Front cover by Joshua Williams
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Select Work, 2015 Edition
Birth of a Ghanaian Pot
Marie L. Ego
Her hands
reach into the depths of the earth
for unblemished material;
she brings forth
silt of ages past,
without an umbilical cord,
dug with the strength of a woman.
She releases her energy
into the form,
dancing around
and around,
patting,
tapping,
shaping
creation
born of the joy and sorrow of
a woman.
A cornhusk
presses and slides
across the slick outer surface,
a stone dent is
meticulously placed,
forever designed with the truth of a woman.
Infinite patience.
Among the twigs and sticks
of special trees,
in a fire circle,
smoke
swirls
around her to tweak the
nose of the child on her back.
Protected only by a long stick,
she shakes the vessel
free of burning ash
as she twirls
the clay-made-pot
against a huge shard,
calabash-like,
filled with shredded bark
and water,
now marked black and orange.
A womb image,
the treasure of a woman;
she, who has no mirror,
holds in her hand
Creation reflective of all women.
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Springtime
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Thomas R. Jeffrey
Let’s you and I lie down,
Under this cloudless sky,
Just beyond the shadow of that tree,
In that spot sprinkled with dandelions.
Let us not talk,
But listen to the bees whisper
And the birds sing,
Urging us “Be. Here. Now.”
Let us not touch,
But feel the wind caress our skin
As it wafts across the field
Like the rolling waves of a lush green ocean.
Let us not kiss,
Not yet, anyway,
Because I am afraid it would be
Altogether too sublime.
No, let us dance
An ethereal dance to these
Transcendent rhythms,
Our hearts rising in wonder.
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Puppet
Bethany McIntosh
There it is again: the string pulled taut
under the skin. Snaps the mind back
to a single point: all for naught.
White shoulders wrenched into a knot
of wood (Stand straight! Stand tall!) with a dry crack;
There it is again: the string pulled taut
And threaded through each limb. Thought
takes a fleeing hare’s wild track
to a single point: all for naught.
And the thread pulls tight,
every limb pulls in, clenched, wracked—
There it is again: the string pulled taut.
Pining, protesting joints stiffen in the winter—
frozen, curling toes; lungs; spine on the rack—
There it is again: all for naught.
What?
And there it is again: the string pulled taut,
arms yanked up and cranked into motion.
I’m thinking. Right?
Head hurts with the thudding hare’s wild, repetitive track;
There it is again: the string pulled tight
And stop. What?
There it is, the string pulled taut;
Someone’s carved a name into the wood
at a single point: “all for Naught.”
The outside splinters—the string is too tight
and the stress is too much, it might—
There it is again: the string pulled taut
To a single point: all for naught.
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Los Niños
Janelle Williams
—¿De dónde eres?
—Soy de América. (1)
I.
A classroom in a snow-clad city—
Conversation Day.
A roar of voices, each one warring
to be heard above the rest.
In pairs the students practice phrases:
¿Dónde vives? ¿Cómo estás?
Read the questions, read the replies.
Repeat. Rehearse. Rehearse. Repeat.
This is pointless, one young man mutters,
his sullen blue eyes fixed on his desk.
His partner ventures, ¿Cómo te llamas?
He says his name—nothing more.
II.
A restaurant in a little town—
Sunday afternoon.
A man is eating chips and salsa,
his tie bright blue against his shirt.
He says, I’ll take the polo loco. (2)
The waiter smiles and writes it down.
III.
A small home in an arid place—
the weary after-work hours.
The living room is dark
besides the television’s ghostly glow.
The woman at the kitchen table,
distracted from her open book,
sees through the doorway a parade
of images onscreen: first fences,
then a protest, and people holding signs,
and then… Oh, no. Not this again.
A banner scrolls past over the picture,
ferrying familiar, hateful words
across the screen: Aliens. Illegal.
And of course, Deport.
White text glides through the flat red banner.
Behind the words are grubby children.
The baby kicks. Ah yes—the book.
Oh Dios, tú eres mi Dios, yo te busco intensamente…
—They’re calling them invaders.
Mi alma tiene sed de ti; todo mi ser te anhela…
—They call them a disease.
…cual tierra seca, extenuada y sedienta. (3)
The TV flashes. She shuts the book.
Her husband has changed the channel; now
some cartoon girl with big doe eyes
and violet hair is on the screen.
She speaks without an accent, her skin
is pale and clean, her yellow dress brand-new,
a perfect fit.
The woman turns away her face.
The spangled flag hangs on the wall.
“This land is my land,” says the song.
The land of the free, the home of the brave.
One lady, clad in green, once said:
Denme sus cansados, sus pobres,
sus masas hacinadas anhelando respirar libremente—(4)
Well, why should she have mentioned babies?
The child moves again inside her.
Soon she will be here, small, helpless,
hopelessly brown.
They cannot make her leave—but will they try?
Will there be protests at her birth?
Or signs held up outside her school?
Will people tell her, “Go back home”?
This is her home. She has no other.
And somewhere someone else’s children
—hungry—tired—scared—alone—
will ever crave and never hear
the words the mother whispers in the night:
Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos. (5)
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1--Where are you from? I am from America.
2--Not a typo.
3--Psalm 63:1 (Nueva Versión Internacional)
4--Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free (Lazarus, “The New Colossus”).
5--Welcome to the United States.
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Who is Stupid?
​
Ramiro Perozo Morles
Some people say it is a matter of education, while others believe that it is caused by the way a person was raised. Whatever might be the reason, people often underestimate others. I do not know if it is due to ignorance or arrogance, but my dear uncle Elvis Perozo told me, “No one should be misjudged no matter what background or appearance they may have.” He was a decent man who had neither completed high school nor learned how to use a computer, although he finally got a job as a waiter at a small bar in my hometown, after being a mason for several years. I looked up to him.
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My hometown is a very small place. It is so small that it looks like a grain of sand on the Venezuelan map. The church bells ring and announce the time to the people every morning. Like a typical small town, everybody knows everybody. Also like a usual small town, there are a few people who everyone likes to call stupid, dumb, foolish, and idiotic. I remember in particular one of these outcasts. He did not talk too much, and he kept to himself. His face was like the moon; however, it was not because of its beauty, it was because of the crater-like scars in his skin. His hair was both messy and coarse like straw, and his body odor was so terrible it smelled worse than a skunk. In addition, his clothes were not only old-fashioned but also three sizes too big. The most important part was that, unfortunately, the townspeople messed with him every day.
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This foolish, odd, quiet man used to go at the end of every day to a local bar called Cuatro Esquinas, which was in Los Puertos de Altagracia. The rustic bar was filled with old photos as well as memorabilia hanging on the wall. The pool table was well-worn and the dart board covered in holes. The rickety stools and tables were marked with countless people’s names carved into the wood. The bar, although almost uglier than the man, was crowded every night with the same individuals, smoking, laughing, and telling stories.
​
This rundown bar was where the outcast usually drank a coke, read the newspaper, and played with straws. As usual, all the people who normally gathered there both made fun of him and played the same joke on him. They always showed him two dollar bills; one with the value of one dollar and the other with the value of ten dollars. They always asked him, “Which bill do you like more? And you can take it.” Unexpectedly, the man always chose the one dollar bill. His reaction made everyone in the bar laugh. Some people even cruelly laughed in his face until either the joke was not funny anymore or they got tired. This scenario happened over and over until it became the joke of the town.
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One day, my uncle, who was a waiter there, mustered up some courage, went to him, and asked, “Are you really stupid? Have you not realized that people are always laughing at you not only because you look like a vagabond but also at your ignorance? Or do not you know that ten dollars are more than one? As a matter of fact, why do you always take the dollar bill with less value?”
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So, the simple man gave him a simple answer, “If one day I take the ten dollar bill, the joke is not going to be funny for them anymore. It means that I am going to stop earning one dollar per day. I would rather receive one dollar every day than ten dollars only one day.”
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Your Wish Can Be Appealed
Holly Bowles
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
JULIE RAINES: One of the two Raines twins, this 11 year-old has a no-nonsense kind of attitude towards life and makes snappy, logical decisions.
SHAWN RAINES: The other Raines twin, he has a whimsical side. He believes in the fantastic and is convinced that magic exists in some form or another.
LAWRENCE (THE LAWYER): The legal representative for “HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIFIC HIGHNESS.” Utterly dry, LAWRENCE is of an undeterminable age, but he appears to be a disgruntled, slightly overweight human male.
HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIFIC HIGHNESS: A hooded figure in a dark cloak, HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIFIC HIGHNESS does not speak, nor does he show his face. He is a magical entity from an alternate reality where silence and dark fashion choices are prized in rulers and mages (of which he is both).
SCENE: A second-hand bookstore filled to the brim with stacks of old tomes, shelves full of dusty hardbacks, and a few priceless books behind glass cases up at the front. JULIE and SHAWN are looking through the books in a dark corner of the store, desperately searching to find something that they both like.
[JULIE and SHAWN come into view as they walk down an aisle created by bookshelves. They begin looking on either side of the aisle, each pulling a book down as they search.]
JULIE: [studying the spine of a heavy leather-bound book] This one looks pretty good, Shawn. “Astronomy for the Beginner: How to Look at the Stars and See Them Looking Back”. [flipping through the pages]. There aren’t too many big words in here about science. You can handle this one.
SHAWN: Does it have any pictures of constellations? Like, big color drawings of centaurs and Orion--oooh! I know! The Dog Star drinking out of the Big Dipper?
JULIE: No. But there are some mathematical formulas. You draw your own pictures. I say we go with this one.
SHAWN: [sticks his tongue out at his sister] You forget, Julie, that Mom says that we have to agree on a book to share, and nothing with formulas is making it on my list. Unless, maybe, it’s a formula for some magical potion...
JULIE: You’re hopeless, Shawn.
[SHAWN continues searching, while JULIE looks sadly down at the astronomy book.]
SHAWN: Woah!
JULIE: What’d you find? [blowing air out of her mouth in a disgusted tone as she puts her choice back onto the shelf]
SHAWN: Okay, follow me on this one: “Fireflies are Fairies Too: Why Insects are Actually Magical Beings”. It’s a book about--
JULIE: [interrupting her brother] Absolutely not. I am not struggling through another one of your conspiracy theory choices again.
SHAWN: It’s not a conspiracy theory! Besides, this is almost like science. There are bugs in it. Come on, I thought you’d like that about it. I’m just trying to find something we both like.
JULIE: Shawn, if you think that anything having to do with fairies can also be scientific, you’re crazy.
[SHAWN, looking longingly at the book, puts it slowly back onto the shelf. The siblings look at each other and sigh, both at a loss at what to do.]
JULIE: [after a few moments of silence]. Maybe we should look together. We have to find something soon if Mom’s gonna buy us anything. Something’s better than nothing, you know?
SHAWN: You’re right. How about we stand together, close our eyes, and pick something together? Whatever our hands touch first.
JULIE: Or we could keep our eyes open and pick something without tripping.
SHAWN: Right.
[Both walk down the aisle further downstage center. On stage right, the siblings both see a heavy, black book with silver script on the side. A soft spotlight shines on the cover. They look at one another, nod, and take it down together.]
JULIE AND SHAWN: “This is Definitely the Book You’re Looking For.”
JULIE: What kind of a title is that?
SHAWN: An awesome one.
JULIE: Yeah, right. It sounds stupid.
SHAWN: There’s only one way to find out. You’ll never know if you don’t look. And I know how you are about finding things out. [winks slyly at his sister and holds the book out to her invitingly]
JULIE: Fine. It’ll be stupid, and I’ll prove it to you.
[JULIE turns the first page, then the second, then begins flipping through.]
JULIE: Look, there’s nothing here. I told you!
SHAWN: Wait! You missed some writing on that page.
JULIE: Yeah, one page in an entire book. That’ll be really great. Hours of fun. Let’s go find something else.
SHAWN: No, you have to read it. Come on, please? I’ll let you get that [struggles over the word] astronomically book if you don’t like what it says.
JULIE: Astronomy, Shawn. And fine, I’ll read it. [pauses to clear her throat] “I invoke a most sacred call across time and space to him that hears. Come to us now, powerful one, and bring us our deepest desires.”
SHAWN: [awestruck] Awesome! I like it. It’s like poetry...
JULIE: Bad poetry. And Shawn, we’re not getting a book that has two sentences in it. And that’s final. Now, where is that Astrono...
[Both siblings look up, speechless. LAWRENCE and HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIFIC HIGHNESS have suddenly come up through the stage trapdoor, accompanied by a cloud of smoke.]
LAWRENCE: Ahem. Yes, well, my name is Lawrence, and I am the legal representative of His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness, the entity who stands behind me in the dark clothing to whom you must not address any of your questions or requests. We are here at your summons, as is part of our legal duty, and we shall give any requests that you make of us their due consideration.
SHAWN: Cool! I already decided what wishes I would want to ask for three years ago.
LAWRENCE: Yes, well, you see, wishes are not--
JULIE: [interrupting] This is ridiculous. Shawn, seriously. We can’t just request things from strangers.
SHAWN: So you don’t actually believe that you read them here?
LAWRENCE: As I was saying--
JULIE: [Visibly shaken] No. Of course not.
SHAWN: Fine. I get first dibs.
LAWRENCE: AHEM. Our contract with the makers of that book--which the particulars of our legal agreements keep me from discussing around outside parties--binds His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness to do the bidding of the readers of aforementioned book. My client can fulfill up to three approved requests.
SHAWN: So, I could ask you--
LAWRENCE: Him, through me.
SHAWN: So I could ask Him, through you, to do whatever I want?
LAWRENCE: Every request has to be run through me for approval before it can be carried out by His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness. He is not to be simply ordered around. There are rules to be followed! Why, I have the ability to deny any request made for any number of legal reasons that you human children probably wouldn’t understand. However, any denied request can be appealed through a lengthy process with lots of paperwork.
SHAWN: [to JULIE] I like him. Let’s keep him.
[JULIE, who has tried to look uninterested throughout this entire proceeding, begins to smile widely.]
JULIE: Anyone who talks that much like a lawyer has to be real. [To SHAWN] And I think we should keep them both. I think they’ll come in handy. [To LAWRENCE AND HIS MOST HONORIFIC HIGHNESS] We’ll start making wishes when we get home.
LAWRENCE: Ahem, the correct terminology, if I may. Wishes are only for genies, and His Most Honorific and Horrific Highness is not a genie. He is a mage and a prince. He grants requests.
SHAWN: Well, we’ll make cool requests to His Most Honoringly... Horrible... Princeness when we get home. No worries.
[LAWRENCE puts his head in his hands. HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIBLE HIGHNESS shifts uncomfortably.]
JULIE: [To LAWRENCE] That’s my brother for you. You’ll learn to love him. [JULIE smiles, waves, and shuts the book. LAWRENCE and HIS MOST HONORIFIC AND HORRIBLE HIGHNESS disappear back through the stage trap door in a cloud of smoke. She looks SHAWN in the eye] Shawn, you know what I just thought of?
SHAWN: The fact that we have undeniable proof that magic exists? Or that we should ask Mom if Lawrence could babysit us some time?
JULIE: [smiling widely] Better. We’re never going to have to share another book again.
[The siblings high-five one another, then turn around and head offstage, book in JULIE’s hand and arms linked.]
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Mr. Broadburn's Legs
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Tyler Magruder
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CAST OF CHARACTERS:
R. BROADBURN: An average aristocrat, or so he was before he woke up without legs.
BUTLER: A butler who takes care of Mr. Broadburn.
MS. PRETTER: A humble maid who takes care of Mr. Broadburn’s house.
SCENE: A large bedroom with a bed against a wall, with Mr. Broadburn asleep in the bed. There’s a door on the other side of the room. The rest of the furnishings are insignificant.
[Mr. Broadburn awakens and tries to sit up. He then notices that his legs are missing, throws his blanket off, and begins screaming.]
MR. BROADBURN [screams]: My legs! Where are my legs? [He flails around and eventually falls off the bed.] Help me! [He begins crawling to the door. The door opens and Butler enters.]
BUTLER: Mr. Broadburn! What have we told you about crawling around in your condition?
MR. BROADBURN: My condition? My condition? I’m missing my damn legs!
BUTLER [chiding]: Mr. Broadburn, having a condition does not give you leave to go around making up stories.
MR. BROADBURN: Stories? Do you see my legs? Where are my legs!
BUTLER [quizzically]: I’m sorry, sir, but what are legs?
MR. BROADBURN: What are—I—what—legs! [Points at Butler’s legs] Those two… things—limbs that you’re standing on, which I very clearly don’t have!
BUTLER: [looks down at his legs.] I’m sorry, Mr. Broadburn, but I simply don’t see what it is you’re talking about. I can get you a cold glass of water and some sleeping pills if you like; you are clearly frazzled.
MR. BROADBURN: [stares at Butler, confused.] I—yes, help me back into bed and bring me a glass of water.
BUTLER: Right away, Mr. Broadburn. [Grabs Mr. Broadburn across the shoulders and lifts him to bed and gingerly covers him in a blanket.] You’ll be all right, Mr. Broadburn. You’ll see.
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[Butler bows then walks to the door and exits. Mr. Broadburn closes his eyes and begins to nod off. Ms. Pretter walks in and walks to the foot of the bed.]
MS. PRETTER: Excuse me, Mr. Broadburn, but are you feeling well today? You seemed thoroughly distressed last night at the party.
MR. BROADBURN: [jumps at Ms. Pretter’s voice.] Who are you?
MS. PRETTER: Oh dear, you are feeling unwell. I’m Ms. Pretter. [Mr. Broadburn stares blankly.] The maid. [Mr. Broadburn stares blankly.] Dammit, sir, I’ve only served here twenty years of my life!
MR. BROADBURN: [shakes his head.] Sorry, but I’ve clearly had a rough day. I’m not myself.
MS. PRETTER [smiling]: Well, I hope you get better soon; we can’t have you all flustered for the ball tomorrow.
MR. BROADBURN: I’m sorry, the ball?
MS. PRETTER: The Hartmore Annual Ball. You best be feeling ship-shape then; I hear the governor’s daughter is attending. [Winks suggestively.]
MR. BROADBURN: I’m sorry, but how am I expected to dance? I have no legs!
MS. PRETTER: Legs? Now that’s a new phrase. What’s a legs?
MR. BROADBURN [flustered]: Dammit! Not you, too! Legs! What I’m missing here! [Points to his stumps.] What you have there! [Points to Ms. Pretter’s legs]
MS. PRETTER [offended]: Why, Mr. Broadburn, I can’t believe you’d make such crude suggestions! I am not going to legs with you if that’s what you’re asking!
MR. BROADBURN: That’s not what I mean! Ms. Pretter, walk to the door!
MS. PRETTER: I’m not going to model—
MR. BROADBURN: Just do it! [Ms. Pretter takes a few confused steps towards the door.]
MR. BROADBURN: See! You’re walking!
MS. PRETTER: Of course I’m walking!
MR. BROADBURN: But what are you walking on?
MS. PRETTER: [Glances down at her legs, confused.] Well, what do you mean? I’m walking.
MR. BROADBURN: [shouting loudly] You walk with your legs!
MS. PRETTER: No need to shout! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I find this legs nonsense to be disturbing. I’m leaving before you force me to consider early retirement. [Angry] Good day, Mr. Broadburn!
[Ms. Pretter forces open the door and almost runs into Butler, but Butler steps to the side and Ms. Pretter storms past. Butler is carrying a glass of water.]
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BUTLER: You seem to have upset her, Mr. Broadburn.
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MR. BROADBURN: What did I do? All I did was ask her about my legs!
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BUTLER: There you go again, sir, about those legs of yours. I honestly haven’t the slightest clue as to what you are referring. [Butler walks to the bed.] Here, drink this, sir. You are likely just dehydrated.
MR. BROADBURN: [Takes the cup of water and drinks it.] Thank you.
BUTLER: My pleasure, sir. Now I recommend taking a nap. Hopefully your condition will pass, and you can make it to the ball tomorrow! Just imagine, sir, dancing with the governor’s daughter!
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MR. BROADBURN: [groans]