THE ASBURY REVIEWFALL 2012 // ASBURY UNIVERSITY // VOL. 49

“In reading great l i terature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself.”

- C.S. Lewis

PROSEPOETRYVISUAL ART

THE ASBURYREVIEW

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FOREWORDE D I T O R - I N - C H I E F

W I L L I A M H O U P

Why read The Asbury Review? Maybe your friends’ work is published in it. They would want you to see it. Why bother, though? Instead you could fill your time with Shel Silverstein’s imagination or marvel at Ansel Adams’ massive landscapes. Moreover, what can these students do that even comes close?

At their best, literature and art serve to reveal truth in culture. Most every poet, sculptor, painter, novelist and photographer attempts to show this through some emotional, physical or spiritual lens.

In Asbury students’ artwork and writing, we find our creative culture. The Review serves as a vehicle to explore the vision and the heart of our student body. The work might not pertain literally to campus, as in “Professor Willowborden Wants to Sing Southern Gospel”—except I think Professor Richardson might appreciate a centaur on campus.

But when we read a story or a poem or when we look at art, our personal anxieties, curiosities and desires cross paths with the universal feelings. Our students’ work places our lives into words and images. Furthermore, this represents Asbury’s part of the great conversation that spans from the earliest written word and cave drawings to the fall 2012 issue of The Asbury Review.

S C H O O L D O O RK A Y C E P R I C ET H E E M P T Y H O U S ES H E L B Y M E E H L E D E RB A G N E U X L ’ A N C I E N C I M E T E R I E W I L L I A M H O U PP E T E R A N D J E S U SJ O N AT H A N J O H N S O NE M I LY O N T H EB E A C HD A N I E L R O Y S T E R A C H A I R ’ S E C H O # 2R O N C O L ET H E G A R D E N E RJ O R D Y N R H O R E RC O C O N U T L I M E V E R B E N AC O U R T N E Y L E M A YD R I P ZJ U L I A S I L L A M A ND I Z Z Y AT D U S KB R I A N T R O Y E RL E A FJ U L I A S I L L A M A NB R U S H Y M O U N TA I N A P P L E F E S T I V A LK E L S E Y C A M P B E L L

H U M A N S V S . N AT U R EA S H L E Y R A I N W AT E RD R I V I N G I N C U S T E R S TAT E P A R K AT D U S KR E B E C C A P R I C EH I J I TA M I AR E B E C C A P R I C EW A R P A I N TB E N M A R C H A LA D A MD A N I E L R O Y S T E RS N O R K E L I N G I N T H EV I R G I N I S L A N D SW I L L I A M H O U PF O R N E L LYJ O R D Y N R H O R E RB U B B L E G U M B R A I D SA N D B R I T M O H A W K SC H E L S E A C L E A R YP R O F E S S O R W I L L O W B O R D E NW A N T S T O S I N G S O U T H E R N G O S P E LB R I T TA N Y B U T L E RP O O LK A Y C E P R I C E

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CONTENTS

S C H O O L D O O R / / K A Y C E P R I C E

THE EMPTY HOUSE

S H E L B Y M E E H L E D E R

Charles ripped open the cardboard packaging, removed the frozen meal, and made small slits in the cellophane. This was his nightly routine. He closed the microwave and hunched over to examine the buttons more closely, squinting behind his bifocals until the numbers were legible. He lifted a trembling, wrinkled finger to the button that read “7” and pressed start. It was the same button he pushed for the same frozen meal of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans every night, but he still had trouble finding it without looking carefully.

He took his time advancing from the kitchen to the living room, not that he had a choice these days. He had slowed down, and he was noticing it. Charles refused to use his cane around the house, something his son always badgered him about. Instead he used the kitchen island like a railing to steady himself, careful not to slip on the cold, hardwood floors before he reached the carpeted living room, and exhaled slowly like a tightrope walker after crossing safely to the other side of the line. The familiar hum of the eleven

o’clock news on the television droned in the background, the only noise in the house. Charles hunkered down in his leather recliner across from the t.v. where he sat every night with his t.v. tray that always had on it a coaster, a glass of water, and a crossword puzzle. He never touched the couch to his left, let alone sat on it. The afghan draped along the top of the couch had stayed folded like the shroud of Turin, the same way the blue and white fair isle patterned pillows that were neatly arranged in each corner of the couch had been for four years now. As he looked up to watch a story on the news about a hit-and-run across town, he noticed one of the photos on the top of the entertainment center had collapsed and was lying facedown.

Just then he felt the breeze, and from the corner of his eye saw the curtains move. “Darn wind,” he said aloud, and closed the open window to his right. He picked up the picture and propped it up in its rightful place. It was a picture of him with red kiss marks all over his face, making it impossible to distinguish what was smeared lipstick

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from his flushed cheeks. In the picture his smile was so wide, he looked as though he had slept the night before with a coat-hanger in his mouth. It was from a Valentine’s banquet nearly seven years ago that he and his wife Judy had attended at their church. She had come up to him with red lipstick on, in front of all their friends who were chatting over how lovely the dinner was, and what their grandchildren were up to nowadays, and kissed him playfully all over, leaving the evidence of her spontaneous and youthful love all over his face. He admired her spryness so much he hadn’t even been embarrassed. He stared down at the picture now, in the dim, half-light glow of the television screen in the empty house, and felt the decrepitude of his own body sink in. He looked around the living room at the dozens of other pictures that sat on bookshelf along the north wall, or on the end tables or hung on the walls; pictures of him and Judy and the life they had built together, of their son and daughter-in-law and their grandchildren, and of their friends and family. He looked at all the pictures that cataloged his successes; photos with various presidents and framed Christmas cards from the White House that he had received while on the security detail. Judy always framed those photos because she had been proud of him, but of all the proud moments in his life, the time Jimmy Carter told him, “Thank you sincerely for all you do,” or when he was assigned to investigate the Kennedy assassination, nothing made him beam quite like that moment he had worn her cherry-red stamps of love all over his face. Charles turned the t.v. off, sat

on the couch he hadn’t sat on in years and stared at that picture, touching all the places on his face where the lipstick marks had been, until he heard the familiar, “beep, beep, beep” of the microwave in the other room.

But tonight, for the first night in a long time, Charles ignored the smell of his Salisbury steak. Instead, he sprang off the couch with as much fervor as his 72-year-old body would allow, as the cold wood shocked his feet into a brisker walk. He followed the stairs up to the bedroom he still called “theirs” and sat on a little stool by the lit vanity. In the heat of the bulbs that surrounded the mirror laid a small wooden box, as secure as a treasure chest. Engraved on the box were the letters, “JMA”, Judith Margaret Anderson. Charles lifted the box and pulled out, piece by piece, the jewelry that had been the most valuable to his wife: a lapel pin he gave to her that he had worn while in the secret service, a simple silver bracelet from Tiffany & Co. that their son Jack gave her on her 65th, and last, birthday, and a Celtic cross necklace that was her mother’s. In the glow of the vanity lights, Charles sat stiff-lipped, rubbing the necklace between his index finger and his thumb like a magic lamp he could summon memories from. He closed his eyes and remembered the way that cross looked around her neck the first time they met. She was a librarian in Eastbrook, Pennsylvania, and he was a lonely government employee who secretly read Shakespeare on his days off.

That particular day as he waited to board his flight to Virginia, he had gotten lost

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in the Dewey Decimal System and wound up in the autobiography section Judy had been organizing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but do you work here?”

Her faded blonde hair bounced as she turned around. “No,” she grinned, “sometimes I just come here to rearrange books for fun.”

He greeted her smile with reciprocity. “I’m looking for Shakespeare.”

“You don’t seem like the Shakespeare type,” she said playfully as she scanned his immaculately starched navy suit, slicked brown hair, and rigid posture. She fidgeted with the chain of her necklace, and he couldn’t help but notice the way the cross gracefully rested on her chest, falling right above where the crew neck of her red dress cut.

She led him to a wall of Shakespeare and handed him Measure for Measure.

“You’ll like this one,” she said.

As she checked out his library books, she handed him a slip of yellow paper with her phone number scribbled on it. If you’re ever in town again and need help around the library. Judy.

Charles lifted his head and met with his own reflection. In just four years he had aged decades. He looked down into Judy’s wooden box and went to pull out the ring he had given to her just seven short months after that day at the library, but it wasn’t there. He shook the box upside down violently

as if the ring could have fallen into a secret compartment. He scoured each drawer of the vanity, not bothering to close them after he franticly flung them open, only to find each one bare. His fragile heart was pounding, clanging around like a metal pan. He tore apart the bathroom, ripping soaps and shaving cream cans from the cabinets and leaving them scattered all over the floor. Her ring could not go missing, he thought.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken it out of that box on her vanity, and didn’t know if that was because he hadn’t moved it, or because his memory was fading. He walked back downstairs and looked on the top of the entertainment center, near the pictures on the end tables, and even tore the cushions off the couch. He had lost her ring. Fury swelled inside of him, and his angry heartbeat throbbed in his ears, fading in and out like a siren. He took each picture off the wall and threw it with all the strength in his frail body. Glass shattered like icicles on the kitchen floor. He stripped the walls bare and remembered, as each one fell, how empty this house really was without the scent of Judy trying new oatmeal-raisin cookie recipes or burning candles that smelled of the appropriate season. He looked around the room as his chest and shoulders rose and then deflated with each angry breath. For the first time in years, Charles wept. He sat down on the couch he had only just been reacquainted with, clutched one of the fair isle pillows sitting neatly in the corner of the couch, and he wept.

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On the little end table beside the couch was another picture in a small, silver frame that had, “Baby’s First Christmas” engraved on the bottom. In the photograph, Charles stood beside his petite wife who held in her arms their first and only son, Jack. Behind them was a large, glittering Christmas tree donned with blue and silver ornaments. Seven-month-old Jack looked like he was about to leap out of his mother’s arms, Judy’s expression conveyed her panic at the thought of it, and Charles’ face was somewhere between apathetic and annoyed.

Their life hadn’t always been beautiful. Charles’ demanding job had him traveling for work more than Judy liked, and left her to raise Jack without much help from Charles. Over the years, Charles missed birthdays, soccer games, and class field trips. All the while, Judy was still the mom who put handwritten notes in her son’s lunch that she packed for him every day, and the wife who put up with long hours, extended leave, and holidays protecting the President’s family, rather than spending it with his own. Judy made sure that even when Charles’ absence took a toll on family life, Jack always knew that his dad was a good man.

“Your daddy’s a hero,” she would tell Jack before bed on the nights Charles couldn’t tuck in his son.

“You mean like Superman?” Five-year-old amazement ran rampant in his tone.

“Yes, like Superman...but better,” Judy whispered as Jack’s eyes widened

at this bold statement, “because Superman didn’t have a sidekick like you.”

The memories flooded Charles’ mind just like the liquid-nitrogen pools swelling in the corners of his eyes. Her ring was the only thing he had left that was perfectly and indelibly a part of her. Sure, he had her necklace and that bracelet and the lapel pin, things she would have wanted kept safe, but that ring was the only thing that still held the shape of her finger; the finger that he used to wrap around his own before they fell asleep each night, the finger that intertwined with his the day the doctor had told them, “cancer” and “a year at best” and “we’ll do everything we can”, the finger Superman had kissed as he slid the gold ring off his wife’s lifeless body that night in the hospital.

Charles sat up on the couch, reached for the phone, and not being able to see through the fog on his glasses from the tears, hoped he had dialed the right number.

“Hello?” The voice was groggy, but Charles knew it was his son.

“Jack,” his voice broke as he exhaled and an avalanche of tears cascaded down the wrinkles in his cheeks.

“Dad? Are you okay?” Jack hadn’t ever seen or heard his father cry, not even at the funeral. He knew his dad had waited until everyone left before he broke down that day, and for almost the whole year after she died when he hardly spoke to or saw anyone.

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“I couldn’t hold onto her, Jack. I couldn’t keep her safe.”

“Dad, no one could have. She was sick, and nothing you could have done could have stopped her from getting sick, or made her better.” Jack’s lip began to quiver on the other end of the receiver, and they sat in silence for what felt like hours. “Do you want me to come over, Dad?”

Charles realized in that one moment of weakness he had conveyed to his son, he had set free years of guilt and pain. He steadied his breathing and cleared his throat, “No, no I think I’ll be alright. Jacky,” he paused, “I miss her so much.”

“I know,” Jack sniffled on the other end, “I miss her too. Get some rest and I’ll be over tomorrow morning.”

Charles hung up the phone and released the damp pillow from his grasp. He looked around at the mess, but decided he would clean it tomorrow when Jack came over. He climbed the stairs again, this time more slowly. His body was drained but still

so heavy, and when he climbed into bed he didn’t care to pull the covers back, or brush his teeth, or change his clothes, or turn off the lights. He just laid there with his knees kissing his chest. He rolled over and slid his arm underneath his pillow, extending it to the other side of the bed just like he used to so that Judy could roll over and nestle into the space between his neck and shoulder. Instead he reached beneath her pillow and clutched at the sheets that no longer held the scent of her lavender shampoo. He felt the coolness of metal on his fingers, and from under the pillow pulled out Judy’s wedding ring. He had no tears left, so instead stared at the beautiful, simple gold band and smiled faintly as he slid it halfway down his index finger. He looked over at the clock. 2:37 a.m. He exhaled, peace settling back into his fragile body. Charles Anderson closed his eyes and saw the same thing he did every night before he went to bed and every morning when he woke up; Judy with her beautiful, curled blonde hair in her red dress that day at the library. At 2:38 he fell asleep smiling. And this time, he didn’t wake up.

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BAGNEUXL’ANCIEN

CIMETERIEW I L L I A M H O U P

I walked among their dead.A draft brushed the curtainagainst my feet.

P E T E R A N D J E S U S / / J O N AT H A N J O H N S O N

E M I LY O N T H E B E A C H / / D A N I E L R O Y S T E R

A C H A I R ’ S E C H O # 2 / / R O N C O L E

THE GARDENERfor Daddy

J O R D Y N R H O R E R

You have earth muscles under your skin,coiled like thick vines and I can seethe way they move when you dip into soil,they way they sing hymns to flowers, a soundthat only your hands understand and create. Each step on bare earth wills you to createand shape your world, love the leave-behind skinsof cicadas, crystalline ornaments, soundlessas they sit around the edge of the flowerbed. Seehow they line up, just-so, brushed over with soil. When new creatures, trespassing leaves, soilthe continuing flow of your garden, you createnew patterns to accept them, you seethem as wonders, examining their green skinto identify how they arrived, without a sound. You converse with your whistle, make bird soundseach morning, repeating their songs, tending to soil.They are your work partners, you tell me. The skinof your shoulders is dotted with music-note freckles, creatinga framework they can follow, a work song only they see. You help me find wild mint, pull it, seek the root. Our plodding feet make so much soundI think we’ll scare the herb away. Creating an adventure, I creep up, pick the vine from the soiland break a leaf in half, rub it against my skin. I begin to learn the liturgy under your skin,and each time we wander in the garden I seethe prayers, written on little leaves, poking from the soil,prayers I can remember, whispered on repeat, the sounda hallelujah. You teach me earth worship, teach me to create.

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Like the bottle of soap on the counter,We ran out.It once reminded you of me,But now it’s an empty bottle,Reminding me of you.It ran out, and the smell faded,And all I’m left with is dirty hands.

COCONUTLIME

VERBENAC O U R T N E Y L E M A Y

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D R I P Z / / J U L I A S I L L A M A N

D I Z Z Y AT D U S K / / B R I A N T R O Y E R

L E A F / / J U L I A S I L L A M A N

BRUSHY MOUNTAIN

APPLE FESTIVAL

K E L S E Y C A M P B E L LThe air gets cold, and scarves and knit sweaters return to your mind. A bonfire seems like the best solution for an empty Saturday night. Crisp, chipped leaves crunch under your tennis shoes. And, just when you think the green of summer could not get any more vibrant, the orange of fall enters. At same time your teeth tingle to scrape along the shell of a red-green apple. It is the time when getting to the core is your life’s only objective. In autumn the smallest things like knit-hats, caramel, pumpkins, and apples are all celebrated.

Apples. No matter the name or coloring, they all are the reason for a small festival nestled in the mountains of North Carolina. North Carolina, my home. Few people have heard of Wilkesboro, unless they are a fan of bluegrass music. The city is the home of Merle Fest, a bluegrass concert festival. But that is another story for another day. Merle Fest is the tourist trap for March, but for October the city’s claim to fame is the Brushy Mountain Apple Festival.

Every first Saturday in October, Main Street closes and vendors pop up their white tents, which line down the middle of the road. People from all over the state arrive with their strollers, dogs, or just an eye for Christmas gifts. Main Street is crowded with craft makers and sellers. Adjoining streets jut out and contain food and entertainment. You walk shoulder to shoulder with people, but seeing the items on display is never a problem. Just haul out your daily or rusty southern lingo with an, “excuse me, ma’am,” or “excuse me, sir.” Murmurings of people fill the air along with barbeque smoke and bluegrass music.

My family and I attended this festival too many times to count. However, when my sister went away to college, it was only my parents and I who went. Then, when I, too, left for college, the only Apple Festival I got was a care package from my mom. She filled the cardboard box with everything apple. Apple chap stick. Apple body wash. Apple candies. Apple stationary. And, of course a shirt from that year’s Brushy Mountain Apple Festival. She

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even covered the box with singing and dancing apple stickers. As I ran my fingers over the sides of the cardboard box, I could only close my eyes and pretend the sun was shining down on me as we stood in line for hot apple pies.

The Apple Festival has rarely changed over the years. At the main entrance there has always been an evangelist preacher. He stands at the bottom of the steep hill that leads to the park, as if he chooses that steep incline as a metaphor for man’s depravity and the slippery slope to hell. Rarely does someone stop to listen to him. But, he will always be passionately flailing his arms and shouting words like “temptation,” “rapture,” “hell,” and “damnation.” Rarely do you hear “redemption.” But, that is another story for another day.

The only thing louder than the evangelist is the Poppin John’s homemade ice cream machine. The eardrum-bursting “pops” can probably be heard a mile away, and are how the mobile ice creamery got its name. The machinery churning the ice cream pops as it turns. The line for the famous ice cream is always a century long and its patrons are mostly deaf by the time their mouth gets a spoonful.

My junior year of high school was the last year that I was able to go to the Apple Festival. The festival was the same day as my first SAT test. I remember sitting in my parent’s dark blue minivan as the sun peered up over the parking lot of Western High School. My stomach was in knots. My

parents had reassured me that they would be there to pick me up after the test. But, it was the test that I was worried about.

Other students climbed out of their cars with their purses, pencils, and calculators. This test decided my future, I told myself. I had entered the dark dungeon of a high school with dim corridors and then spent the next four to five hours in silence. I knew no one there.

When the verbal, mathematics, and reading was finished and every oval shaded properly, I breathed the long, unabashed sigh of freedom as I exited the building. I threw open the door to our minivan that waited outside for me. My mom handed me a bag of Chick-fila and I was overwhelmed with the scent of warmth and fried batter. I was asked how it went, and my answers flooded over in abundance. I dared to say that I probably did horribly on that important test, because how can anyone expect to lock you in a room for four straight hours and successfully take a difficult test. My father drove us the hour to Wilkesboro, and I talked the entire way, my parents’ attentively listening.

We parked in and ventured into the bright sunlight. The air was chilly. But, it is funny how smiles can cut the bitter wind down to being pleasant. Dad explored the music realm of the festival while Momma and I talked of Christmas. We perused tables of candles, jewelry, wreaths, and carved Santa’s. And slowly, the test’s gravity disappeared.

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Eventually the three of us reunited and marched downhill to the outskirts of the festival. A petting zoo with sheep, goats, potbelly pigs, and rabbits is always there. The animals cautiously examine children’s outstretched hands for feed. For 50 cents you can get a handful of gray-green feed that makes your hand smells as sour as the Porta-Johns. But, it is the only way to get the animals to like you.

After the urging of Momma with her camera, I searched for an animal that would let me hold it. A squealing potbelly pig caught my eye and I slowly snuck up behind it. He or she was about a foot long and weighed probably 10 pounds. I stuck my hands on either side of his potbelly and hoisted the noisy thing into my arms. His gray, fuzzy body violently moved against my chest.

“Quick, take the picture,” I shouted over the pig’s squeals for help. The camera snapped.

Finally, I put the tortured soul back down in the hay. He quickly crossed to the other side of the pen to the next kid with food. My dad suggested that we should have taken him home. “We could have named him ‘Gwaltney,’” Daddy teased.

“That’s not funny!” Momma and I exclaimed.

At this festival I tried my first deep-fried Oreo. I distinctly remember the flaky crust and chocolate creamy center dissolve slowly in my mouth.

When I had opened my eyes after my return to earth, my mom and I both giggled at the powdered sugar on our mouths and noses. It was also at this festival that I purchased my favorite pair of earrings. The silver pearl color had caught my eye as it sparkled in the sun. At the time $15 seemed a lot to spend on such a luxury. Even now, I love to rub my thumb and index finger over the smooth, oblong jewel. They’re pretty plain, but that is why I like them.

In those moments, I was my parents’ little baby again… not a teenager preparing for college. And as I sat with that Apple Festival care package on my lap my freshman year of college, I realized that nothing was ever going to be quite like it was before. It was the same realization I had as I left my home for college. As I carried my last few items out of our home’s front door I cried, thinking, “Leaving means nothing will ever be the same again.” And in a small way I was right. But, ever since I left home, returning back to the place I grew up is just as sweet as a Granny Smith.

The Brushy Mountain Apple Festival is where my mind goes when tree tops turn shades of crimson, auburn, gold, and pumpkin. It is the memory that clinches my heart and squeezes with yearning to return to a time with my family. Now, as I think about it more, this feeling is bigger than festivals or the season of fall. It all runs parallel to this longing to return home; a familiar and familial place that contains only happy memories.

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H U M A N S V S . N AT U R E / / A S H L E Y R A I N W AT E R

DRIVING IN CUSTER STATE PARK AT DUSK

R E B E C C A P R I C E

Air stuck on the way down our windpipes when we saw their burly, soft bodies bumble down the middle of the road.We pulled over just as they flowed offinto the grass and broke around our toymini cooper in airtight quiet. None of us breathed as they passed. Headsbobbed and deep pupils eyed us warily. One wrong look and our car could crumple into itself like used foil. My fingers graspedthe shutter and I snapped the strength of Godplod by in a snorting herd of buffalo.

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HIJITAMIA

R E B E C C A P R I C E

My mother ran barefoot in Mexicountil she was fourteen. She grew up on coffee because the water wasn’t safe to drink and she once ate cow brains for dinner. When I complained as a child, she would shake her finger and declare:“¡Paciencia, por favor, hijita mía!” My mother lived in Switzerland for a yearand a half when she was in her twenties.French language school was tedious.She tells me stories of visiting Geneva, drinking Turkish coffee and the cranky landlady, who made her kneel by the bed every night to recite prayers in broken French. My mother lived in Papua New Guinea for fifteen years. She was a French teacher.I ran barefoot down our street, laced looselywith gravel, and played tag in coffee trees.Mom would wake up early for market, where locals sold their produce by the police station. She always bought tomatoes, which sat ripening in the kitchen window. She sliced them raw for dinner. I complained.

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My mother lives in South Carolina,chauffeuring my grandmother to “Hugs ‘n’ Mugs,” a retired missionary brunch. Neither of them understands this country. Grandma mumbles in forgotten Spanish. Mom decorates the house with evidencesof the places she has been. She talks of going back on the mission field—Mexico, maybe. Quiet sighs escapetheir chests and rest wedged in wrinkles. But my father thrives. He plants a tomato garden, which he fences in to keep rabbits away. He waters daily. “It’s therapeutic for him,” Mom whispers as we watch him stroke leaves from inside. We transplant ourselves over and over and over. I have lived in twelve houses—or so.The coffee gurgles from the kitchen. Our garden wilts at the end of summer.Dad dreams of making a sailboatand retiring along Lake Erie. Mom hangspaintings on the wall, wonders if—hopesthat—she will take them down again.Off-brand coffee collects cupboard dust. Grandma twists her sheets at nightwith restless legs syndrome. I hearher get up and patter barefoot downthe hallway, clad in a second-handnightgown. She bumbles incoherently—urgently—in tongues only Jesus knows.A photo of grandpa hangs on her wall.Paciencia, por favor, hijita mía.Patience, please, my daughter.We are not yet home.

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W A R P A I N T / / B E N M A R C H A L

ADAMD A N I E L R O Y S T E R

I named it “grass” whenI swam dryly through an oceanOf golden waving hands. I named it “sky” whenI gazed back at the unreachableBlue faced light. I named it “moon” when I Slunk among the shadowsAlone as a fellow stranger. I named it all and called each By it’s own nameMy tragic mistake These blank titles remain and Images forsake,Fading away like dreams in An ever-waking sleep. My “world” my “God”,I will call you once again.With every species and dogma in my powerI become the expert of my blindness. You are what you are because I made you.But who am I?

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SNORKELINGIN THE

VIRGIN ISLANDSW I L L I A M H O U P

Spiny palms swayed like a gospel choir.Blue water crinkled to our left.The paved hills were as steep as a heartbeat perturbed.We traced it day after dayand exposed life beneath the watery film.

I floated as a dead man, watching life interact independent of me.

Fire coral and flamingo tongue snailand jackknife fish and sea turtles all speaksomething I don’t know, and I can’t write.an oxygen-less civilization with an economyand culture and guardiansWith dorsal fins and long snouts.

To watch the stingray beat his wingsagainst the ocean bed to stir up sand and timeand little bones, preying on fishnestled at the bottom.

Then riseborn from waves.I watched but did not know. Wings flapped then glided as an eagle.He floated above ancient rocksand cut water swift as his tail galloped through currents,over forests of anemones and diadema.

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His rhythm ruined by words and people And oxygen and music. It’s keptSecret under rolling glass. To watch the parrotfish’s donkey jawnibble greens and reds and purplesthat I’ve never seen.

The serpentine eel zigzagged sharper than the cutbacks on the mountains. It used water like land. As if you couldcut water into paper-thin slices and each strata would be like a layer of dirt, a layer of ground.

These secrets peeled back make life on land that much sharperas if we’ve never been anywherethat we’d truly harm.

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FOR NELLYJ O R D Y N R H O R E R

I.

I see you in the garden,running your thumb over and overa ripe tomato, a crook-necked squash,and you have a thousand yearssitting on your shoulders,a woman-history, floating in your air.The world is tactile. Everything existsin the lonely touches of skin. I want to learn the song that waitsin your bones, sits in your musclesand stretches around your freckled skin.I want to see the God-light you imagine,when there is nothing else familiar. I would call you Mara, when I see your eyesfixed on a road that stays empty, on a bedforever half made, and on a house no longer yours.But your name can not be bitterwhen the hibiscus still crowds the cattle guardand the farm still gives out the soy, the tobacco,the smells of late summer that remind you of home. II. You once handed me a box of shells,told me Granddaddy sent them in envelopesand packages from a far off island.He sent you glass hearts to keep you safewhile the world ate itself in war.

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The shells are mine. Sometimes I hold thembetween my fingers, roll them in my palms,I hear the songs he must have sent to you,hands in his pockets, watching the ebbof a foreign tide carry pieces of earth to sea. I want to put my hands over your fingers,let you spell words only bodies know,words that need no memory,so I can learn the wayyou worship a flower,float your hand over thick grass. In our finger language, I’ll tell youthat your family is here, the tobacco still grows.And I will pull the memories out of your blood,with a Morse code tap, send you messages,our two hands, the same, together.

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B U B B L E G U M B R A I D S A N D B R I T M O H A W K SC H E L S E A C L E A R Y

PROFESSORWILLOWBORDEN WANTS TO SING

SOUTHERN GOSPELB R I T TA N N Y B U T L E R

A break from Wendmeale University was exactly what he needed. It had been a lengthy week. On Monday, a chubby young man in the front row had puked plum pudding all over his hooves. On Tuesday, he had been called into a meeting with President Fizzleboot because Gneed had accused him of stealing all of the extra inkwells in the administration office. And on Friday he had gotten a note from Professor Peetatletom that in divination class one of her teacups had foretold that she and he were to be married the following summer.

And that was why he was walking downtown in Chattanooga, Tennessee, on a Saturday evening, peering into windows of pubs and asking stool-straddled customers if they knew of a place where he could karaoke.

“You see,” Professor Willowborden would explain as they stared at him with their jaws open and their glasses, bottles and mugs shattered on the floor, “I’m an ardent admirer of Southern Gospel. I enjoy both listening to it and singing it. Yet where I am from, it is not highly esteemed. Centaurs appreciate flutes, drums, horns, that sort of thing. Most likely the whole lot of them would not understand the concept of a banjo if I played it in front of them.”

One rather shaky, bearded old man, while dabbing at the beer down the front of his shirt, finally told him that there was a place down the street where Willowborden could sing his heart out. “If yoush have a… heart,” he had added. Willowborden thought the old man’s eyes were having a spot of trouble focusing.

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“I have a chest, do I not?” Willowborden had asked him skeptically. He wondered what kind of educational system these people had. So he stopped in a little touristy shop and took a cowboy hat and a red bandana (surprisingly everybody, including the cashier, had disappeared the moment he entered), and donning his new representations of this wondrous culture, trotted down the street to the bar that had karaoke night. He stopped in front of a store front, catching his reflection in the window. “You are looking quite the dandy, tonight,” he whispered excitedly. He smiled at himself with self-satisfaction as he noted how the black cowboy hat complimented his glossy black coat and long, dark hair. Straightening his bowtie, he turned and continued on his way.

He had never been to Chatanooga before. It was the first of the places on his list of towns and sites he must visit. He was thinking fondly of boyhood dreams of visiting the States when he passed a neon-pink electric sign blinking “We have karaoke!”

“Brilliant!” Willowborden exclaimed as he walked in the open, chipped old door. The place had only a few costumers in it, and from the looks of the sticky, littered floor, wasn’t well looked after. But Willowborden straightened his shoulders and cheerily clip-clopped over to the bar to strike up a conversation with the frozen bartender.

“Pleasant evening, is it not?” Willowborden leaned over the counter. The bartender was still not moving,

one hand holding a dirty white towel and the other a dripping glass. Then he began maniacally rubbing the glass with the towel.

“Hey man, this isn’t one of those, I mean, like ‘Surprise, you’re on camera!’ things is it? Because it’s way funnier on T.V than it is in real life.” The bartender looked around. “And I’m NOT sc-scared!” He dropped the glass.

“Holy cricket, no! Not on your life, old boy,” Professor Willowborden assured him. “I’m just visiting from a place rather different from here, I’m afraid. I would give you something to help with your shaking…is it a disease, perhaps?... but we are forbidden to use unnatural means to heal people outside of where I come from.”

“Well, what are you doing here then?” The bartender’s eyebrows more slanted towards his nose and his eyes narrowed into small slits.

“I just want to sing, my dear boy,” he replied, reaching over the counter and slapping the man on the back a few times. “No harm intended, no harm at all.”

“I think you should leave.” The bartender was staring at him now, his legs spread apart and his arms crossed. He looked calmer, and rather less afraid, but Willowborden thought he wasn’t being very kind. Not one bit.

“I have as much right as anybody else to be here, don’t I?” he asked. “Listen, it has been an awfully long week at work, and I simply want to sing a few Southern Gospels, then I will go back

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home and take out my first edition Lewis and drink a Wonderlandian, never-ending cup of tea and call it a successful weekend…” Willowborden was about to tell the man how Professor Peetotletam had stood in front of his desk Friday after classes, weeping and accusing him of leading her on for years, so upset that she was sneezing out little puffs of darkening spells and covering his whole office with an inch of soot. Unfortunately the man refused to listen and interrupted him most rudely.

“Listen, man, I don’t know what’s happening right now. I’m freaking out about this.” The bartender was a little cooler now, but his stance was still antagonistic. “First of all, we don’t sing Southern Gospel in here. Second of all, we don’t let horses…man… whatever you are, sing Southern Gospel. All of the customers have left, and nobody else is going to come in here tonight if you stay.” He threw up his hands and took a few steps back, shaking his head. “I just need to keep my job, man; I just need to keep my job.”

“I do not wish to cause you trouble,” his eyebrows lowered, his head tilted down, and his cowboy hat pressed to his chest just the way he had seen it done in the movies, Willowborden continued, “and though I must confess I am heartily disappointed, I wish you the happiest of weekends.”

“Find a church, man!” the bartender yelled as Professor Willowborden walked out the door, his chin lifted a little too high to make his dignified walk believable.

Yet Willowborden thought that this young man was sincere in his advice. Casting off his wounded air, he took advantage of the beginning of the Joycian epiphany welling up inside of him and decided that even though it was a Saturday night, somewhere in the great town of Chattanooga, a church must be having a service. And so he took the back alleys and walked behind many a church, none of them open, until reaching the outskirts of the city, on a little green hill he saw a white steepled church behind a black-lettered sign reading, “Three day revival, come one and all if you want Jesus to save you!” The syntax was awful, of course, but the music wafting from the open doors and through the early May air was quite lovely. He trotted up the hill and through the doors.

Everybody inside stood with their hands in the air, at times pressing into something seemingly invisible. They swayed back and forth, bending their knees, their eyes closed and concentrated looks on their faces. Strange behavior, yes, but Professor Willowborden could have cared less because the sound coming from the craned necks was exactly the kind he played on his turntable Friday evenings after dinner. Willowborden stood in the middle of the aisle at the back of the church and sang his heart out. He knew all the words.

His basso profondo voice soon attracted the attention of the vocalists around him, however. Women with their hair falling out of their thin buns, children riding on their hips, gasped

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and uttered small cries. Men stared from aisles. The preacher stood at the pulpit, his hands resting on either side, elbows pointing out, looking down at Professor Willowborden with rounded eyes, lines creasing his forehead. Pulling his head back and raising his eyebrows, the preacher magnificently displayed his double chin.

“What on God’s green earth are you?” he asked Willowborden, his voice crescendoing to a mezzo-forte with extra emphasis on the “you.”

Willowborden was abashed. Taking off his hat, he said, “I’m a centaur. I’m a centaur who loves to sing Southern Gospel music.” But the preacher wasn’t listening. He leaned further into his pulpit and raised a pointed index finger.

“Get back, you creature of Satan! Get back!”

“Oh, I think you misunderstand.” Willowborden’s face had flamed red with shame and embarrassment, “I’m not a creature of Satan at all. I’m not sure why you would think that. I’m not all that different from you. Only a very little. I mean no harm. I only wanted to sing.”

“You do not belong in this holy place! Go back to where you came from!” the preacher screamed. The entirety of his bald head was purple and shining, and sweat trailed down his face. People were down on their knees wailing. The mothers clutched their screaming children to their chests, the men taking their shoulders and trying to move them out of the church. Somebody

started saying the Lord’s Prayer. The rest of the congregation joined in, and Willowborden was surrounded by close-eyed chanters. He was heartbroken and humiliated.

As he went back outside into the dark, he heard a collective sigh and then cheering behind him. Farther off still, he could hear the preacher rejoicing, and when Willowborden looked over his shoulder, he saw the preacher’s hands raised in exaltation. The preacher shouted, “We did it! We did it! We have prayed to God to save us and driven off the evil demon!” Willowborden wondered if the preacher shouldn’t have given God the credit for their victory, anyway.

Taking the road away from the city, he decided he had better stay out of sight. He needed to clear his mind before he went home. Thinking back, he decided that the streets he had walked on previously were deserted because everyone had been avoiding him. People misread his intentions and were afraid of him. Turning off the road, he went into the trees and through the forest, trying to sort his feelings of sadness.

After walking a half a mile, he stumbled into the yard of an internally lit cabin with a wide, slanted front porch. The trees on both sides were decorated with hanging bottles. A man with no shoes, no shirt, and matted white hair sat on the porch, his feet resting on the rail.

“Who’s there?” he called. Willowborden heard the click of a gun. This night

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couldn’t get any worse.

“You probably don’t want to know,” Willowborden said miserably.

“I think I would. Say, yer got a funny accent.” The man scratched his head. “Like the ones on this channel I just got for free with my new cable package. ’Scalled BBC I think.”

Willowborden thought it was funny that the man should be discussing this with somebody in front of his pointed gun.

“Yes, yes, I know what you are talking about. I watch it too sometimes.” No answer. “But I infinitely prefer the Travel Channel,” he tried again.

“Don’t particulerely like that channel myself.” The old man chewed something and looked deep in thought for a while. “I think it’s cuz I lived in this here cabin my whole life. Wouldn’t want to leave it for the world. Hey, you should come out of them there trees before I shoot you,” he added.

“I would, but the church in your vicinity thinks I’m a demon. You probably will too.” Willowborden sighed.

“Oh, them peoples. They’s all stupid,” the old man said spitefully. He spat on the porch floor. “They called me names too ‘fore they up and kicked me out. Call themselves Christian. Why, they kicked me out jus’ cause I like to drink me some whiskey ever’ now and then. Said it was the work of the devil. Like I couldn’t drink a little and love Jesus at the same time. Say, they make you leave too?” The old man sat up and squinted

into the darkness.

“Yes,” Willowborden said. “Yes, unfortunately they did. I only wanted to sing but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Well, you just come up on this here porch and sit down. I got some pork’n beans on the stove. Come on,” he was gesturing with his hand for Willowborden to come out of the trees, “Come on. Come on up and take a load off yer feet.”

Willowborden took a deep breath and walked up the yard and into the light from the windows.

“Saawweeeet Jesus,” the man whistled through his teeth, “Boy oh boy, yer mama’s sure got some repentin’ to do.”

Willowborden didn’t quite understand. But the man’s gun was now lowered. He continued walking cautiously towards the porch. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop the tears. Even an awkward date with Professor Peetotletam seemed wonderful compared to his night in Chattanooga.

“Well, I guess this chair’s of no use to yer.” The old man pushed it to a corner of the porch. “You just get yerself settled while I go get yer food.”

Willowborden walked on the porch and tried not to take up too much room.

“Now don’t ya break my porch, ya hear?” the old man called from inside. Willowborden heard banging of dishes and the clink of a glass. “Do ya favor water or whiskey? All’s I got.”

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“Water,” Willowborden told him through the opened door.

“Will ya take the whiskey in yer beans, then?”

“No, I don’t think I want any whiskey.” Willowborden was beginning to rather like this old man.

“Well, suit yerself.” The old man came out of the doorway carrying a chipped bowl full of beans and a glass of water. Willowborden took them and set them on the porch rail. He raised the glass of water only to see that it had various multicolored specks floating in it. He was thirsty, though, and appreciative, so he drank it anyway.

“I’m sure ya’ve got one heck of story to tell,” the old man speculated, squinting at Professor Willowborden. “But I know’s ya also had one heck of a night. What were yer doin’ in that ol’ church anyways?”

“I just wanted to sing some Southern Gospel. Where I live, no one else cherishes it as I do. I heard them singing and it sounded so lovely. I only wanted to join.”

“Hmmphh.” The old man hacked and spit again. “Well, I’m ‘shamed to say I hasn’t been ta church fer quite a

time. I might remember a few of them songs, though. Sure is a purty night fer singin’.”

Willowborden listened. It was a beautiful, silent night. He looked at the sky. He could see quite a few stars. “And hid his face amid a crowd of stars,” he said.

“What’s that?” the old man asked. “I don’t have my hearin’ aids in. you’ll have to speak up.”

“I was just quoting Yeats,” Willowborden explained. “I teach poetry at a boarding school where I’m from.”

“Oh…well. Maybe ya can teach me sumpin after we sing,” the old man said. “But right now I’m sure in a singin’ kind of mood.” He propped his feet up on the porch rail again and took a swig of whiskey. “Do ya know ‘The Lost Soul’?”

“I do. I quite adore that one,” Willowborden said, the excitement coming back into his voice.

“You start,” the old man told him, “Can’t sing on key to save my life.”

Willowborden began. “What an awful day, when the judgment comes…”

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P O O L / / K A Y C E P R I C E

EDITORIAL BOARDE D I T O R - I N - C H I E F W I L L I A M H O U P

D E S I G N E D I T O R J A N E B R A N N E N

F A C U LT Y A D V I S O R M A R C I A H U R L O W

E D I T O R I A L S TA F FR O N A L D C O L E

L A Y N E H I LY E R

J A R R O D I N G L E S

A B I G A I L L E C O M P T E

J O H N N I C H O L S

R E B E C C A P R I C E

J O R D Y N R H O R E R

T H A D D E U S S T E W A R T

Brittany Butler is an English major with a minor in Greek. She currently hails from Maysville, Kentucky, but plans on settling on the great, wind-swept moors of Scotland as soon as she figures out what she wants to do with her English degree. She can’t stand matching pajamas or peanut butter (she once had a dream that a man from a Korean music video forced her to eat it from a frying pan), but enjoys painting, drawing, writing, various shades of red lipstick and Jane Austen. Besides using her English degree, she aspires to become a part-time princess in a magical land.

Kelsey Noel Campbell grew up in High Point, North Carolina and has lived there all of her life. She is a junior at Asbury. She is double majoring in English and Creative Writing. She loves writing creative non-fiction, but fiction and poetry are also close to her heart. Listening to Nora Jones’ music and drinking a lot of coffee is what gives her inspiration. Her main goal in life is to eventually become an author.

Courtney LeMay is a senior from Lexington, Ky. She is studying journalism and media communication. Besides writing soap-related poetry, Courtney enjoys swimming, playing guitar, and being involved with everything on campus. Upon graduation, she is getting a dog.

Shelby Meehleder is a junior studying sociology and journalism. What she learns in her studies about the complicated nature of humanity inspires her to write pieces that investigate the beauty and terror experienced by all. Shelby’s hope for her writing is that, through it, she may be able to weave together the delicate threads of life’s inevitable yet unpredictable tragedies, and the hope that rests inside everyone despite the suffering. Shelby is also passionate about writing non-fiction, poetry, and music, as

well as playing guitar and piano.

Born a North Carolinian, Rebecca Price lived 15 years of her life as an MK in Papua New Guinea. As a double creative writing and journalism major with a minor in Spanish, someday Rebecca aspires to write for a magazine and/or become a published poet. If her future job included frequent plane travel, she wouldn’t complain. For now, however, she must content herself with modeling her life after those of Anne Shirley, Elizabeth Bennett and Kristen Wiig and with the expectation that one day she will own a pet rabbit named Mr. Tumnus.

Jordyn Rhorer is a junior Creative Writing major with an emphasis in poetry, as well as a minor in French. She has been writing stories and poems for as long as she can remember, and she draws inspiration from everything she can. She most often writes about her family and nature because she loves interacting with both of them. Jordyn dreams of owning a small bookstore with a café and a bobtail cat. She also has an intense fear of woodchucks, frostbite and running out of printer ink.

Daniel Royster was born and spent a good deal of his childhood in Kenya where he developed a love for the outdoors, its excitement and its beauty. When he was fourteen he moved back to Kentucky and has been there ever since. Growing up overseas has given him a taste for travel, so over the summers he tries to get out and see a new part of the world. Out of high school he went to Alaska and worked on building rental cabins. The following two summers he spent in the North Dakota oil fields working on a Roustabout crew. He is currently a junior here at Asbury studying art and English. He loves to create art, write, play music with friends, and run through the woods.

AUTHOR BIOS

Chelsea Cleary | Quite honestly, my art follows the movement of my mind, my music and my mood. I use lines and colors more effieciently than I use words and phrases. Among horses and art is where my heart is happiest, and I aspire to commit these gifts to serving the ever-awesome God in thanks for all He has blessed me with.

Jonathan Johnson | How can you move a wave of the sea? “Even the winds and the waves obey him!” (Matthew 8:27) Contemplate the concept of the wind and the wave as elements of our circumstance over which we have little or no control; yet these circumstances are subject to a plan that encompasses a picture greater than our own perspective. We make these circumstances what can be called “Icons of Prominence,” unholy icons that preoccupy our worship. Using clay I attempt to look past circumstance and create “Sketches of Preeminence.” I hope that my own story is an expression of faith as I step out my comfort zone and awaken to live walking by the Lord’s bidding.

Ben Marchal | In May of 2012, I was given the awesome opportunity to go on a short-term missions trip to the Southwest Indian Ministries Center in Peoria, Arizona where I, and the rest of my team, were blessed to talk with, learn from, and simply spend time with the Native American Pima tribe. With the time I was given in Peoria, at SIMC, and on the Reservation church I

visited and helped at, I let myself become completely immersed in the tribe’s culture and beliefs, and as I learned from them and spent my time with them, I quickly grew to have an incredible respect for the people of the Pima tribe. They are such a strong, loving, and enduring people. I would love to have half as much strength and selflessness as the Pima do. It was a sad day when our team had to leave Peoria, but I learned so many things on that trip, made so many great relationships, both with the Native people and my team members, and I hope to go back to Peoria to help with Summer camps if that is the direction God is leading me in.

Kayce Price | Everything has a past. Whether it is a school, a barn, or an old car, every object was made for a reason. In my photographs, I want to make people wonder about the things that they pass everyday. Why were they made? If they’re no longer in use, why have they been forgotten? If people stopped and looked at the old barn or the run down school they might rediscover the meaningful landmarks that helped shape America. Stories are significant no matter the subject.

Ashley Rainwater | Through this photo I want to show how humans take a toll on the environment yet beauty still exists. Even though the girl is surrounded by manmade items she still has beauty shining through the chaos.

ARTIST STATEMENTS

Daniel Royster | In my art, I am interested in exploring the different avenues through which to look at question of human identity. This painting is of my sister on a sandbar near the Missouri river in North Dakota. The beach for me seemed a sort of timeless, placeless, place in the midst of a chaotic modern day oil boom town. In this environment, I began to think about those things common to all people in all time, the divine spark of life within each of us, independent of our circumstances and how to best express that idea. This painting is the result.

Julia Sillaman | I am very interested in the variety of forms liquid creates. I never know what it will look like until after I take the shot. Water has a mind of its own, and I find it beautiful to capture. We’ve all heard it said it’s good to appreciate the small things in life.

Simple beauty is often overlooked and forgotten. Dripz is only water coming out of a bathroom faucet in the airport during a 3-hour layover I had in Atlanta, Georgia. One does not need to go far to discover unique beauty. If one looks hard enough, it will be found.

Brian Troyer | This photo was taken on a rainy evening at a small park on the banks of the Thames river in London. It was a very quiet evening, with only a few people out and about in the area, and the music of the carousel seemed so small in the dampness. I had no tripod, so I had to use a park bench to steady my camera while covering it from the rain. The long exposure gives the image a kind of quietly crazed motion in the dreary stillness that contrasts the somber tone of the night. It was a classically poetic London evening.