They told me he’d never make it through the night. If he did, he would live the remainder of his life as a vegetable. Replaying the past few hours in my head – the urgent call I received just past midnight, the sleek convertible, no more than a crumpled mass of metal littering the side of the highway, flashing lights of emergency vehicles, my husband on a stretcher, blood caked to what remained of his face when they finally pulled him out of the flames – I felt nothing. And I don’t mean “nothing” in the way of the numbness that overtakes the body as a means of self-preservation after a traumatic event. I know the feelings I should have felt, as I watched my spouse laying on the hospital bed, cut, burned, bruised, and mutilated, possibly dying right before my eyes. Shock, horror, agony, despair – any one of those would have been appropriate for a scenario such as this one. Yet I could not muster a single emotion.
The passenger was killed on impact, or so I was told by the authorities. I did not know who she was, not what she looked like. I saw her for the first time when they asked me to identify her after she was pulled out of the wreckage and, by then, her face no longer held any characteristic features.
I imagined she must have been beautiful. Young and carefree, with no regard for morality, favoring her own pleasure over ethics or propriety. Perhaps she was simply naïve, believing as I once did that she had found her soul mate in this man. Perhaps she was not young at all, but another woman like me, also unhappy in her marriage. Perhaps she, too, married too young, settled down, had children. And after some years, her marriage grew stale, as marriages often do. Her husband began neglecting her, working late nights, taking a few too many business trips. She decided she wanted more, needed more. And just then, she found this man. He shot her that dazzling smile, bought her a drink. He came into her life and made her feel like a woman again. Did she know that, somewhere, there was a woman, much like her, who stayed up those nights, waiting for that man to come home from late nights at the office?
Whoever she was, it somehow seemed easier to pity her than the man, who now lay before me. I turned my attention to the impressive display of machines, humming and beeping robotically, each one with its specific purpose to keep him alive – one delivered oxygen to his lungs, another replaced the blood he had lost, another nourished him. How ironic, I thought, that he should be the one with such an extensive array of equipments to keep his heart beating, when it was mine that had been shattered.
I imagined him lying there for years to come, his mind trapped in a body that would never function again. Would he live in agony, tormented by his betrayal? Or would he relive his last moments with her, replaying them over and over – their first date, first kiss, their first… Would he ever once think of the woman who waited at home on those late nights, or the children she tucked in by herself, the children she would now have to raise on her own?
My thoughts were interrupted by the long monotonous drone of the heart monitor, as the line went flat. As I loosened my grip on the cord in my hand, it fell to the floor, slipping past my sweaty fingertips. They told me he’d never make it through the night. Sometimes fate just needs a helping hand.
Hunting Party by: Hillarree Hamblin, Mixed media on canvas, 2010.
The Empty Country by: Robert Marcom
Dreary scraps of torn and tattered rain clouds flee the desolate
prairie where rabbits starve for the lack of a bit of green to eat…
and coyotes languish for want of rabbit flesh. The empty place,
suitable for vultures and that breed of human who fences empty
spaces and strings high tension power lines.
No Indians lingered here, and Conquistadores came, conquered, passed
through and were gone. Only empty land remained — and rabbits,
coyotes and vultures — when the rains finally came.
Cupidity by: Suzanne Shield-Polk, Ceramic with encaustic wax and collage, 2010.
My Inheritance
by: Lindsey Blasingame
In the hallow room at the center,
holding up the house and frame.
If an ivory key was pushed just hard enough,
the sickly vibrato notes would ring relentlessly,
hitting tile and wall.
And this would happen every Wednesday night.
Violently and repeatedly, haunting me
as I was forced to learn to play,
as all ladies should.
Though I came up wanting.
And every Friday the flecks that
peeled from the embroidered wood
would stain my hands like blood on the carpet
and the smell of cherries – and wood polish –
would linger in my hair for the rest of the weekend.
But it was my mother’s will as the two
before her in line for the same inheritance,
and now as I’ve left the sheets of music dusty and away,
I still wonder who I detest more:
My mother or that damn piano.
Ashley’s Daily Life by: Ashley Diaz, Pen and ink on paper, 2010.
Let the Smoke Settle, Then Exale by: Emily Yandell
Take a drag.
Draw it gently to your lips.
Let the smoke settle, and then exhale.
You live in a world surrounded by the smog you’ve seen others create
With their chimney pipes of deterioration and dehydration.
Trash growing, population piling, intellect in retrospect.
It’s all the same to you anyway.
You’re better than them anyway.
Take a drag.
Draw it calmly to your lips.
Let the smoke settle, and then exhale.
You live in a world surrounded by your ideals that seem
better than you’ve seen before
With change spilling out of your mouth like a slot machine.
Egotism towering, purpose prevailing, second rate left in second place.
It’s all the same to you anyway.
You’ve done your best to be best anyway.
Take a drag.
Draw it slowly to your lips.
Let the smoke settle, then exhale.
You live in a world surrounded by the smog of ideals created before you
Where the brain and the heart beat for one single thought.
Gears turning, people promoting, the here and now hearing how.
It’s all the same to you anyway.
You’ve got the best of the best anyway.
Take a drag.
Draw it smoothly to your lips.
Let the smoke settle, then exhale.
You are the ideal surrounding the world.
With grains of the future falling through the hour glass
Faith flying, light shining, and the promise of promises
It’s all the same to you anyway.
You’ve kept time for yourself anyway.
Stress by: Hillarree Hamblin, Acrylic on canvas, 2010.
Katie Lynn on the Corner by: Celia Sonnier
Katie Lynn was the girl on the corner; every Saturday when her coworkers would see family or go on dates or even go out on their own she was standing there.
Well, not the corner exactly. That was too dangerous. Katie Lynn kept herself only in the nicest parts of the town and would stand with her back against the solidest building she could find. Never against a window; someone could smash through, and she would get glass in her back, and they could push her down, even out into the street, or pull her back into the building through more glass and…
No, never against a window. Solid walls only.
People would try to give her money sometimes, but she refused most of it. Some of the people looked like the money could be marked, or it could have traces of dangerous drugs or chemicals on them. Katie Lynn was never without gloves, one of the reasons she insisted on living in a cooler part of the country, but she still didn’t want tainted money.
Besides she didn’t consider this as way of making money. She had her job at the office. Working as a secretary could be nerve-wracking but she made a good living. Still people who saw the signs, or her odd dress, would automatically run away or reach for their wallets.
Sometimes she was the one who ran. Some of the people gave off bad feelings like a trash can gives off bad smells.
Her signs were nice though, and the reason she stood there every Saturday. She spent all her free time on them, artistically rendered in nice lettering that was easy to read if you just gave your eyes a few moments to adjust. Sometimes she experimented with nice colors, or little pictures from the letters themselves.
They gave advice too, telling passers-by that they should avoid heels because in the event of a mugging they wouldn’t be able to run away; or the other one telling everyone to check their oven regularly to be sure it wasn’t malfunctioning. Yet another explained that everyone should become practiced in self defense and listed the multitude of reasons in a beautiful Asian motif. There were occasionally offers to buy a sign, but they were for learning, she would explain, not to hang on some wall and be seen only by a few.
The clothes she wore were only the most practical, in a way that made people stare. Loose t-shirts were her favorite, belted around the waist to keep them from flopping around or snagging on things or giving someone else a place to grab her. And she only ever wore shorts and leggings. Never a skirt, they were either too constricting or too loose, and shorts only when the weather was at it’s hottest.
On her feet were, invariably, large combat boots, military issue.
There was never any jewelry; her ears weren’t pierced, and her hair stayed no longer than shoulder length at worst.
Katie Lynn made pamphlets too. She was working on a book, but sadly knew she had little hope of publishing. She didn’t even have a title yet, only a few thoughts for chapters. One on self defense, that was important. One on how to ride a horse. One of using a borrowed car. One for cooking in the wild. One for navigating by the stars.
Well, maybe more than just a few thoughts.
Titles were hard though. She like ‘Street Corner Wisdom,’ but it seemed not right. ‘Facts to Live By’ or ‘How to Survive’ were both nice, but rearranging words and endless possibilities was both frightening and annoying. Nothing politely tapped her on the shoulder or proudly stuck it’s check out to say that it was ‘the one.’ So the book she hadn’t written stayed nameless.
The pamphlets were more fun. She had a whole series on knots and uses for them; edible vs poisonous plants was another big run she had planned. They were short and easy to come up with, and almost as fun as the posters to create.
Katie Lynn even had a few fans, but she ran from them as best she could. Once she had gotten an email from a man saying he collected all of her work and always looked out for her on Saturday mornings.
After that she made a point of staying clear of people she saw too much, and she changed her email too. That one, the one that was printed with the pamphlets, was strictly for questions now, and she never replied to her ‘fan’. Luckily he didn’t say anything more, but the fact that she couldn’t figure out which of her customers he was always left Katie Lynn uneasy.
Saturday evenings were the worst. She would arrive at her chosen corner early in the day, bringing a light lunch to eat so she wouldn’t have to leave. All day she would stay there, smiling nervously and sometimes even talking to people with her back firmly against the wall. Those evenings she passed out the most pamphlets, had the most questions, and came away feeling like she had really made a difference.
Going home was a different matter entirely.
She left right when the sky turned pink, and Katie Lynn always used her bicycle to get home. She lived in a central part of the town and felt it was safer to have a getaway vehicle ready, even if it was only two wheels. It was never a problem to get there if she was ready to put in a little effort.
Today she has no bike.
A week ago she had been making her way home during dusk when, just a few blocks from the building, a bat flew into her hair. It somehow got caught in her short hair and she crashed; the bike managed to warp the front wheel dramatically in that small collision and was now completely unridable.
She seethed with embarrassment at the memory. How could she have panicked like that? Katie Lynn, survival expert, scared into a crash by a flying rat.
She hadn’t picked a place far from her apartment to stand today, and the walk was a short one. Still she was only two minutes into the walk when someone came up on her left, and while she didn’t tense, Katie Lynn immediately memorized what he looked like, just in case she had to inform police later. He was slouching. Hiding something? A weapon?
To disarm a knife, it is best to stay calm and step around them, grabbing their wrist so they can’t move it. Then it should be easy to knock them over, or knee them in the groin or stomach to keep them from being able to do you any harm.
Guns were harder. Guns you should avoid. You should run or try to get it from them before they could really get it out and even start trying to aim it towards you.
The man walked on and turned right into a little bar, filled with people. Katie Lynn let out a breath.
Up ahead was a corner.
Katie Lynn slowed and glanced behind her for just a second as she halted, no one was there — good. She listened intently; she couldn’t hear anything…. Her mind whispered to her of people laying in wait, being just as silent as she in their efforts to throw her off guard. Of creatures with flashing eyes leaping at her in disturbed anger. A trap. A sudden catastrophe.
Wasn’t she braver than this?
Before another thought could surface, Katie Lynn was around the edge; nothing was there, and now she was only a minute from home.
Someone could still be behind her. Come out of a store or alleyway between the time that she looked back and hesitated at the turn.
She kept walking, a little faster. If someone did come at her from behind she could stop abruptly, to throw them off and bring them in closer before they realized it, and then elbow them in the stomach before sweeping them to the floor with a hook to the knee.
At the apartment she pushed through the door with a minimum of fumbling. The glass felt like steel behind her, enough shut out the follower.
The elevator was empty, and she rode up eleven floors breathing deeply, staring at the emergency stop, wondering just how much truth was in that old ‘Jump at the last moment when an elevator falls’ tale. It couldn’t hurt she decided as the lights dinged at her floor.
The hallway looked foreboding as always. She clutched her bag of unused pamphlets up in the crook of her arm and walked quickly. No windows was nice, but so many doors made her even more nervous.
It would be so easy, if one were inclined, to just reach out and grab someone along this hall. The doors were wide and well greased; if you didn’t make any weird noises, you would be able to grab them before they noticed you. Simple. And such a nice apartment had sound proofed walls, no one would make out the muffled screams of a kidnapped victim, and surely someone staying here would be able to afford the drugs to keep their victim too debilitated to even make a decent attempt to escape or cry for help around being bound and gagged.
One-one-one-four. Here she was. Home, after a fashion. It was full of second hand books on every subject that could be considered useful. From gardening to architecture to physics, even a small book on sewing patterns. Assorted oddments lay on top of stacks of those books; her only furniture.
The door was triple-locked, just in case.
In one of the two adjoining rooms she had a bed. It jutted diagonally from the corner, she had wanted it opposite the window — also locked three different ways at all times — but couldn’t sleep that close to the door or her reaction time, and thus chances of getting out of any attempts at ill will towards her at night, would go way down.
Katie Lynn dropped onto the bed face down for a moment, then carefully rolling over. She took off her boots, keeping them within arm’s reach, and switched her clothes for a different tee and shorts. Her feet were sore and chafed despite a double pair of socks. It would be best to fix the bike as soon as she could; her nerves lasted so much longer with her getaway ready.
The fabric was perfect. No wrinkles and the fold was crisp. I laid it out across the counter smoothing the wrinkles that weren’t there. The pattern pieces fit perfectly–covering the fabric almost completely. Small scraps would be left over, but at least I guessed right this time. Just scraps, not much waste. Everything working out just right.
Bob came in and settled into the sofa. Another NASCAR weekend as expected.
“How’s it going?” he casually asked.
“Good,” I told him. He wasn’t really interested and I knew it. It was just conversation.
Carefully, I cut around the pieces. My scissors had just come back from being sharpened, and they were serving me well. Whenever I cut out a pattern, it always got a little tricky around the small bits. Not this time. They were sharp, and the fabric wasn’t fighting it. A good sign for a project start. Hopefully the rest would go as well.
“So what did you think about having my parents here for Thanksgiving?” Bob asked me. My heart skipped a beat. I had hoped that with the kitchen renovations going on we had dodged this bullet. Carefully, I ran the thread through the path for threading the sewing machine and put everything at the ready. I lifted the presser foot putting the fabric in place. Everything was ready. My foot was on the pedal that made the machine do its thing. I just needed to do mine.
“Well……..I’m not really sure,” I replied slowly. “Do you honestly think we should?”
“Why not? We haven’t had them here in a while, and the kids would love it. I’m sure my mom would love to see the new landscaping. And you know, you’re so good at the whole dinner thing. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
Well, that all may have been true, but it seemed like he was forgetting that every time his parents were around there was so much stress I could use my sewing shears to cut it. For whatever reason, he always seemed to forget it once they were gone.
I liked Bob’s parents; who wouldn’t? They were perfect. That was the point–they were too perfect. Bob’s dad had been a bank president in a small mid-western town when Bob was growing up. Image was everything, and everything had to be perfect. Bob Sr. and Madeline were the perfect couple with the perfect kids. They belonged to the country club and had cocktail parties, and their pictures frequently graced the society pages of their town’s local newspaper.
The problem with perfect, though, was that it’s an impossible standard to live up to. Throughout my marriage to Bob, I had always felt that through every holiday and every family event, I was constantly being measured by a standard I could never live up to. There was always pressure to do things in Bob’s family’s tradition, and I never felt that I could measure up. And Bob made it very clear where I didn’t.
The other problem with perfect is that problems do not exist. Bob’s mother, Madeline, had told me once that there was a time where she would try and talk to Bob Sr. about issues or concerns she had about their marriage and it was always met with a promise that they would talk “later.” Later, however, never came. Nothing got talked about; nothing resolved. Instead, it was always swept under the rug.
Bob, it would seem, had learned the same method for problem handling. Whenever I wanted to talk to him about something that was bothering me about our marriage, he always seemed to disappear. Or he would tell me that we would talk about it later, which we never did. Or, if I did manage to speak up, I would get so much hostility in return I would regret ever having opened my mouth. Bob was always able to criticize and humiliate me to the point where I felt I could do nothing right.
A Thanksgiving with Bob’s family was sure to mean a high amount of stress as I tried to make sure that everything was perfect. There would always be the behind-the-scenes stress and fighting between Bob and me, but it all had to be hidden from his parents. In front of them Bob pretended that everything was great. When they were out of earshot, though, it was a different story. The whole aspect of pretending perfect was absolutely crazy-making to me.
I was surprised at how well the stitches were going. Nice and even. Not one mistake — yet. Hopefully I wasn’t going to have to spend time with the ripper — that little tool that helped me cut through the mess I had been known to make once the stitches got tangled. Optimistically I hadn’t even found it before I started this time — one of those things I pretty much always did.
But what about this Thanksgiving thing? What kind of mess was I going to have to deal with there? Bob had been asking me for about a week about it, and I had tried to avoid the conversation every time. Now that he was in the room with me and I was sewing, I was a bit trapped. It wasn’t as if I could just randomly decide to go do something else — not after I had made such a big production about wanting to sew. But I really didn’t want to have this conversation either. He never understood my point of view on the whole having-his-parents-to-visit thing. He never saw the stress that the kids and I always felt. He never saw the mess of it all.
I didn’t want to fight with him–I never did. And no matter what, there would be a fight about Thanksgiving. Whether it was between he and I or when his parents got here. It was going to happen. I just couldn’t ever figure out how to keep it from happening.
“My mom already said they would bring the turkey and a dessert, so I’ll go ahead and have her call you to plan out the rest.” Bob’s words landed on me like a bomb. If I had a choice it was gone now. Did I ever even have one in the first place? Why didn’t I ever say anything? Why couldn’t I tell him what I felt?
In actuality, I knew the answer to that question. My own upbringing was quite different than Bob’s. My parents weren’t perfect–far from it. Alcoholism ran rampant in my house as my mother and step-father had a social circle that spent quite a bit of time together getting drunk. My mother was the type to get a bit ugly when she drank, and frequently I would be the target of a barrage of criticisms of how having me ruined her life. I quickly developed a fear of abandonment by my mother and learned that being invisible was my best protection. If I didn’t make waves, didn’t speak up, didn’t draw attention to myself, I’d be safe. Or so I grew to think.
My tumultuous relationship with Bob triggered those same childhood fears that were so ingrained in my subconscious. If I spoke up or disagreed with Bob, it always ended badly. Hostility was his tool to get his way, and it almost always worked. I always gave in to keep the peace–the cost being my sense of self-worth dwindling over time.
I reached the end of sewing my first piece. No tangles, so I haven’t made a mess–not yet, but now almost everything I’ve done has to be done again. The bottom stitch–key to keeping the whole thing together — was missing from almost all of what I just sewn. There was no connection to the top. No way to keep it all together.
I take it all apart and get ready to wind another bobbin. Hopefully, this time, I really will have everything in place. No matter what I do on the front end of a project, there is always something I forget.
First Stage by: Hillarree Hamblin, Acrylic on canvas, 2010.
The Tea Is Done by: Sabaz
The kettle’s bloodcurdling scream every morning,
Breaks the silence of the house and my mind,
Two cups on the granite, anxious to be filled,
Clueless to what brings forth the clamor of the day.
Damn it! The teabag spills its guts in the hot water,
Portents of discontent, nothing left to weep for.
False promises to myself, of leaving any day,
But finding the morning’s lull interrupted,
By the maddening hiss of the kettle again.
Let me tell you about beautiful things.
This morning, when that eighteen wheeler
was changing lanes, it almost ran over your minuscule car.
That icy patch on the sidewalk, you slipped on
and fell, blushing, embarrassed, yet unhurt and amused.
You bent in for a kiss goodnight except
there was a collision of noses, ending the evening like a knife.
A reassuring smile ends up looking more
suited to a homicide than for support.
You didn’t notice the truck.
You survived the fall.
You met “the one” the next morning.
That little bit of encouragement helped.
Live your life,
the beauty will fall from the sky.
Untitled by; Hillarree Hamblin, Oil and acrylic on canvas, 2010.
Excuse Me, Miss by: Jewel King
“I think he followed my husband and me out of the movie. He must have seen my ring before he even approached me. I don’t even remember what he said; he just pulled out a knife and kept getting closer. I offered him my purse because I thought he would just leave me alone but he threatened to kill me if I didn’t give him my jewelry. I just really want my wedding ring back; his mom didn’t want him to give it to me in the first place. I just know she’ll find a way to blame this on me.” Officer Randall jotted down everything she said, even though it wasn’t much.
“Well what did he look like? Any identifying marks or tattoos? Hair color? Length?” he prodded.
“Umm, I think he had freckles, long hair, I mean long for a guy. It hit his ears. Dirty blondish. And he did have tattoos, a few. He had one of the sailor star things on his neck, the side. Also, a big tat around his arm, it was kind of like tribal designs, I guess.”
“His arm? Where on his arm, I thought he had on a jacket?” officer Randall interrupted.
“Oh, he did. I could see it, when he opened his jacket to show me the knife.” She said very unsurely. “Look, I’m very tired; I’ve had a long, hard day. This was supposed to be the perfect night, our anniversary. We got a babysitter and everything. We were supposed to be cuddling at home with a bottle of wine and strawberries by now, but instead I’m sitting on the curb getting questioned about being robbed. And those red and blue lights are even more annoying than the siren you used when you pulled up, by the way. Can I just go home and we’ll call if I remember anything else?”
“Yes, ma’am, that should be just fine. And once again, I’m sorry this happened, but we’ll do everything we can to find this guy.”
Later that night she thought about how much she had screwed things up this time. It was her anniversary, their anniversary. Well, it’s partially his fault, for leaving her to go get more butter on the popcorn. He always had to have more; he was never satisfied with what he got. If he would never have left and got in that long line, she would have never had time to wink at someone else. She wouldn’t even have had the mind to look around. But that’s what people do when they’re left alone in crowded theaters; they look around to see who else is there. He looked like an ok guy, he had a sweet smile. Not the kind of smile that could be used in conjunction with a knife to rob someone. She wondered if she should call the police back and tell him the real story. About how the guy waited around for her husband to go get the car so he could get her number. And about how she gave it to him but flashed her ring and said to only call in the early afternoons because they were married and not just dating. The thing she wondered most about that night, though, was whether he would call.
