The Kentucky River 2001

Editor:Joi S. Jackson

Staff Readers:Keith Ball, Yalonda Davidson, Omar A. Gray, Dana Parker

Faculty Advisors:A. D. Fallon and Peter Smith

Special Thanks:

The Kentucky River Staff would like to acknowledge the faculty advisors, Dr. Fallon and Dr. Smith, for their continued support and efforts in helping to produce the 2001 edition. For all of your hard work, time and dedication, we thank you. Thanks to the entire faculty and staff for supporting the Creative Arts Club; your contributions to the magazine continue to inspire students at this University. We would also like to thank Dr. George Shields, Chair of Literature Languages and Philosophy and Distinguished Professor, for supporting the CAC. Thanks also to Dr. Funwi Ayuninjam for always encouraging students to participate in and submit to this exceptional magazine.

We would also like to thank the students for their submissions. Please continue to submit to the Kentucky River (see submission policies at the end). This is your magazine.

I personally want to give a special thanks to Yalonda, Keith, Dana and Omar for devoting their personal time to serving as staff readers. I realize that reading several submissions is a time consuming task that can be enjoyable and, at times, grueling. I thank you profusely for doing such an outstanding job on this edition.

To my husband and KSU alum, Marvin Hardy, thank you for encouraging me to take on this rewarding challenge. I love you. 

                                                                                                                                Sincerely,

                                                                                                Joi S. Jackson

                                                                                                 Editor

The Kentucky River2001  

     Table of Contents 

The Struggle, His Promise    Joi S. Jackson

A Meadow Frozen in the Dance    Claudette Willis Jackson

Earth’s Bones (for Richard Taylor)    Nedra D. Lundberg

The Truth    Eddie Melton

Embers in My Mind    Omar A. Gray

Conversations    Gwynetta Shay Lyons

Too Late    Marlon Sam, Sr.

Behind the Smile    Andrea Stateman

doppelganger    Peter Smith

Feeling    Jenna Nation

Souls Lost    Vickie Lynn Sutton

A Romance Delight    Joi S. Jackson

Something Magnificent    Chemeka Rowe

Red Spring    Nick Perkins

Untitled    Elmo

Grandma    Andrew B. Moore

Planetesimals    A.      D. Fallon

Untitled 1    Nelda Allen

Wind Sing Song    Claudette Willis Jackson

Dance Music    Nedra D. Lundberg

The Quilt that is Our Life    Cathryn Carreer

Untitled 2    Nelda Allen

Widowed Heart    Donna Slone

Happy Helping Felix    Claudette Willis Jackson

Free-Stylin    Chemeka Rowe

Trumpet Player    LaChrista Bell

Not Even a Thank You    Caton Jones

A Taste of Seduction    Vickie Lynn Sutton

Breaking    Glenda LeMay  

Pink Magnolia Café on Front Street    Donna Slone

Lighthouse    LaChrista Bell

The Statue    Gashaw W. Lake

Old English Letters    Joi S. Jackson  

Mother Wisdom    Vickie Lynn Sutton

His Words Became Your Thoughts    Andrea Stateman

Somedays    Jenna Nation

Untitled 3     Nelda Allen

Swines    Dana Parker

Taste of a Puddle    Caton Jones

Joshua’s Brush    Cathryn Carreer

My Labor    Marlon Sam, Sr.

You    Patricia A. Jackson

The Creative Arts Club

New Stuff

Previous Editions of the Kentucky River:

1999 edition

2000 edition

The Truth

As I cry internally, visions of an eternal inferno crosses my eyes. Prayers for wisdom, being sent from the wise. It’s no surprise that we live a life of sin and lust, but when ashes lay to dust the next question is often who shall I trust.

Who shall I trust when my time grows near, I’ve breathed my last breath, seen my last sight and shed my last tear? Now is it fear that I duck or is my luck out of luck. I’m stuck in this breezy damnation so many faces of the devil. Which one am I facing? My chest is damn near ready to explode, get my gun, cock, reload. Cock back, now this is the life I chose as opposed to the one I missed filled with milk and honey and thoughts of eternal bliss. But that’s a dream as far as it seems. My thoughts are their own person damn near trying to scheme. Standing like a fiend, shaking and going through convulsions, my heart beating and my pulse steady pulsing.

What I have chosen seems to be my eternal fate. Is it the weed, or that sinful apple I ate? What’s my point for writing this down? These words, hoping people read it as if its name is Proverbs and that’s my word, you heard?

Eddie Melton  

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The stress that you have caused

made me toss and turn inside of you,

Listening to the torment you put yourself

through. But there's one thing you must

understand, you made the decision what

you wanted your life to be like, so don't go

Mommy, Mommy, do you remember me?

I was the baby you never did want to see,

you use to sit up late at night wishing and

screaming wanting me to die.

Are you stupid? How can you allow a man

to deceive you? He laid down with you only

for a few moments and leaves you with        

life time of pain. And now how do you feel?    

You haven't finished school, your only

dream was to be all you could be.

Your mama told you, "If you get pregnant

You're getting the HELL out of here!" with no

place to go, that was all you needed.

The friends you thought you had are all

beside you saying, "She's been had!"

Now you feel all alone.

The thoughts of death had entered

your mind. Your mind began to wander, then

your body started to feel  like it was

in an avalanche of time. Why did you

think having an abortion was your only

way to cope? I didn't think I was so bad.

did I ask to be conceived? Did it ever,

has it ever crossed your mind, what I

could have become? A doctor, a

lawyer, a teacher, a prostitute, a fiend,

a drunk, but there's no need to continue

to guess. You decided the fate of my

life, now your mind is left rambling,

trying to sort out the mess. As I sit here

contemplating what things could

have been like; could we have been the

best of friends or even the worst of enemies?

I think a lot since I have been here of

what my life could have been. Would

I have enjoyed going to school? Would

I have been an achiever? Would I have

had any friends? As days grow longer,

and I ain't getting any older I've grown

to understand, I didn't miss anything.

I'm better off where I am, I don't have

any pain, nor anger, nor suffering, nor

hatred, but only love for everyone

that I look down on to see.

I've thought about the boy who

thought he was a man, that was supposed to have

been my father. Where was he during

your drastic decision? Did he even

care? Was he even there? He was

probably like the rest of the dead beat

dads. I thjnk I'm better off believing that

he wasn't there because "lord knows there's no

telling what I would have wanted to do."

I know you're sitting there thinking, "Am

I crazy, why do I feel like someone's

talking to me?" I know you have some

ideas of who I may be.

It was only your 96th day of pregnancy

at exactly noon. You went in to talk to

the nurse. I didn't think things could

get any worse. As I sat there sucking

my thumb, a cold chill ran through me,

then my whole body went very numb.

I floated and floated until the skies were

Blue, no need to be discouraged.

I knew you weren't a murderer, you

were just young and dumb. I wrote your

name beside mine in the big golden

book. When you get home you can

take a look. God and the angels are

calling me now, but before I go there's

something I really must know. If there

was a way to go back in time just to

undo a few mistakes, "Would you erase

my abortion date?"

Gwynetta Shay Lyons  

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My father greeted me with a pat

on the head.

I was taller than he, so he stood on

the tip of his toes.

He brought me a gift from ten Christmases ago.

He said the sweater would fit.

Stretched and pulled over my mature

physique; I never found comfort.

I was a man now. And the gift that I

always wanted was something of the past.

Sorry Dad, but the birds and the bees?

Mamma taught me that. 

Marlon Sam, Sr.  

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Behind the Smile

As I searched through an assortment of pictures, I fumbled onto a familiar photo.
A frozen image to which I knew too well, yet I did not know.

This portrait was of an individual who had two sides to her every story.
To each was a morbid negativity, to which she gave her surroundings the glory.

To one story, they thought she was bright, beautiful, and sweet.
She knew they were wrong, there was something missing from her smile, she was incomplete.

Obviously, she could not decipher who would administer the healing of her void.
Then she realized it was she, not family, friends, nor a boy.

This picture could tell you more about her in comparison to an hour long confabulation.
Her pose, her smile, it was evident of her infatuation.

Her obsession with being perfect satisfied all but herself.
Her eyes told she wanted the life of someone else.

The frozen image, in the picture she never agreed to be.
Even so, I had no choice the photo was of me.

Andrea Stateman  

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doppelganger

       You would think that it would have shocked me to have opened my front door one day to have seen my own eyes staring back at me, but it didn’t. That they were my eyes was undeniable, me being possessed of eyes of such a unique pale blue color that they have always garnered stares and comments. “Like God had colored them blue and then changed His mind and erased most of the color,” was how somebody, I forget who, had once described them. Freaky blue, not normal blue: a bare hint of color in the center of the iris with a dark blue edge around the outer rim. I had never in my life seen eyes quite like my own until that day that I opened my front door and saw them on another person. Young he was, about the age of the freshmen at the university where I teach, I estimated, and later when I was able to get past those freaky blue eyes I did notice that there should have been something quite familiar with the shape of his nose and chin. And the hair too, of course, with that wild wave that I have spent my entire life trying to tame and control. There was that wave, waving at me from atop this person’s head. But at first I had trouble getting past the fact that standing before me was a young man with my eyes.

         He locked on to my freaky blue eyes as I had locked on to his. He must have had prepared what he wanted to say to me at that moment; he had probably even repeatedly rehearsed it aloud in his car as he had driven the hours he had driven, I found out later, on his way to come see me. It created a moment which went one exit beyond awkward on the highway of discomfort: me, him, our eyes.

         I was about to hazard a ridiculous, “may I help you?” when he stammered my name in an inquiring fashion, the words no sooner out of his mouth than he must have realized how profoundly stupid his inquiry was. I managed to get out a “yes” while he nodded his head in a of-course-it’s-you-I-knew-it-was-you fashion. Then out came: “I’m your son.”

         I was conscious of him watching my lips as they tried to form the words of my reaction. As if of their own volition, my lips had decided to begin with the “w” sound, although my brain had not yet telegraphed to them exactly what words to produce. Trying to both process the significance of what he had said and come up with some sort of verbal response, the ball being, as it were, so evidently in my court, my lips gave two false starts at “w” words before, apparently, settling on the phrase “well–come in then.” My head shook slightly as my brain informed my lips that that was probably not exactly what it had in mind, and I was conscious of a slightly disappointed look on the young man’s face as I stupidly waved my hand toward the interior of my apartment like some ditsy game show hostess showing off the fabulous prizes held out before the contestants.

         He entered silently, turning sideways to put as much dead space between my body and his, and then gave the place a quick once-over, taking note, no doubt, of the pitiful condition of the main room of my apartment. Looking over the room myself to try to see what he was seeing, I had to admit that it was a singularly underwhelming room without a hanging anywhere to break up the white expanse of wall–the only interruption provided by the two stacks of boxes, crammed with books, crouching ignominiously in the corner next to the couch. The room, I realized, had a very seedy “temporary” look to it, having been assembled from odd pieces of mismatched furniture gleaned from a nearby second-hand store that were still sitting in their that-will-do-for-now places that the apathetic delivery guys from the store had placed them in after asking me “where do you want this?” in a fashion which indicated that they would probably have died of shock had I said anything other than what I had said, which, of course, had been, “oh, right there is fine, I guess.” As I motioned the young man to the couch, I felt a sudden urge to explain that I actually owned wall hangings–posters and diplomas and such–but in all the time that I had been in the apartment after splitting up with my wife and having sold our house, I had never actually found sufficient initiative to go out and purchase a hammer and hooks with which to hang them. The apartment was supposed to be just temporary–at least that had been my initial intent. So all of my decorative objects sat still in the box that they had been piled in when I moved, which was now in the back of the closet of the spare bedroom (my son’s–well, other son’s– room when he came to stay for his court-ordered visitation). Of course, I then thought better of explaining this to him, as I became acutely aware of how it would make me appear even more like a loser than would the tableau of a middle-aged professor living a manner which would have embarrassed an undergraduate student.

         So instead he settled uncomfortably in the couch, his back not quite on the backrest, and I likewise perched awkwardly on the edge of the armchair in the room which was placed in the room at an odd angle to the couch as if unable to decide between parallel and perpendicular. The result is that we stared at each other in semi-profile while I tried to recover from my last words and come up with something more articulate. It seemed reasonable to question him further of his claim to kinship, even though any idiot walking into the room would have seen the genetic tie between us right away. But still it seemed to me to be what he would have been expecting after having sprung news like that upon someone so abruptly. “You’re my son?”

         “Yes,” he said with a hint of relief that he was getting a question that he had prepared himself for. “My mother is Janet Stevens. Well, was Janet Stevens.”

         “Was? You don’t mean she’s . . . dead?”

         His eyes went wide. “Oh, no, no. She got married. Hasn’t been ‘Stevens’ in a long, long time.”

         “Oh, good.” I smiled and nodded while my brain worked furiously to put a face with the name, which definitely rang a bell. I was trying to do some quick math in my head based upon my estimate of his age as to when I would have known this Janet person. I came up with about the age that I was getting my bachelor’s degree, which helped narrow down the list of suspects. Although, I confess, it didn’t narrow it down too much. A rapid succession of women flashed through my memory, all of whom, I realized, I could have gotten pregnant, those being the most careless and casual of my adult years. “Janet Stevens,” I repeated, trying to coax a clue from him without informing him that his mother could have been any one of an embarrassingly large number of women, “It’s been a long time since I heard that name.”

         He knew exactly what I was doing. Smart kid. But he didn’t let on that he plainly knew that I couldn’t recall his mother, and I didn’t let on that I knew that he knew. So he gave me my clue without overtly telling me that it was a clue. “Yes, my mother tells me that you were going to be a sophomore in college at the time. She had just graduated high school. She said something about having met you at a club. You only dated for the summer; it was over by the time both of you went off to college.”

         The synapses started firing and out popped an image of a skinny blonde in a white halter top, small beads of sweat on her forehead from having danced in an overcrowded, smoke-filled night club where the band was doing a cover of a Springsteen song as I worked my way over to her. Then other memories surfaced as I began to talk: other clubs, a restaurant or two, a bad movie, and one really nice summer evening walking along the lakefront, my hand around her waist and her head on my shoulder. And, yes, there were other clear memories of us passionate and careless, any one of which could have resulted in the polite young man now sitting on my couch. It was nice while it lasted, I recalled, but we really had nothing in common, and she was heading off to a college in a different state anyway. We didn’t so much break up as just saw no point of continuing. She left; I stayed; I never heard from her again. “Janet Stevens,” I said again, this time with a smile, to let him know that his clue had worked. I now knew who she was and nodded slightly to let him know that the chronology and scenario worked just right to equal my paternity of this young man. Not that I would have even thought to question the validity of his claim; his eyes were proof stronger than any DNA test. “So that would make you . . .” I let my voice trail off, letting him complete my sentence rather than risk a wrong guess.

         “Nineteen,” he said with a grin. I realized that he had done the math as well and had guessed that I had been just about the same age when I conceived him. “Going back for my sophomore year. I decided to stop in on my way. I just had to see them for myself.”

         The pronoun “them” struck me as odd, but I let it slide, sensing a common connection in his mentioning of returning to college. “It’s about that time of year, isn’t it? Kind of easy to tell around this neighborhood.” I smiled and gestured out the window. What I meant was that I lived very close to the campus where I taught, and all around were older homes that had been chopped into apartments that were usually rented by students. In truth, I was the only faculty member that I knew of who lived on my block. All around us were the unmistakable sights and sounds of college students returning from their summers at home: unloading cars jam-packed with possessions, uproariously greeting friends not seen in months, cranking music at ear-splitting volume levels to welcome themselves back. It was wonderful. The block was alive and vital after having slumbered for the summer. It was my favorite time of year–a time that I looked forward to but also kind of dreaded, as it always seemed to hammer home the reality that I was no longer one of them–and I had so dearly loved being one of them all those many years ago. That’s how I became a college professor, really: I just couldn’t stop going to college. When my four years were up, I went straight to graduate school for another five years; as soon as I finished my doctoral degree, I went straight to a university teaching position, hoping to prolong the feeling by prolonging the contact. Wasn’t the same, of course. I foolishly tried to make it the same for a while by trying to befriend the students rather than act like an authority figure to them, but that didn’t work out too well. I even tried dating several students–married one I really liked, then married another when the first pairing didn’t work out–and I finally made the ultimate mistake of continuing to “date” students even after the second marriage. That got me another divorce and lots of looks of disapproval from colleagues and administrators; one of the latter let me know that if I weren’t tenured he would have found a way to rid the university of me. So my life is now, basically, completely screwed up, left as I am with a job where my co-workers think I’m an asshole, living in a rathole apartment in a neighborhood where I don’t belong, and hoping desperately not to mess up my one and only shot at redemption in the form of my five-year-old son from my recently dissolved marriage.

         “So where do you go to school?” I asked, hating how it sounded like small-talk when I genuinely wanted to know.

         “University of Chicago,” he replied.

         My eyes went wide. “No kidding? That’s where I went undergrad. Interesting coincidence. I grew up in Chicago.” The last part was out before I realized that he must have already known that, seeing that his mother had met me there.

         “Yeah, I know,” he replied, not letting on which part he knew about–the obvious fact that I was raised in Chicago or that I went to college where he is going.

         “Know what you’re going to major in?”

         “English,” he replied with enough of a grin to let me know that he knew that English is my academic field. Then he followed that with something I wouldn’t have guessed: “That’s sort of how I found you.” He saw the quizzical look on my face and continued. “I ran across an article that you wrote. It took me a while to place the name, then I realized why it sounded so familiar. I thought at first that it might be a coincidence, so I researched a bit further. Eventually, I hit your university’s web site and saw a picture of you. I knew right away that it was you. No mistaking them.”

         There was that pronoun again. “Them?”

         Surprised he had to explain, he pointed to his eyes. “These. Never seen anybody with ones like them. Wondered my whole damned life where they came from. I thought it must have been some genetic fluke until Mom finally thought I was old enough to know the truth. When she told me it was like she was finally able to breathe again after having had to hold her breath for so long. Said she never could look in my eyes without being reminded of you.”

         Jesus. I didn’t need to hear that. The thought that I was constantly in the mind of a person who never meant anything to me and whom I had completely forgotten about up until a few minutes ago made me feel like a cad. I hastened to explain, “I never knew about you. She never told me. I never even knew she was pregnant.”

         “I know,” he said. There was an awkward silence. Then he felt compelled to tell more of his story. “Took me long enough to find out about you myself. I guess that I suspected something all along since I looked nothing like anyone else in my family. I always had a nagging suspicion that I had been adopted. And I was, sort of. My father married my mother when I was two and adopted me officially. They agreed to keep it from me until I turned sixteen, although they never could explain why they chose sixteen. They put it off by one extra day so they wouldn’t freak me out on my birthday, then they told me the next day. I kicked around the idea of trying to find you for quite a while, but I never really saw the point. Then I just happened across your name. I guess that it was inevitable, given all that you’ve written.” He smiled to let me know that he had read more than just the one article.

         I smiled back broadly and with genuine affection. Well I’ll be damned, I thought, the kid thinks I’m a star. Yes, if I have one claim to fame rather than to infamy, it is that I’m a very productive literary scholar. I can’t claim to be a very good teacher–I even bore myself sometimes–but I long ago discovered that I had a talent for seeing patterns and fitting things together. I am the academic equivalent of an idiot-savant: I do nothing well except take old works of literature and fit them into modern literary theory. Realizing early in my career that my talent lay not among dealing with living people but rather with the written words of long-dead authors and effete French theorists, I threw myself into the field of Deconstruction and became one if its leading American proponents. I have produced four books and innumerable articles and papers wherein I do nothing but take well-worn works of literature and convince readers that each doesn’t mean what it seems to mean–and, in fact, it fails to mean anything at all. I crank out enough sophisticated bullshit each year to have secured not only tenure and promotion to full professor but also a solid reputation as a “rising star” in literary scholarship–despite the fact that few read my work and even fewer understand it. For my efforts, I have been rewarded with a thankfully skimpy teaching schedule (like I said, I am not the world’s best teacher) and an unspoken understanding that I am pretty much not expected to do anything at all to contribute to the life or functioning of my university except write my books and articles to enhance the university’s reputation as a place of serious scholarship. And I do my best to live up, or down, to that expectation. So I have found myself in the curious position of having two reputations: among those who don’t know me, I am a dedicated scholar of serious insight; here on campus I’m a boring idiot who can’t relate to his students except on an inappropriate level, and the best that can be hoped for from me is that I will stay away from where actual learning is taking place and manage to keep my pants zipped. I felt grateful but somewhat guilty that my newfound son knew me as the former rather than the latter. It was like a bizarre version of the phase that all boys go through when very young where they idolize their fathers as the pinnacle of manly perfection.

         It occurred to me that I was missing a vital piece of information about him. “So what’s your name?”

         He laughed upon realizing that he had forgotten to introduce himself as anything other than my son. “Justin,” he said.

         “Really?” I asked, although I can’t imagine why he would have given me a fake name. He was evidently puzzled at my reaction, so I pointed to the only decorative item in the room: the framed photo of my five-year-old son sitting atop the television set. “That’s my son’s name. Uh, my other son’s name.”

         “Really?” he looked to where I was pointing to confirm that I wasn’t making it up, I guess. “Interesting coincidence. My mom said she always liked that name.”

         “So did his mom.”

         He got up to get the picture and gently held it while he examined the face, perhaps mentally comparing it to pictures he had seen of himself when he was younger. “So I have a half-brother, eh? I’ll be damned.” He kept looking at the photo of his namesake. “Another Justin.” He sounded as if it were he who had just discovered a long-lost son. “Looks a little like us, doesn’t he? Without the eyes, though.”

         “I guess so. Actually, what you said before goes for me too. About never having seen anyone else with these eyes. Nobody in my family had them either. Just popped up in me. And you.”

         He kept staring at the photo, and said almost dreamily, “Like God had colored them blue and then changed His mind and erased most of the color.”

         That was odd. Had I mentioned that phrase to his mother, and it had just stuck with her? Or was she the person I had first heard it from? Both possibilities disturbed me. Again I was uncomfortably aware that I meant something to people that I hadn’t thought about in years or never knew existed. Three years this kid knew about me while I knew nothing of him. For nineteen years I was always lurking on the periphery of his mother’s consciousness while I had long ago written her out of my memory.

         “Where is he?”

         It took me a moment to comprehend that he was referring to my other son. “With his mother.” He suddenly looked up at me, as if wondering if fathering and abandoning sons was some sort of habit with me. I hastened to add, “we’re divorced. I see him for a weekend here and there, and for part of the summer he lives with me here.” He looked around the apartment again as if searching for some trace of the life of the boy whose likeness he held. There was none, of course. Just barely a trace of my own life.  “He lives with his mother most of the time, though. I go there to visit him too sometimes.”

         “There?”

         “Cleveland. Where she grew up. Moved back there after the divorce.”

         Now it was his turn to be surprised. “I grew up in Cleveland. We still live there. I just came from there.”

         “I returned from Cleveland yesterday,” I said without inflection, “I just dropped him off. His summer visit just ended. He has to start school. Kindergarten.”

         I could tell by the look on his face, and he by the look on mine, that it was slowly beginning to dawn on both of us that the coincidences were starting to get uncomfortable. He took this as his cue to return the photo to its original position and move toward the door. He mumbled something about really having to get to Chicago and used the phrase “just stopped by on my way” again. Of course, now he knew that I knew that he had driven quite a bit out of his way to find me at the university in Michigan where I taught. Regardless, he went to the door.

         “Hey,” I said, “be careful.” He looked at me as if I had said something strange. So I added, “on the drive and stuff. To Chicago. Drive carefully.” We both knew that I hadn’t been referring to driving, but what I actually meant would have taken too long to explain and wouldn’t have done any good anyway. The look lingered on his face for a moment, then he shrugged it away and turned the doorknob.

         Half way out the door, he turned his head and seemed to hug the door, one hand on the interior knob and one on the exterior. Our eyes met. Slowly he said, “If you’d have known about me, but didn’t have to do anything about it, would you have been involved in my life?”

         “Yes,” I said with a nod. I was about to follow that up by asking if there was anything he needed from me–money or something. I stopped when I realized just how obvious the answer was.

         He nodded back, seeming to be satisfied with the answer. But then he flashed a smile that was both dazzling and unforced. I wondered if I ever had a smile like that myself. Then he added, “Of course, that’s what you would have to say.” He paused, “Isn’t it?”

         I replied with what was no doubt a pale shadow of his smile and merely nodded my head. He nodded in reply to my nod, held up his hand in a wordless goodbye, and closed the door quietly behind him. It was only then that it struck me that I knew his first name but not his last. Going after him on the stairs was out of the question. He knew where to find me, but I would have to do some real work to find him. If ever I wanted to.

         I went to the window of my apartment that overlooks the street and saw him emerge from the porch and stride to his car and get in. He walked like a man who had gotten exactly what he came for, a man who was stepping with supreme self-confidence on the edge of the red carpet that he was sure had been laid out just for him as a pathway to a future that glimmered like the surface of a lake on a sunny day. Listening to the report of his car door slam, I could only think of how I had once walked like that too, only to have stumbled over the bumps in the carpet so many times over the years that my eyes were now perpetually downcast. As he drove away, I felt a profound sense of emptiness, almost as if something intangible in me were driving away with him. My head ached from the painful, fleeting glimpse of what might have been–that perfect opportunity that had just sped by so fast that I hardly had a chance to notice before it had already eluded my grasp.

Peter Smith 

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Solitude is precious, yet seldom savored.

Happiness is slight, yet often felt.

Sadness is infernal, yet iterative.

Anger is irrefutable, yet innate.

Confusion is consuming, yet void.

Feeling is complex, yet inevitable.

Jenna Nation

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Souls Lost

Blue waters wide and deep, stole my heritage from me.

The motherland, my land, Africa, rich in beauty, culture,

and wealth raped and destroyed by the greed of men,

men without faces, without hearts, without souls.

Hear the cry, the cry of my people

chained and shackled

by deceit.

Blue waters wide and deep, raging waves foaming white,

tossed and tumbled captured spirits painfully lost forever,

without cause, without blame, without hope.

Hear the cry, the cry of my people

chained and shackled

by deceit.

Blue waters wide and deep, the burial grounds of many souls.

Souls of my ancestors, a proud and noble people reduced to

torn and tattered spirits, resting uneasy,

without homes, without peace, without dignity.

Hear the cry, the cry of my people

chained and shackled

by deceit.

Vickie Lynn Sutton  

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My heart beats

with an overflow

of emotion,

Restlessly moving

to the sound of

your breathing beneath

my breasts.

Your fragrance melts

into my senses

Taking me

to heights of arousal

I never imagined possible.

Joi S. Jackson

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Nick Perkins

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Untitled

For when the day has come our time, we will

never understand. We are born to die, for God

has set rules for his land.

Sometimes we try to anticipate the right, and

it comes from the left. For all eyes are blind to

our ending, or when we take our last breath

We’re not made to stay here, and it’s something

we must accept. You can only run for so long, and

never know when you’re gonna take that last step

It hurts deep inside because you’d love for them

to stay. But, this is the way life goes, the Lord has

his reasons for taking us away.

Be grateful that you are here, and live your life to the end.

With faith and trust in the Lord, we all can

Win.

Elmo

Grandma

If you're married in the South and you divorce your wife, is she still your sister?                             --Jeff Foxworthy et.al.

I once heard a riddle about a son whose mother was his grandmother and his sister all at the same time. I blew it off as another jab at the way we have redefined family relationships here in Kentucky. "We like to keep our sisters barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen" should be the prerequisite bumper sticker if you're from somewhere like Letcher County or Clay County. It is something we laugh about until we discover the truth about the gap-toothed skeletons running around naked and barefoot inside our family closet and banging their heads against its door. It's not so funny after that.

          At least it wasn't to me when I found out that my grandmother was actually my great-grandmother and that she had been my mother's mother but not my grandfather's wife though she was his mother too. Confused? So was I, but I was nine. I started to get worried when I telling off-color jokes that I didn't understand about inbred relatives and my parents weren't laughing.

          The frail, gentle woman who I called Grandma Robert passed on when I was six. We were very close. I had a space reserved on her lap next to Gunther, the border collie. She would caress my head and rock me gently in the silence of my grandfather's house. Her skin was like moistened tissue paper and her eyes were clear as early morning dew on honeysuckle vines. They glistened. Of German-Irish descent, she had come from Pittsburgh to Louisville to live with my grandfather and his three children in the winter of 1948.

          At the age of eighty three, her slight appearance was no measure other strength. I was sitting in the kitchen watching her cook dinner one night when she broke a cast iron skillet over my Grandfather's head. She turned from the stove and, in one swift motion, she laid him out flat on the kitchen floor. I thought she had killed him. The blow hit him squarely on the forehead with surgical precision and all the deliberation that could have been mustered by a 5'2", eighty-nine pound German-Irish immigrant. He paused before he fell. His gnarled finger hovered above her in mid declaration and he fell forward with the grace of a well-sawn walnut tree. Her expression never changed. She turned back to the stove and continued cooking. Her silence, the fragrance of German potato salad and sausages, and the chime of the recent collision mingled in mid-kitchen with his unfinished sentence. It was a recipe straight from the old country.  When he finally came around, she told him to pick up the broken skillet and take it out to the rubbish, since he had broken it. Now I knew why people respected their elders.

          She defined the word grandmother for me, but she was not in fact my grandmother. She was my great grandmother who had come to care for his children when my  grandmother, Betty, had been sent away. The particular events which led to Betty's incarceration remain a mystery to me. No one in our family has ever been willing to talk about it and I'm not sure I want to know.

She was needed but was now unreachable in her new residence at Eastern State Hospital. My grandfather was a public defender in Louisville and was now a single father as well. He was on the wrong side of the McCarthy witch hunt. My mother and her siblings spent most of their free time dodging stones and words like "Pinko" and "Nigger lover" being thrown by the neighborhood toughs.

          I saw Betty once. It was at my grandfather's wake, and I was surrounded by relatives. They had all been afraid she would come. I peered up at her from behind my mother's legs. She didn't look very menacing to me, but I hadn't had to endure the terror dispensed at the hands of an incoherent mother. The fragmented stories told tome by my mother make Joan Crawford seem like June Cleaver in comparison. From my heavily-guarded position, I could see tension on the faces above me. They would glance down periodically as if to reassure themselves that they were not me, and that if they should happen to be me, that they were well protected from the assault that was sure to come. She never looked at me. It is one thing to go completely unnoticed, but it is completely another to be seen and not acknowledged. She had come to pay her respects to her husband who was doing the backstroke in Old Grandad surrounded by those who would miss him. He had never divorced her. It was 1978.

          I answered the phone one evening the following year. Betty announced herself by shouting my last name and demanding to know what I had done with her daughter. She showered me with a barrage of insults and foul language that would have made a boatswains mate blush. She had never approved of our marriage, never liked me, and wanted me to leave her daughter alone. My father recognized the terror in my eyes and rushed across the room. He put me behind him, shielding me from further exposure to Betty's onslaught. As he listened, his face softened the way it did with me whenever I acted wrongly but with no malice or without understanding the nature of my offense.

          He reasoned with her gently. His compassion for her startled me. Even though my mother was upstairs, he lied to her and said she wasn't home. He reasoned with her that he was who he said he was and that he wasn't trying to confuse her. He looked at me and for a moment I was afraid he would hand me the phone. I was afraid she would reach through the phone, grab me by the ears, and pull me into her dark existence. We had now been introduced. I was nine.

Soon after, a package came by mail. My mother disguised her fear of the object with excitement or disguised her excitement with fear. I'm not sure which it was, and I don't think she did then. I only know that when she opened them, her tears began to flow, and nothing could disguise her pain. A tortoise shell hair comb, colorful silk hair ribbons, a broken ladies' wrist watch, a small plaid frock, the kind a young girt would have worn on her first day of school. They were always packed neatly in the box, accompanied by a card or letter addressed to mother's sister.

It was day 23 of the Iran hostage crisis. Betty wanted mother to visit. I pictured Gretel being stuffed in the oven. I hoped she wouldn't go. I was afraid she would take me with her. I was sure she would.

           I now have a son of my own. Two years ago, when he was born, my mother was conspicuously absent. She sent flowers to the house. She visited one evening around Christmas and brought us a boxed gift collection of coffee cups and a bagel slicer. She didn't bring anything for Drew. She left an hour later before dinner was served. I wondered what Betty looked like at fifty-two.

    Since then birthdays and holidays have passed, and my mother has remained conspicuously absent. The packages arrive in the mail, and I instinctively put Drew behind me as I open them.  Thoughtful though they are, they are out of chronological context, and have no reference to anything but the distance we share, Prudence, Betty and I. Sometimes I wonder how I will explain it to him when he asks. Maybe I'll lie and tell him that Prudence was actually Grandma Robert and that before he was old enough to remember, she held his head in her lap, stroking his hair with strong, gentle fingers made of moistened tissue paper.

Andrew B. Moore

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 A shadow dog, lean black form, narrow muzzle, cinnamon brows above bleak eyes,

just appeared one morning in the alley way of the hog house.

My father named him King.

A daddy=s dog, no doubt of that, the rest of us mere wraiths on his horizon.

In the fields King followed as my father planted,

treading a dangerous measure close to the heavy wheels.

When the tractor overrode him, my father swore, sick at heart,

then carried him to the alley way to live or die.

Mended, King once more followed to the fields.

Again, his slim black body disappeared beneath the wheels.

He healed a second time, then ran away.

Though you promised, you too, my love,

still dance the path to destruction.

But you don=t break your heart and run.  You break mine.

Nedra D. Lundberg

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I am a delicate batiste.

A pastel, newly woven and light,

With not the strength of his, yet the colors complement.

He is a strong tough broadcloth.

Older, more worn, yet brilliant in design.

Tightly woven with rough edges.

His cloth makes a strong foundation

On which to appliqué

Our story

Mine makes the top

To cover and protect, to warm and to ease away

The winter chills.

Our children make up the batting

Wispy and light the substance

At the center of art.

Each experience

Even the knots and the snags

Quilt our lives together in a unique design.

We are a story told in pieces, edges tightly bound

Our life stitched together

A comforter: whole, complete, and perfect.

Cathryn Carreer

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Widowed Heart

Left in the shadows of our 23-year marriage,

I am surrounded now only by silver, crystal, lamps —

Wedding gifts from friends still around after all these years,

Friends who thought we were different from others,

That we would not fall prey to the epidemic ravaging the nation.

Our wedding album lies dusty on the shelf,

Pages having begun to fall out,

Bindings dry-rotted from years of neglect.

Is that what happened to our marriage?

Did we neglect it so long the bindings rotted?

What could we have done to protect the fabric of those bindings,

The threads of our relationship, the warp and weave of our marriage?

Is there a restorative cream for old love as there is for old leather?

Or would it have mattered;

Was our marriage a cheap vinyl imitation, expected to crack over the years?

We say we still love each other,

Still believe within our souls that we were destined to be together -

Friends since first grade, lovers since our teens.

Have we fooled ourselves all along?

Are we, after all, our own Creators

With power to alter our Fate?

Can we, mere mortals, end a lifetime of commitment,

A lifetime of accepting what Fate—and God—joined together?

The Heavens noted the hour of our separation.

A sudden storm beat down upon our home;

Torrential rain challenged the velocity of my tears.

Hail threatened to shatter the panes

As Hell sent shattering pains through my heart.

Bittersweet sunlight eventually broke through,

Bringing forth a rainbow somewhere over the horizon,

But I could not see it,

Could not and do not yet sense the promise of a brighter future.

Noah shared the covenant of the rainbow with his wife.

Who have I? Alone when there should be two of us.

Two of everything. He said.

Where were You when our rainbow shone?

Our friends stop by, ask about the arrangements,

Ask where they may view the corpse of our lifetime.

I console those who come to console me,

The widow of our marriage, a stoic woman

Who has always, will always, protect those she loves.

I tell them you are doing what you believe is best—for both of us.

They look at me incredulously and marvel at my strength.

"I am a mountain woman," I say again and again.

"And a Slone. We are a resolute people. I will survive."

But for now, I wish only to be left alone with my grief and my shame.

I am ashamed that you do not love me enough,

That you did not love me exclusively,

That I was not strong enough or good enough

To make you love only me.

My heart is splintered as I pack away our history

And choose what I may take into my uncertain future.

Where shall I go?

What new family will move into this home we built together?

Where shall I call home, when my heart resides only with yours?

Donna Slone

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Happy Helping Felix

            Happy Helping Felix was very happy.  He liked many things.  He liked living in Kentucky.  He liked living in the city with his Mom.  He liked eating ice cream.  He liked playing soccer with friends in school.  He liked roller-skating with his friends.  He liked playing basketball with his Dad.  And he liked visiting his Grandpa on the farm. 

            Most of all, Felix loved to help people.  In the fall, he loved to help friends pick up walnuts in the park.  And in the summer, he loved to help Mr. Glide fly his airplane.  And he loved to help his Dad gather balls on the golf course. 

            But Felix wished he could help his Mom.  He saw his Mom setting the dinner table, “Can I help?”  he asked.

            Mom smiled and shook her head.   “I don’t think so,” she said.

            Felix didn’t understand.  He wanted Mom to explain.  “Why?” he asked.

          Mom looked into Felix’s eyes.  “Because I love my baby boy.  I don’t want you to grow up too fast.”

            Felix thought about what his Mom said.  He wasn’t a baby.   He just wanted to help, “It’s easy!” he exclaimed.

            Mom shook her head, again. “No arguing.  It’s such a sunny day, you should be outside playing,” she said, playfully.

            Felix went out and sat on the porch steps.  He watched the cars moving up and down the street.  I can do it, he thought.  Felix wasn’t so happy, anymore. 

            One day Mom decided to go shopping.  She took Felix to Grandpa’s house.  Grandpa was puzzled.  Felix did not smile.  Something troubled him.  “Come here, son.  What’s bothering you?” Grandpa asked.

            Felix flopped down on the couch beside grandpa.  He didn’t want Grandpa to think that he was being mean.  Grandpa always thought he was the greatest kid in the world.  But Grandpa could help.  Felix frowned, “I’m not a baby,” he said.  He picked at his shirt.  “I can do lots of things,” he grumbled.

            Grandpa sighed.  “Growing up is tough, isn’t it?” He asked.  “So you think you’re a man?” he added.  Felix didn’t answer.  Grandpa usually made him feel better, but this time his kind words didn’t help.  He still felt sad. 

            It wasn’t long before Felix’s Mom returned.  She seemed happier.   But Felix wasn’t ready to leave Grandpa.  He reached for his Mom’s hand.  “Can I spend the night?” he asked.

His Mom seemed unsure.  “I don’t know,” she said, turning to Grandpa.  “Can he stay?” she asked.

            Grandpa chuckled.   He tickled Felix’s stomach.  “It’s late, and I’m not going anywhere.  I could use some company,” he said, winking at Felix.

Mom hugged Felix.  “I’m going to miss my baby boy,” she said.  She kissed Grandpa’s cheek, “Pops, I’ll come get my baby before the rooster crows,” she said.

            Grandpa frowned and rubbed his head.  “That early, huh?  While you’re at it, you can join us for breakfast.  I’m cooking one of my old Bluegrass specials,” he said.  Felix glanced at Grandpa.  He wondered what Grandpa meant.  Grandpa didn’t cook.  He always ate breakfast at his favorite restaurant, Mr. Fritters.    Grandpa smiled, warmly.  “Don’t worry about us.  We’ll play computer games and have a bowl of ice cream,” he said.  Grandpa reached for Felix, “You won’t mind that, will you, son?” 

            Felix shook his head, “It’s hot.  I like cream,” he said enthusiastically.

             Early the next morning, Grandpa started breakfast.  Felix giggled at Grandpa’s big yellow and purple stocking cap.  Grandpa thought it made him look lovable and cute. Grandpa had told him that lovable and cute was smart.  Felix loved Grandpa.  He was fun!  He wondered if Grandpa would let him help set the table.  After thinking about it, he felt sad.  But I can do it.  If Mom like the way I set grandpa’s table, she will let me help her, he thought.  Suddenly, Felix asked,  “Can I help?  Pl-e-a-s-e!  I can set the table.” he pleaded.

            Grandpa nodded. “It’s a pretty big job.  But, I know you can do it.  I’m counting on you,” he said, jokingly.

            Suddenly, Grandpa made a loud hissing noise and clapped his hands,  “Now step back and watch the greatest show in town!” He said.  Felix laughed.  He knew that grandpa was trying to cheer him up.  And it worked.   His eyes widened as he watched Grandpa scramble eggs, fry bacon, dice potatoes, and slice apples.  He kneaded and rolled out biscuit dough and pressed fresh oranges to make juice.  Felix wondered when Grandpa had learned to cook like that.  The smell of food made him hungry!  And the sight of fresh juice made him thirsty!

            Whirling his arms high in the air, Grandpa made funny faces.  “I guess it’s time to pull out the eating utensils,” he muttered in a squeaky voice.  “M-y b--o--y, hop to it!”

            Felix giggled. Grandpa had a pleasant and unusual way of making him feel extra special.  Proudly, Felix pointed to a set of cabinets near the ceiling.  “Grandpa, the glasses,” he said.  Grandpa handed him three glasses.  Quickly, Felix inspected the glasses and placed them on the table. 

            Mom arrived in time to see Felix finish the table.  She hurried to Felix.  “Wow!  It’s scorching outside.  Perhaps we’ll go swimming today,” she said.  Felix liked that idea.  In the summer, they went swimming every week. 

            Grandpa pointed to a nearby chair.  “Madam, have a seat and watch two masters at work.” 

            Laughing, his Mom sat in the chair. “Yes, King Pops,” she said.

Grandpa chuckled.

Felix grinned from ear to ear.  “The plates,” he said, happily.  Grandpa handed him the plates.  Felix ran a finger around the edge of each plate, “smooth,” he said.  He sat the plates on the table next to the glasses.

            Grandpa inspected the table.  Felix realized that the spoons and forks were missing.  He pulled out a kitchen drawer and removed three spoons and three forks.  He couldn’t resist playing a tune with the spoons before sitting them next to the plates.  He had watched his Mom do it many times.

            Grandpa hugged Felix.  “That’s my boy!” he exclaimed, taking off his apron.  “Well, I guess that’s it,” he added.  But Felix remembered something and dashed to the refrigerator. He couldn’t forget the jelly.  He liked lots of jelly on his biscuits.

            Mom couldn’t believe her eyes.  She laughed.  “When and where on earth did you learn to set a table like that?” she asked in amazement.

            “At home,” Felix answered.  “From you,” he added.  His eyes twinkled with excitement.   Grinning, he added, “I can do lots of things!”

            “Will you help me the way you help Grandpa?” his Mom asked.      

            “Yeah!  Felix exclaimed.

            Mom looked at Grandpa.  “Sometimes, I hate to admit that he’s growing up,” she said.  Grandpa grinned and poured everyone a glass of juice.

            Felix liked Mom saying that he was growing up.  He grinned from ear to ear.  “This is the best breakfast I’ve ever had!” he shouted.  Mom laughed!  Grandpa laughed! And Felix Laughed!  

            “Lets eat,” Grandpa said.  Felix couldn’t wait!  Happy Helping Felix was very hungry.  HAPPY HELPING FELIX WASN’T SAD ANY MORE!

Claudette Willis Jackson

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Free-Stylin'

Um, this is called a free-style,

I ain't got no particular flow,

I be just kickin it, writing lyrics,

runnin it, you know?

Profylin? Yeah, that's me,

making up words with no meaning,

hey that's part of being free. To do what you wanta do,

say what you wanta say,

makin' up words and syllables,

in the same strange way,

Like webalization, breezer, and shorty,

you know legalization, breezy and

girlfriend?

Free words, free-verse and al types of things,

These are the little quirks that make language do

certain things.

Free stylin, free verse, that's me,

making up languages and styles

of Ebonic forms,

that's me.

Your walk is sweeter than the taste of peaches on my tongue.

There aren’t many girls who can make me laugh.

When we are interrupted

it dilutes the harmony like soap in the bath.

And at last I say we are alone,

not to bone

just a stimulating convo on the phone

to tell me what you’re thinking,

if what we got can float, no sinking.

I saw your nipple peaking through your blouse

and your perfume is subtle not loud,

silently telling me how you feel

with eye contact getting me aroused,

Turning me up with subtle

yet gentle caresses to my temple.

A back massage is what I give you to show appreciation,

A cold sensation in a hot and tempting situation.

A piece of ice in my mouth

as I kiss on your neck

to the small of your back

having more control,

helping you not to attack.

You grab the sheets and enjoy.

Then you get up and leave,

as the door shuts so does the sudden moment of pleasure

A Taste of Seduction

In the labyrinth of burning hell I watch, choosing those I wish to capture. Luring them in with looks of seduction, then taking their souls to appease my desire. The skin, soft as velvet, pierces with one delicate bite, causing the nectar of life to surge out. Detecting their faults and achievements in the bitter taste of blood as it trickles down, I relish and embrace their precious gift of life. Intimidating the feeble-minded who are foolish to speculate on my existence, I smile and take pleasure as I partake of my victim. How preposterous are myths that portray me as a creature of the night. Described as a being lacking in feelings, indifferent to those relating to the repulsiveness of devouring man. Without being aware, due to their ignorance, these are the accessible prey, for I am like any other woman in appearance, onyx hair drawn back except for the sacred ritual of welcoming life, and possessing eyes that tell a thousand stories. Night's dusk carries with it a realm of ecstasy, as I anxiously await the gratification soon received. My lips glisten with sweat of impatience as I gaze upon the man in my web of deception. Longing to be with him eternally and spiritually, I draw him into my embrace. And as I drink his blood our souls are intertwined, never again to be separated. Feeling the sensation of life pulsate, my eyes close and I enter into a dimension that no other can. Wandering like this aimlessly, stumbling over bodies of the spiritless left trailing behind. I'm immortal, and I shall not perish until the fiery sun scorches me, creating a pile of smoky ashes.

Vickie Lynn Sutton

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Breaking 

Caught between emotions,

I can take no more, no more.

In the middle of the day I tremble

Holding back, hold back

the other self

That seeps through the fissures

Lingering... exploring... this fragile barricade.

Like an ambush in the dark

It waits.

I wait.

Hold still … hold still as marble.

Speak ... and I will splinter into fragments.

I will never more be whole ... never more.

Why do I fear the flood?

Why do I still the tide?

Should I not cast this gilded mold and be reborn?

I can not rise from the ashes. I can not.

I fear that which I hide.

Ah, Prufrock, I understand now

When I am standing still...

And tremble.

Glenda LeMay

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Pink Magnolia Cafe on Front Street

White linens flutter in the breeze

Grey-blue clouds rise from nearby textile mills

Mint-flavored tea graces Haviland china

Silver slivers jump above brackish water

White-gloved hands pass watercress sandwiches

Freighters glide past

Donna Slone

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The Statue

High on the Hilltop of Frankfort

Whitney stands up right

With smiling face and hand outright,

Greeting us with love from morning till night,

A reminiscence of our past!

We are encouraged and become determined

To strive continuously for our goals,

Hoping for relief from the toil of our labors,

Hoping for aching bones to rest,

Like those who came before us,

Our unborn posterity here at KSU

Can sense the spirit that Whitney symbolizes,

For those who came last to KSU,

A sanctuary for peoples’ rights,

A home away from home

Where Whitney stands upright

On the hilltop of Frankfort.

Yes, high on the hilltop of Frankfort,

Whitney shoulders our problems and wakes us up

To tolerate differences and get along

He speaks for the many voiceless

Past and present who we are.

The psychic soul for the young and old

Radiates wisdom and hope for the dream to come

Gift of idealism for human rights,

The statue which is mine and ours

Subliminal of our souls

At the Breaking of the day and closing of the night

Whitney consoles us from good day to good night

Always. . . from season to season. . . a fresh start! 

Gashaw  W. Lake