message machine and quickly snatched the phone. She knew it was him. It had to be.

But before her finger could push the play back button, she stopped herself. With sloped shoulders, she knew it really didn’t matter because she had made up her mind. It was over. He wasn’t good enough for her children. They deserved only the best, and he simply wasn’t that man for them. She sat down to enjoy another lonely evening by herself—just her and chirping crickets. She wondered if he still thought about her like she sometimes caught herself thinking of him. He was, after all, a nice man—kind, gentle, funny.

Well, he was those things, at least sometimes. That’s really all she wanted, wasn’t it? Going in to check on her daughter one more time to make sure she wasn’t reading under the covers again, she listened to her daughter’s rhythmic breathing. Smiling, she realized that she had made the right decision. He wasn’t a strong enough man to be a good father to her children. They—and she—deserved the best man possible.

43

!

10

The Deception of Silence Graphite, Nikki Sullivan

44

!

10

Football Is a Girl’s Sport

by Paige E. Hamilton

Sweat shined on his dark skin and his breath was short. He took long, strong strides as he ran along the dirt path of the cross-country course. Rock music vibrated through his headphones to his ears; it’s what kept him from concentrating on the run itself.

Two freshmen girls trailed behind him, enjoying and giggling at his presence. Or, more or less, at his god-like physique. As captain and quarterback of this year’s Salem Lions football team, he was due to be more athletic than most. His sharp brown eyes had studied every playbook since he had been a freshman himself and he worked up to what he had become, which is why the two girls were running behind him.

Slowing down to a stride, he motioned for the girls to pass him. And they did so, checking out his half-naked body at the same time. Trevor just smiled to himself, semi-enjoying the attention. He checked his watch, which stated that it was five, an hour before football practice.

He pulled out his headphones and tucked them safely in his pocket. He wiped the sweat from his brow and headed across the grass towards the high school. As captain, being early was a must. It showed leadership and set a good example for the other players.

Trevor walked right up to his old rust bucket of a Chevy truck. The light blue color had faded with age and rust spots covered most of it. But it ran like a charm and it had been given to him by his Grandpa Joe for being captain this year. So, who he was he to complain?

Reaching over the side into the bed, he grabbed his shoulder pads. Setting them next to the tire, Trevor next grabbed his water bottle. He squirted some in his mouth and then poured the rest of the cool liquid on top of his messy black hair.

Throwing the empty water bottle into the bed, he picked up his pads and began to head inside. “Hey Trevor! We going to get a conference title this year?” shouted old, white haired Mr. Fisher, the janitor at the school.

Trevor turned to face him but continued walking backwards. “You know it, Fisher. It’s all ours this year!”

45

!

10

Mr. Fisher waved good-bye and Trevor was about to turn around when he barreled into somebody. Trevor about fell over but caught his balance. But the other person ended up sprawled on the ground. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, setting his pads down and grabbing her arm. “Here, let me help you up.”

“Aye infiernos. Do you not watch where you’re going?” she asked, pulling her arm out of his grip.

Trevor just stared at her, not recognizing her at all. She glared at him with fierce dark green eyes. Her hair was jet black, wildly curled, and her skin was a soft tan color. Her nose was very small but crooked slightly and her lips were full, kissable as many would say. She was beyond beautiful in his eyes. “I said I was sorry,” he said again, coming back to reality. “If you’ll just let me help—”

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” she smarted off. “I’m perfectly capable of picking myself up and chasing those papers you pushed out of my hands.”

She quickly jumped up, muttering in Spanish, and Trevor couldn’t help but notice how athletic she was. She looked like she could almost run as fast as him with those long legs, but that was crazy to think. He then noticed her chasing flyaway papers, so he went to help her even though she didn’t want him to.

He grabbed one sheet and looked at it. It was a new student form all filled out and everything. She snatched it from his hands, gathering it with the rest of her papers. “So, you’re new here?”

She just looked at him, shuffling papers around. “Yeah, I just got into town.”

“From where?” he continued to question.

“New Mexico.”

“That’s pretty far from here, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, pretty far,” she replied. “Why are you asking me these questions? You just ran over me. The least you could do is let me continue on my way and leave me alone like I asked.”

She briskly turned and walked away towards the double glass doors. Trevor quickly followed, picking up his pads on the way. “Look I’m sorry,” he said, stepping in front of her. “I’m an idiot and I should’ve been paying attention to where I was going.”

46

!

10

“You got that right,” she commented, pulling the door open and almost hitting Trevor, but he swerved out of the way just in time.

He followed her inside but stopped by the gym doors. Deciding to be the nice guy in the situation, he just watched her go and said no more. He pushed on the door and headed towards the locker room. Being the first one there was a plus. No others were present to hit you with rolled up towels or boast about their athletic abilities as football players.

Grabbing the gym bag that he had dropped off earlier, he quickly changed into his gear. Holding his helmet under his arm, he was about to head out when Moody, Trevor’s best friend, walked in. Moody was a big fella, a linebacker to be exact; he weighed almost 300 pounds, and had a huge ego. The reason he had been named Moody by the team, though, was not because of his ego; it was because he could transform from a goofy guy to a raging bull within seconds. This trait was good on the field, but horrible to deal with off.

“Trevor! My man!” he said loudly, slapping him on the back and almost knocking him over. “You ready for this year?”

“I am ready to win,” Trevor replied, slugging him in the arm. “Hurry up and get ready. You’ve got to run a couple laps before practice.”

“Trevor, come on, man. If I run those two laps, I might lose all this godly muscle that keeps saving your ass,” he laughed.

Trevor just smiled. “Just do it, Moody.”

Trevor left the locker room and headed onto the field. The grass was just as green as always and the sun shone on it with high importance. For Salem, this place was heaven during fall. He ran his laps in his gear and then began stretching.

Coach Watson stepped onto the field, watching Trevor from the bench. He was wearing the same black Lions hat that he had worn for almost twenty years. He claimed it to be his lucky charm during football season. Trevor had never seen him without it.

He waved Trevor over as other boys began to step onto the field. “Yeah, Coach?” Trevor asked, running over.

“Trevor, you’re my captain this year,” he stated. “I expect a lot from you. Lead the younger ones and keep control of the older ones. I’ve never admitted this to a captain before, but I think we have a shot to go all the way this year. There’s a lot of talent here and I want us to use it.”

“Yes sir,” Trevor said.

47

\7

!10

“Okay, go gather everyone up,” Coach Watson said, his brown mustache twitching into a smile. “Run a few plays and let’s get this year started off right!”

Trevor did as he was told and practice started immediately. All 82 players were ready to begin, but that didn’t last. Play after play, with Coach Watson yelling and the sun bearing down on them, it didn’t take long for them to get fatigued.

“Okay, we’re going to run this play one more time and we are going to get it right!” Coach yelled, blowing his whistle. “Let’s move it! Come on! Trevor!”

Trevor, just as tired and sweaty as everyone else, with dirt on his cheek, rushed over to Coach Watson. “Yes, sir?”

“This isn’t going as well as I thought it would,” he admitted, looking at him. “I got a new player that just came in; decent sized, fast, running back.”

“I say let’s give him a shot,” Trevor instantly said, no thought going through his mind at all about his decision. “We need some new, better runners so let’s see what he’s got.”

Coach Watson nodded and looked over his shoulder. “Sanchez!” he shouted.

An athletic looking kid pushed through the crowd and stood next to Coach Watson. He smiled and blew his whistle to stop the boys on the field. “All right, boys, start the play over! We got a newbie!”

“Fresh meat!” Moody bellowed as the kid ran onto the field.

All the guys laughed, but still set up to redo the play. Trevor stood next to Coach, watching just as seriously. He wanted to see how well this kid could do because they were in serious need of runners. But, as Captain, he also had to be critical. Could the kid handle the pressure? Could he step up to Coach’s expectations for the year? All Trevor could do was to wait and to see.

Moody faced off with the newbie, sneering at him. “I’m coming after you boy. You’re going to wish you never stepped onto this field.”

The whistle blew and off they went. Moody charged after him but the newbie was quicker. He swerved around him, running quickly down the field. At least three guys followed him, trying to take him down. He swerved every single one of them, never being touched.

Trevor watched as the ball flew across the field and, in slow motion, he caught it. He also watched as Moody came charging down the field like an

48

\7

!10

angry bull. Trevor braced himself for the kid to get taken down hard, but it never happened. Moody lunged for him. He twirled out of the way, barely being touched, and fell across the line. Touchdown.

Everyone just stood there, silent as they’d ever been. The newbie ran back towards the bench but not before setting the ball right in front of Moody’s nose. Approaching the bench, the newbie slowly took the helmet off. Trevor’s breath caught in his throat. Jet black curls fell from under the helmet.

She smiled knowingly at all the gaping male faces. Holding out her hand towards Trevor, she arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think we were properly introduced earlier. The name’s Jill and I’m your new running back.”

Sea Breeze Ceramic, Krista Coy

49

\7

!10

Forbidden Love Notes to a Beautiful Soul by Maggie Crouch

if love was what you had and life was what you lost would that make love the cost for life across this expanse of moments forgotten and told this pit of memories all broken and old but broken things can be mended, fixed, and bended remember not the bad for they're just fads forget the hurt believe me I'm expert- ly introducing you to the new way the new stay, in this live free die hard type of place, forgetting the space and time of all my rhymes, just flow with it, let it go with it, remember from now on how you felt wonderful enlightened ecstatic ethereal let these feelings forge a new you let the past loves die for love is not always eternal, make it yours, rise with the tides if it dies the love was not meant to be forget how you may be hurting them let your own heart govern the will of your mind of your body let the world fall away when you find that next step that final place to rest, to forget how these things are now to remember how they will be in the end and always and forever remember me now as I am for I love to hear your laughter

50

\7

!10

your smile encompasses me surrounds my heart with butterflies and makes my beats quicken find a mirror, know you are eternally beautiful ethereally enticing remember how even if you forget me now and go back to what has been I would give you everything make you anything life remembers its loves loves fill lives to brims unspoken unfulfilled unattainable but know that I would give you love that need not be sought and I know I write this with more amore than I aught until that day when your love takes over life's lost soul Please remember me believe I would have know I will

51

\7

!10

Cast Off by Craig Parker

there’s an old man who lives on my street and at some point on most afternoons he makes his way into the very middle of it to practice his cast with an old fishing pole we all try not to look at him as we drive by he just waves and smiles like there’s nothing unusual going on at all and maybe there wouldn’t be except there’s something wrong with one of his eyes and his mouth has a funny slant to it and he’s ancient and he casts his line down the middle of the street for half an hour or longer at a stretch maybe he’s senile and believes he’s really fishing casting into the past reliving a moment from 1953 when he pulled in a big mouth bass and ate it for dinner with a wife who died long before we moved here maybe no one has ever cooked a fish like she did maybe he went crazy while fighting the last good war and came back with a bum eye and a crooked grin an old rod and reel a taste for fresh trout and a raging case of hydrophobia

52

\7

!10

maybe he’s just lonely fishing for a friend and every car that passes every friendly wave met by averted gaze is another disappointment he stacks atop the last in the fishin’ hole of his heart I want to buy an old rowboat equip it with some wheels so the next day I see him out I can row out of my garage down the street whistling in a fishing hat and vest like it’s the most natural thing in the world and ask him anything biting? care to sit in my boat? or maybe just what's your name? I wonder why I don’t

53

\7

!10

Award for Excellence in Art

Old Main Oil painting, Drew Sparks

54

\7

!10

Overthinking by Tiffany Tibbot

Truthfully – honestly I say, my words they beg to be poetic, dramatic & deep. But honestly – truthfully I say, my mind will only touch on the superficial and the petty. Thoughts crowd my mind blurring pink around my eyes, scratching at my cerebellum, tapping ceaselessly on my ear drum, They beg for attention – slipping on my tongue – crowding my larynx, in long lines like at the supermarket aching for their time at the podium. Not to make a vital point— No, it’s all about attention and fame. Famous for the pity given them by the heart— Say, what is the heart? the dwelling for emotions perhaps? Or is that just a metaphor for little girls waiting on white knights and a frog prince?

Revisit the heart— Our souls own scrivener, writing on the back of our eyelids the worries of our mind so that as we try to escape in sleep they accost and chase our pupils until we lie awake wide-eyed, in a cold sweat, longing for the morning for a reason to be busy for any slight distraction. from Life. Life, like the liver, poses problems when you enable its whims, glorify its downfalls,

& arbitrarily treat it as if not a single weakness exists. Run through life without ambition – or maybe it’s too much ambition that blinds us shrouds us Ultimately destroys us. Make a list of the dreams that have failed you: one. you and he, years ago, a moment, gone forever. two. broken hearts, ripped apart, torn photos incomplete. three. lost balloons, drifting in the blue, or tangled in the boughs. four. reflections, sights we abhor, confidence left in shattered glass. And on and on and on… it goes.

casualties in an insignificant life? We treat it as so. futile, despairing, hopeless, bleak, fruitless, abandoned, dreary, tedious, unpromising,

trivial “life’s what you make it,” they say. who are they? these people so important to heed to? who are they? these people we strive to impress? just pressure and stress.

& thoughts they crowd my mind.

55

Symmetrical Silence

Photograph, Ashley Konsdorf

56

The staff

Caitlyn Croan, a first-time member of the Apogee staff and a member of the fiction and essay committees, is a senior English major. She has been actively involved in cross-country, track, and Pi Beta Phi throughout her four years at Franklin. She is anticipating graduation and her wedding next summer, but is unsure about her post-graduation plans. She is nonetheless optimistic about what the future holds.

Ben Fisher, poetry and fiction editor, is a senior at Franklin College. He is a journalism major with an English minor, immersed in the world of words. In 2005 Ben was admitted to and attended the Kenyon Review’s Young Writers workshop. He was born in Greencastle, Indiana, and has grown up in its streets, yards, and cornfields. Rachel Friedman is a senior with a major in journalism and minors in creative writing, English, and leadership. She serves as the Vice President of Administration for Delta Delta Delta, Public Relations chair for Up 'til Dawn, and President of Rho Lambda. Her future plans include looking into a career of writing children's books. Her dream job is to write greeting cards for Hallmark.

Joslyn Lollar, senior art editor, is a junior education and English major. Her future plans include reading for the rest of her life.

57

Theodore Mesologites has yet to declare a major, but he is very interested in art. He is a member of the art committee, and his future plans include finishing his 100-page comic book.

Kristin Mize is a member of the fiction and poetry committees. She is a junior, double-majoring in English and philosophy, with a double minor in psychology and creative writing. Kristin is tentatively planning to attend graduate school to earn an MFA in creative writing.

Mary Redding, senior fiction editor, is a junior English major with a creative writing minor. She dislikes describing herself in a bio. Her future plans include grabbing a snack.

Tiffany Tibbot, senior editor of the poetry committee and member of the art committee, is a senior journalism major with minors in creative writing and leadership. She is highly involved on campus with her sorority, Religious Life Team, and Up ‘Til Dawn. Her future plans include doing interfaith work in the summer and pursuing a master’s degree in publishing.

Dedaimia Whitney, faculty advisor for The Apogee, is associate professor and chair of the English Department at Franklin College. She holds an MFA in fiction from Indiana University, having completed a science fiction novel entitled Merlin’s Children under the direction of Professor Scott Sanders. Her interests include gardening, quilting, jewelry-making, drumming, teaching piano, and most important, being a grandmother.

58

The 2010-11 Apogee staff. Seated: Josi Lollar, Rachel Friedman, Tiffany Tibbot, Theo Mesologites. Standing: Caitlyn Croan, Kristen Mize, Dedaimia Whitney, Mary Redding, Ben Fisher. Picture by Richard Erable.

59