Select Work, 2007 Edition
Tainted Angel
Christy Dye
Her porcelain skin illuminated
By the evening moonlight.
As ivory as the Mona Lisa,
With voluptuous curves,
Enticing every man
To covet her body,
The temptress had eyes of emerald,
That glowed piercing
The fragile souls of others,
Empowering a man’s every desire.
Vivacious scarlet curls
Bounce off of her shoulders,
Spiraling to depths
Within her mind
That no man could fathom,
Compelling every man and woman
To fancy her mere existence.
She’s a Juliet of Darkness
With beads of crimson
Trickling down the corners
Of her perfect mask of deception.
Once as mortal as you and I,
She’s now a tainted everlasting angel
Flourishing off of misfortunes of other beings,
Preying on the very essence of their life.
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The Fountain
Veronica Kramer
Two friends and I came upon a fountain.
They did not thirst or sweat. I alone stepped in.
It is too deep and I know I cannot swim,
but I will stay at the edge of it;
I just want to soothe my burning soles.
The coolness of the water is a comfort,
an oasis in this stale, arid place.
Soon, very soon, the sky begins to dim; it grows dark and threatening,
but only the sky. The sun glares at me; I’ve failed its test.
My feet begin to sting,
As I stare downward, I see multiplying piranha tearing at my digits.
My panicked muscles refuse to extract me from my situation.
Stinging fiery pricks…
Crowds of people rushing past the fountain. To and fro, they go. They go.
How did I not see them before? Yet they do not see me now.
My brain cries out for help, but its echo dies within my head.
De-fleshed to ankle, I am humiliated by my skeleton feet.
Swarms of faceless people passing by, indifferent to my plight.
The crowds, the shadows, all oblivious to me.
A shadowy form appeared from the other side of the fountain,
And a face coming into focus, its words seen but not heard:
“She is browned, but not yet baked.”
An angry sky calls the tide up to her.
Rising water, the waves begin to lap
Knees, shoulders, mouth submerged, I gasp and sputter.
I feel panic, blackness, a blanket of darkness.
I feel the reverberation of a melodious voice in my head,
that familiar voice from the other side:
“Not undone, but not yet done.”
I die, am risen.
I am lifted from the fountain, hands grasping mine.
“Congratulations,” they say, as they attach a tassel to my head.
My eyes search for my friends, but they have evaporated into the barren, sterile air.
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The Bridge
Laura Logan
“Be careful here,” el puente dice. Peligro.
Creaking beams, rusty bolts and tired, sagging ropes;
Spanning flowing water,
Concrete and metal bind together in defiance
Against Nature.
Held up by time suspended.
The ancient hills fortify,
The silent water supports,
The breathless air connects.
Time will decay el puente.
Piece by piece, bolt by strand by wire,
Crumble into the river.
And left: a sign,
Proclaiming for time to read and Nature to write,
Will be the words, las palabras:
Puente en Mal Estado
Bridge in Bad Condition
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My Buried Talent
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Chris Branam
I wasn’t born with any athletic skills whatsoever. My parents were set on me not just lying on the couch and pursuing an interest in whatever the television shot my direction. I tried various sports and hobbies: golf, tee-ball, and even collecting stamps (as embarrassing as that is to admit). One thing that stuck with me throughout these endeavors was an inherent love for reading.
By age four, I was reading. I was amazed by everything I picked up. If I found a word in the comics that I didn’t understand I immediately asked my parents what it meant and then added it to my vocabulary. My thirst for knowledge and literature was insatiable.
I still remember books I read when I was in elementary school. The books by Dr. Seuss that filled my head with images and rhymes that I still remember. I still own all of my Dr. Seuss books. Chris Van Allsburg’s books made me think nothing was impossible. I read everything I could get my hands on: mythology, folk tales, origami books, paper airplane books, Eyewitness Books, and even books on characters like King Kong, Dracula, Frankenstein and the Wolf Man.
It was around this time I had a very progressive teacher named Mrs. Tamborrino. It was in this class that she assigned us to do a whole unit on just poetry. At the end of the unit we would bind our poetry into a book that we could keep. I was so excited. I had been reading Edgar Allan Poe and already loved poetry. I still have my poetry book at home, and to this day, Mrs. Tamborrino shows some of my poems whenever she begins that same poetry unit.
I had some very innovative and great English teachers along the way. Mr. Gromer in the sixth grade who had us discussing the moral dilemma of “The Lady, or the Tiger?” In high school I had an English teacher, Mr. Jeffries, who allowed my friends and I to goof off with a video camera and film our own version of A Tale of Two Cities (equipped with melons for the final beheading scene). Mr. Jeffries showed us Monty Python and the Holy Grail at the end of a British Literature unit. These teachers made me realize that I wanted to be an English teacher. However, it seemed my writing had sputtered, stalled, and died.
I occasionally wrote a line or two down during high school. Listening to Bob Dylan and Nirvana during high school, I was often compelled to pick up the pen and write, but I rarely did. I kept journals up till college, but rarely wrote in them, and what I did write didn’t captivate me like it once did.
It was sophomore year of college when I saw that creative writing was offered and being taught by Dr. Beth Kemper. What the heck, I figured, I needed the credit hours, I hadn’t ever had Dr. Kemper as a teacher, and maybe it could even be fun. I walked into class that first night and saw about five other students. Dr. Kemper was sitting behind the desk with the smile that almost never left her face. On one of the very first nights she challenged us to rewrite the famous, controversial line “Frankly Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.” Not only that, but she was having us read them out loud to everyone. I was so nervous those first couple nights; I realized this class was the real deal. Then something close to a miracle happened: a bond began to form between everyone else in that room and myself. As we sat with all our desks arranged in a circle, I was eager to hear my classmates’ stories and hear their response to mine. Suddenly, reading my work in front of them was no longer a problem; these people were my friends and I valued their opinions.
I’ll never forget the night after I brought in the first short story I have ever written. I read it in class and got good feedback, then as I was leaving class Dr. Kemper pulled me aside and told me that my short story was one of the best she had read so far. The feeling of pride I carried with me after that moment can never be taken away. Now I was writing something in my class journal everyday, I was awoken once again to my love of writing. Dr. Kemper was there the whole time encouraging me to write my poem about a geriatric “Ulysses,” and to write a poem about the Bob Dylan concert I went to that prior summer. The class was full of laughter and fun and I’m sure I’m not the only one who walked away with some great memories.
It was a day during the summer of that year that I was back on campus for a wrestling camp; I saw Dr. Neal and Dr. Kemper eating in the cafeteria. I approached them and spoke cheerfully with my writing teacher. It was only about two weeks later that I returned to campus for my junior year here and I heard about Beth’s passing. It hit me so hard that I didn’t want to believe it. Someone so young and so influential to me was gone. After the initial shock wore off I realized I had to do something. Creative writing wasn’t offered that fall semester. I couldn’t let other students be deprived of the joy that Dr. Kemper’s class had brought me in the rediscovering of my former love of writing. I spoke with Dr. Neal and with Professor Wright and with some help from Laura Logan, one of my classmates in Dr. Kemper’s class, was able to find a group large enough to begin a creative writing course for the spring semester, in which I’m currently enrolled.
That night that I found out about Dr. Kemper’s death I wrote in my journal, the same one I had used for her class, “Everything I write from this point on will be dedicated to Dr. Beth Kemper.” And so this is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Kemper; thank God for people who inspire us.
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Society to Avoid Root Vegetable Evisceration
Veronica Kramer
Egg stands to speak: “Eggs have long understood maltreatment by ‘human’ omnivores. Snatched from a warm bed with mother, and left to freeze to death in large boxes in their homes, only to have our insides scrambled and served beside strips of a quadruped. Our parents are roasted and their thighs gnawed upon by the human beasts. You are all familiar with our plight, but we are here today to address a different matter. There is another savagery in the world today against our friends, the vegetables. It is an unproclaimed injustice. I ask, ‘Who speaks for the vegetables?’
“The tales of horrific tortures press heavily upon my heart. Young yams have their skin peeled off, and are cut to pieces before being dropping into boiling water. They are poked with four-pointed swords until a once strong and vibrant vegetable degenerates to mushy pulp.
“I grieve for Yam’s brother, the potato. Some have heard that he is baked, eviscerated, and devoured. A new horror has come to light. We hear stories of how his skin is scrubbed off and his eyes cut out before being put in the ovens with hunks of animal carcass. All too often, he shares his final fate with the beloved onions and carrots. The reunion is grievous, as blind friend must tell the younger set of their own fate, and that of their loved ones.
“Poor Carrots’ children were segregated by size. Some were drawn and quartered, others shredded and curled. The youngest, oh, the poor little ones… peeled, served on a silver platter beside the heads of cauliflower and broccoli. Onions’ parents were chopped to pieces and their remains scattered over bread and sauce, with only cheese as a burial blanket. It is true. Some tender-hearted ‘humans’ show some sign of remorse but what repentance is it, truly, that cries but continues to slice and dice?
“Our friend, the garlic, is pressed through a sieve, his very lifeblood sweetens sauces while his body is discarded with the garbage.
“We eggs are not vegetables, but these barbarous acts are a crime against all. To address these atrocities, we have formed the Society to Avoid Root Vegetable Evisceration (S.T.A.R.V.E.). We are an inclusive group. The Watermelons have already joined us and ask for your cooperation to end melon massacre for entertainment. We are partners with the United Grain Organization and members of the Commission on Maligned Edibles (C.O.M.E.).
“Dear friends, the violence is widespread and the fight will be costly. We have a battle plan, but we need your help. Monetary gifts are tax deductible. Help us end the cruelty.
“We ask you to help C.O.M.E. and S.T.A.R.V.E.”