April's Featured Writer, SCAD-Atlanta graduate writing student, Caroline Huftalen.

Caroline Huftalen is finishing up her MFA in writing at SCAD-Atlanta. She writes essays, short stories and is currently working on her first novel. While keeping her background in journalism fresh, but allowing for her own writing aesthetic to shine through, she runs a blog, buskingseams.com.  

For more information on this story and the writer, visit the Q & A page!

Full House

By Caroline Huftalen

I was counting fence posts. That’s what I was doing the day that boy, well I guess you could call him a man, came up on your granddaddy’s property. He had a secret, and I had a quiet mouth and a pension for choosing to do the wrong thing. My guess is that he knew all this. I pictured him walking along all the ranches and just looking for a girl like me: all pigtailed and frizzy, in a pair of overalls that were rolled up over my rubber boots. I was twelve. I didn’t care a damn what I looked like, I only wanted to play around in my head and wander that mysterious piece of land.

I’ll tell you what happened to Conrad Ransom, but for it to matter you have to know how he came to be a staying fixture on the ranch. Like I said, I was minding my own business, just being a little girl, when there he was, just standing and watching me as I moved from post to post. My hand stopped on the seventy-ninth one and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had on no hat, which I thought was strange since all cowboys and ranch hands wore hats. If not for the sake of showing your rank than it was for keeping that hot Texas sun off your face. But he was bare headed except for that shaggy mop of hair that kind of reminded me of my daddy’s. He was dressed all right for a man without a horse. He had on a sand colored shirt and navy britches that required suspenders. I was taking him all in when he waved and began walking towards me. I looked around at first not knowing if there was someone behind me accepting his act of meeting, but it was only me.

“Well, ain’t you just the plum prettiest thing I’ve seen all day,” he said

Of course I blushed. I was twelve, wasn’t I? And my head was filled with ideas of some stranger with a right cause coming to town and sweeping me off my feet at the same time that he killed a bank robber.

“My names Conrad Ransom, and what would yours be?” he asked.

I told him. “Peanut Whitepage,” I said loud and proud like it was an answer to a hard question at school.

“Good God, child, who names their kid peanut?”

I was not amused, as you can imagine. I went into my usual tale about the origins of my nut related name. I told him all about when my daddy, your granddaddy, was on his way to see me for the first time after being born, that his horse bucked him off and his head went a little screwy. He still made it to the hospital though. With a little trickle of blood coming down his cheek and his eyes full of lightning bugs, he proclaimed me Peanut when my momma lay me in his arms the very first time. She was too tired to fight it and it stuck, sadly so did a bit of daddy’s injury.

I went on and on about how weak daddy sometimes got and how momma had to do so much and the ranch hands were a pitiful bunch of sacks. Before I knew it, Conrad had climbed through the barbed wire of the fencing without even catching his threadbare shirt on one of those prongs and was walking along the property with me like we were old buddies. He said all the yea’s and uh huh’s and nodded at me and smiled that toothy smile so wide that I saw he was missing a few there in the back. When we got to the point where the house was in sight, Conrad stopped walking and I stopped talking to see what the hold up was. He asked me if I wanted to play a really important role in a really important plan. I said yes, of course. He hadn’t said a single detail but it was already sounding more exciting than a normal day.

Conrad crouched down real low and told me that he was spying on a bunch of bad men who were coming straight for us. I gasped and felt my eyes get all wide and googly. He said that he was almost ready to nab them, but for the plan to work he needed a good hide out, a secret one. Not even my daddy could know, he said. I perked right up and knew the exact place. It had good views all over the property, he would be able to see trouble coming for miles and catch those hell-devils before we even knew there was any sense of danger. Well, I would know because I was in on it and part of the plan. But that was the best part. I could work on my lying. I was already getting good at it, silly Mr. Smithersby, that old cook of a teacher, believed that I had caught a rattlesnake with two heads and three rattles. His face went ghostly when I said it, so I knew he thought it was true. That’s the thing about being quiet and biding your time and choosing your words. People are more apt to believe you when shit comes out sporadically. I told Conrad that I’d put him in the old water tower. It was all dried up and the only thing that came and went from there was those lizards that changed color all the time to hide from prey.

We turned away from the house and walked over to where the water tower stood. The ladder looked old, but it was sturdy. I, scout’s honor, promised him that he could count on me and he tickled my nose as a gesture of trust. I hollered up to him that I would bring him blankets and dinner later. He waved and I headed home to help momma with the evenings cooking.

Conrad was real boring like that for a few days. I brought him food and water and he thanked me and all. He was a very polite fella and asked about my momma’s comings and goings quite a bit. But he didn’t share any more clues with me and I was in the dark when it came to if he had seen the bad guys yet. Conrad may be boring, but I sure as hell didn’t want to be bored, so I began showing him just how thin a girl’s patience can get when tested with a short rope. While momma was cleaning up the kitchen and daddy was in the stables with the ranch hands putting new shoes on the horses, I went and had myself a conversation with Mr. Conrad Ransom.

I didn’t want to climb up and scare the man so I threw rocks up at the old wooden water tower and waited for him to peek his head out. He looked tired and if I didn’t know any better, a little drunk. Well, I wasn’t standing for that, he had our family’s livelihood in his hands and he was nipping on the bottle and taking catnaps. I began hollering and crying. He hated to see all that commotion so he came down, clasped his hand over my mouth and walked me far out to the edge of the property. The fence where he came from was just a few feet away. He sat me down on the ground a little hard and let go of my mouth.

“How you expect to be top secret keeper when you are bringing all kinds of attention to my hideout? You want me to let your family die?” he asked. “I can get up and walk out right now on ya’ll.”

I told him that I needed more information about these people who were after my family and that I wasn’t so sure of his work. At that, the hole that Conrad was digging got a little deeper. And my involvement got much too strong.

He said that they were after some money of my daddy’s that he had hidden away somewhere. It was great, he said, that he could see everything from the water tower but there was no way for him to protect my daddy’s money or my daddy if he didn’t know where the safe was and if he didn’t have a gun.

“What kind of officer doesn’t carry his own gun?” I asked him. I carried a gun and I was a girl who until now had no prior rendezvous with trouble. This man should have had a gun ready and loaded.

“I lost it back before I reached the ranch. Some wild Mexicans got ahold of me while I was sleeping and took everything but the clothes on my back,” he said.

I gave him a grimace and crinkled my nose, showing him it wasn’t okay to play fool with Peanut Whitepage. Plus, who the hell would have wanted his raggedy clothes anyways. He held his own and I handed over the small pistol that was stuck in my apron pocket. I only carried it around for fun. I shot at cow poop and butterflies and knew that if we were truly in the fix that Conrad said we were in, he needed it more than me.

“Now how bout we start mapping out where that money is,” he said and took out two pieces of taffy from his pocket and let me choose which flavor I preferred. Lemon, of course. We sat down in the grass and I took a stick and dug a picture of our house in the dry dirt where the sun and lack of rain had eaten away the green. I showed him where momma’s bedroom was, where mine was, the kitchen, the den, and the most important, daddy’s room and office downstairs. Everything that was important was kept in that room: the logbooks for the cattle, the plans for winter, expense sheets and daddy’s safe. He let me have a look inside one time before he locked it up one night and I saw all kinds of gold bars and bags of bills. There were stacks of coins and even a few pieces of jewelry my momma’s momma gave her on her deathbed. I told Conrad all this and how daddy gave me one of them coins and I still had it because it was too shiny to spend.

He listened very well for a man. He asked all the right questions about safety and security and when daddy was in his office and when he wasn’t. He asked if I knew the combination to the safe. I didn’t at that time. That was something that daddy left me in his will and I never knew it till he was already in the ground, and then it was useless. I told him that the safe was heavy and big and locked tight, so not to worry about those robbers taking our money. All Conrad needed to worry about was keeping us from harm and then taking those men off to jail.

I walked back to the water tower with him and he asked me up as if I needed asking on my own property. But I went up without saying anything about it. He had made himself quite the little home there. A pile of blankets pushed up against one wall and there was empty dishes and cups that I hadn’t taken back yet set around in the middle near a deck of cards.

“Wanna play?” He asked and stuck his thumb out towards the cards.

“I only know how to play kid games,” I told him, because that was the honest truth at the time. I hadn’t gone on to become the poker player that I am today. And I guess I have Conrad to thank for that. He sat Indian style on the floor and I sat across from him and he shuffled those cards fast and furious before dealing them out along with an explanation of how the game works.

We sat there till I heard momma’s supper bell ring. I folded my last hand that held two pair. I knew my bluffing skills were up to par with what Conrad was up to so he would have had me upping the invisible ante till momma and daddy came searching for me in the moonlight. But after all that happened that day, I didn’t want to test my luck with him. I grabbed the dirty dishes and carried them down wrapped in my apron. I snuck in the back way, leaving the dishes for momma’s help to wash right away.

In my memory I like to think that I heard a noise that night, something like talking, two male voices. But I didn’t, just wish I had. I was sleeping so sound that even a bite from a bear wouldn’t have woken me up. The next morning my daddy was screaming and throwing things and yelling at momma. I walked downstairs still in my nightclothes because I knew there was more to this fight than just momma making the pancakes wrong again. I grabbed daddy’s arm and squeezed his hand to help calm him down. He was in his office and the entire thing was ramshackle. It looked like our entire herd of cattle trampled through it. I knew instantly what had happened. Well, I thought I knew anyways. I ran out the door and headed straight for the water tower because I knew I’d find that son of a bitch up there sleeping off whatever prize he gave himself for handing me my behind in poker. I was huffing and puffing up that ladder and my mouth was all poised for delivering a lashing when I looked over the edge and into the empty tower and saw nothing. No blankets. No cards. No Conrad.

Fumbling my way back down the ladder I ran back across the lawn and found momma and daddy again. He was bent low beneath a horse, readying the saddle, and momma was holding her head with one hand and tugging on daddy with the other. They didn’t say a word as I ran upstairs, changed into my clothes and ran back down and out the door. I saddled up my pony and headed out the back way towards where I thought Conrad would be heading. I took off at a gallop and jumped the fence leaving daddy’s property behind. This was the first time that I was off the land without someone accompanying me. I knew it was dangerous with the all things we heard about Indians stealing babies and scalping ranchers before taking over their homes and what not, but I thought Conrad was in for some trouble, trouble that I was going to give him.

Once I noticed a light lather on my pony, I slowed down and eyed the land. For the most part it was flat out there. There were a few hills and what not and trees blocking the view but I could see for a while. It wasn’t until the sun was high in the sky at noontime that I saw something way off in the distance though. I thought it was a shrub or a wayward coyote looking for a daytime meal. I kept towards it and kept my eye on it. It was a man all right unless I was being taken by a mirage.

When I rode closer I saw who it God damn was. And you should have seen the look on that rascals face. Like he was shocked who had come for him.

“Mr. Ransom I have been looking all over for you,” I yelled out to him. “I’m glad to see you have our livelihood but the ranch is back the other way.”

He turned and thought for a moment before snickering about.

“I’m not going back to the ranch, you twit,” he said. I knew he had a mean streak about him but never knew he would go to such depths as to call me such things after I thought we were friends.

He told me how he had stolen the money, how there had never been a gang of men after us, that it was him all along. I couldn’t believe it. But what I didn’t understand most was when he asked where my daddy was. He took hold of my pony’s reins and pulled me off of her back and let me tumble to the ground. My pony couldn’t carry both him and that large lot he stole from us so he tied up the bag of goods and got it settled on my saddle before taking a switch from a bush and whacking her rump with it to make her go.

I sat stunned for just a minute and watched him go with daddy’s money, my pistol and now my pony. My brains took a little bit longer than my body did, but as soon as they caught up, I was already half up towards Conrad, my arm outstretched for the small ivory handle sticking out of his back pocket. I grabbed it. He swung around and faced the barrel. I had no idea whether there were bullets left in it or not. I had not heard him fire it and knew that when I gave it to him there had been three bullets in the chambers. He knew better than I did what would happen if I pulled that trigger. But I was doing my best bluff.

“What you gonna do, Peanut?” he asked me and dared me to put a little pressure on that trigger.

I told him to hand over the reins and to walk away in the other direction. That I would give him a solid arc of the sun to get good and gone before I told anyone which way he headed and what he had done. But he refused.

I thought about shooting him. The look on daddy’s face that morning was in my head and it was testing me to do awful things. I had never shot a man at that point in my life and nor had I shot an animal. I had no idea what would happen once that bullet left the chamber, how bloody it would be, or if I would have to close my eyes.

He saw my thought process like any good poker player does, he was watching my calculations and waiting for my moment of weakness to show the chink in my armor.

He found it. Lunged forward took hold of the barrel and swung me to the dirt before I could even scream. All I heard was the shot ring off and I had no idea who shot what or who. It was all dusty around me when I finally realized I still had my hand on the handle and my finger was pressing down the trigger.

Conrad Ransom was lying not to far from me. I couldn’t believe that I killed him. He was lying so still but I saw the blood stain on the dirt around him and knew I must have led him to his destiny. I crawled over and ran my hands over his eyes to make sure they were good and closed to meet Jesus.

“I am not dead, yet, you dumb girl,” he said and opened his eyes back up.

I stumbled back onto my hands and knees and got that pistol ready for round two. I had shot him in the leg. Nothing fatal but he wouldn’t be able to overpower me anymore from his predicament.

I took the bag of money and some of our belongings off of my pony’s back and used the rope to tie Conrad’s hands together before he regained enough strength to get up. I helped him heave himself onto the saddle and I tied him to that as well. The bag would be my burden and my prize to bring back to my daddy. I couldn’t wait to see his proud face as I walked up with quite the catch.

Now I know you think that this is where everything is all settled and done but we have yet to get to the tie between your granddaddy and Conrad and how things got to be the way they are now. I brought Conrad Ransom back to the ranch on that pony, it took the remainder of the afternoon since it was slow going with me tugging the bag along and the poor pony’s awkward load. When we got to the house, I walked that pony and carried that bag right up to the front door. I told the ranch hand who came out of the stables to watch Conrad while I went inside and got daddy. I ran in all proud of myself and ready to take claim of all the praise. Daddy was in the office throwing some papers in a bag. I startled him as I walked in and he quickly closed his bag shut.

“I got him daddy, I got the man and all of our money,” I panted into the office and waited for my hug. But it never came.

Daddy turned a whole new color, grabbed onto the collar of my dress and shook me while he mumbled things I couldn’t understand, but now I can only imagine he was saying things like, how could you, ruined my plan, and other things of that nature.

I couldn’t grasp why I was in trouble for doing the right thing and bringing back all the gold and money. I didn’t understand any of it until I followed daddy outside to where Conrad was tied to the pony. He saw the blood coming down off Conrad’s leg and yelled, “You shot my brother?”

Now that is the first I had ever heard that my daddy had a brother. I thought he was an only child like myself. I was stunned and shocked as he untied Conrad and hefted him onto the step to the porch. Daddy ran inside and got his small medical bag that he kept in case of emergencies out here on the ranch. Wounds were not rare. He cleaned up Conrad’s leg while I watched and pondered what was going on. He didn’t say a word until he had a bandage around the freshly stitched wound.

He told the ranch hand to fetch three horses. The man listened like a silly lackey, couldn’t he see that by following orders, my daddy and his brother were going to make off with every penny our family had, which meant no pay check or even a good meal to make good on his labor. Nope, off he went and gathered up our three strongest horses. Daddy tied up the bag he was packing in the office and the money onto one horse then helped Conrad up onto his. He looked me dead in the eye as he told me to spend that single coin wisely and he too got on his horse. “Oh and by the way,” he added, “untie your momma in the kitchen.”

They rode off and out of our ranch. I kept waiting for him to turn around and tell me what a gullible girl I was to believe such a rouse. But it never happened. And when I went inside to my crying momma, I had to tell her the sad news of being penniless and for lack of a better term that she was voluntarily widowed.

You all know the hard work my momma and me put into this ranch to make it not turn to dust just like your granddaddy’s memory. You can never forget it either. We knew our land was dry but our cattle were strong. We couldn’t grow a damn thing but could sell off the beef and with the combination of bartering and trade we got ourselves some milk cows. That shiny coin stayed in my pocket though. I took to playing poker at night with the ranch hands that stayed on with just the good of their hearts. I picked up better lying skills and found that I could bluff a man out of a full house. And call a bluff better than ever.

I still have that coin here, look, you see? Still shines like the day your granddaddy gave it to me. I’ve bet this coin a thousand or more times and it has given me nothing but fortitude. Your granddaddy may have taken all our gold, but sometimes all you need is a sliver of silver and the freedom of an empty house.

February's Featured Writer, SCAD-Atlanta fashion marketing and management major and writing minor, Bridget Walsh.

Bridget Walsh is an undergraduate fashion marketing and management major and writing minor at SCAD-Atlanta. She spends most of her time drinking root beer and online shopping. She hopes to be a buyer for a specialty store while continuing to write her short stories.

For more information on this story and the writer, visit the Q & A page!

The Naturalist

By Bridget Walsh

The postcards stopped coming in August. The last one sent was laying face up on the kitchen table looking out of place.

“Always thinking of you. Love, Mom and Dad,” it said.

I traced her heavy handwriting with my finger and tried to remember the last real conversation we had. It was on my wedding day that she held me in her arms and told me that I had made a mistake.

“You’re just not you anymore,” she said through muffled sobs. The photographer snapped several pictures of what seemed like a loving embrace between an emotional mother and daughter on her wedding day. My friends and family smiled and pretended to hold back tears having no idea or interest in what my mother was admitting. The photographer had framed the photo for me when I received the proofs but I never put it up.

“You used to have a spark,” she continued, “I could see it in your eyes before but they’re dull now. They have been since you met him. I was hoping that I was wrong but I see now that I was just too afraid to tell you the truth.” My mother had always been afraid to tell us what she was thinking. For nine years, she refused to tell my father that she didn’t like drinking coffee despite the fact that they drank it together every morning. It wasn’t until their 30^th wedding anniversary, when he bought her a shiny silver espresso maker, that she broke down crying and told the truth.

It took her three months to stop calling. She’d been sending a postcard every month from Cypress Cove Resort until a few months ago. I flipped over the card to see a photo of my mother and father laughing hysterically as they both posed holding bunny ears behind the each other’s heads. The bright caption below their figures read, “Who needs clothes to have fun?” Neither my mother nor father wore a single piece of clothing in the photos they sent me of themselves at their nudist resort. In one of her letters, my mother told me that her and my father now rent a mobile home on the resort’s campground and spend every weekend engaging in recreational activities with other nudists. Naturalist is what she says they like to be called. My mother had always been a spiritual person but never a religious one like Danny. She believed that shedding her clothes brought her closer to nature and her inner spirit. We were born naked, she said, like Adam and Eve and should never be ashamed with the bodies we were blessed with.

I can usually hear Danny’s truck tires grinding the gravel as he pulls into the driveway, but it wasn’t until I heard him kick off his heavy brown boots that I realized he was home. Ever since my brother, Wes, called last week, asking to visit me, I’ve been anxious that Danny might meet him in the driveway or see his car on they way home from church. Wes was coming tonight and I hadn’t told Danny, knowing that he would be angry. I nervously straightened the ripples forming in the yellow and red plaid tablecloth with my palms. He sauntered into the kitchen and sleepily fell into the chair that I had just left. Before I remembered to grab my mother’s postcard, he snatched it from my hands and laughed.

“It’s just not right to send pictures like these,” he said as he crumpled the card in his fist and tossed it with a flick of his wrist into the trashcan. It hit the wall and bounced back out. I smoothed out the wrinkles and slid it into my pocket. Danny stared at me but didn’t say anything. He’s been too tired to fight since he was put in charge of training the new preacher at our church. The new preacher is handsome like Danny but is much younger which makes him angry, because at his age, Danny was waiting tables at the local barbeque restaurant.

I met Danny when I was in high school. For three years I never even knew his name. It wasn’t until one day that he approached me in the hall after a rumor spread that I was pregnant. Unlike Danny, school meant nothing to me. It was merely the thing that got in the way of my time with friends and boys. After the rumors began spreading, though, Danny was the only person who would talk to me. He told me that he had always been in love with me but it wasn’t until I was alone that he felt safe enough to talk to me. I’ve been alone ever since. Except for Danny, of course.

I finally broke away from Danny’s gaze never being able to look into his eyes for too long. He sighed loudly and lifted himself from his chair and walked to the living room to turn on the television. I sat in the overstuffed armchair closest to the television and picked at the nail polish as we watched a sweet chubby girl with curly hair sing my favorite Shania Twain song.

“I’ll tell you right now that Simon is going to rip her to shreds,” Danny laughed. I felt bad for the girl and my palms began to sweat in embarrassment for her. She was timid and nervous but she had a sweet voice that I would do just about anything to have. Danny was right, though, Simon was unsympathetic.

I’d been waiting for the singsong ring all night, but the sound of the doorbell made me jump from my seat and onto my feet taking Danny aback.

“Don’t answer it,” he said annoyed, “it’s too late for visitors. They’ll go away.”

I nodded my head but remained standing. The doorbell sounded again but I had already reached the door before Danny could tell me to sit. The sweat from my palms made it difficult to turn the doorknob so I wrapped the sleeve of my sweater around the knob and twisted it open. He was only a few inches taller than me and had ashy blonde hair that stuck out in all directions thanks to a generous amount of product. He carried a large brown leather duffle bag on his left shoulder causing him to lean his weight to the right. Despite the years, it was his crooked smile that told me it was Wes, my brother.

“Come in, come in!” I nearly shouted as I reached for his heavy bag.
“I’ve got it, Lana,” he laughed, “this bag weighs twice as much as you do.”

He dropped the bag next to the front door with a loud clunk that Danny surely heard but chose to ignore. Wes swallowed me up in a bear hug like my father used to do. The only way to be relieved from a bear hug was to say, “I love you” three times in a weird accent. I had always looked up to Wes; even his funny accents were better than mine.

“I luff you, I luff you, I luff you,” I strained under the pressure of his strong arms. He laughed and released me so I could breath again. I thought it was the commotion that had caused Danny to rise from the den, but I realized that it must have been my laughter that caught his attention. Danny looked at Wes from top to bottom and back again with a cruel smirk.

“Ah, Dan the Man,” Wes smiled, “looks like my sister is still keeping you around.”

“Wesley,” Danny managed to say through a smile so fake it could have been porcelain, “this is a surprise.”

Wes’s eye shot to me only slightly before answering Danny confidentially, “Sorry, I know I should have called but I really wanted to stop by on my way to mom’s.”

“Are you hungry?” I asked Wes before Danny had a chance to ask me if this were true.

“Nah, I ate a sandwich on the train earlier,” Wes said while continuing to stare at Danny who had lost interest and wandered back into the den to see what the judges had to say about their next victim.

“You didn’t get to have dessert on the train, I bet,” I gleamed as I pulled a popsicle from the freezer. It was the kind with the two sticks that you rip apart and share with someone else. Danny never liked them so this was the first time that I didn’t have to wrap the other half in plastic wrap for later.

Wes and I finished our popsicles as he told me all about his new job as an assistant buyer for a small office supply company in Connecticut. The work is dull, he said, but it was where he met his girlfriend, Chelsea. She’s about seven years older than Wes and has a five-year-old son named Connor who Wes has particularly taken a liking to. He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of the three of them together at Connor’s little league baseball game. Connor was hugging Wes’s leg and Chelsea’s smile took up her whole face. She was still beautiful, though, more beautiful than anyone I had seen in real life.

I had had plenty to say until he asked, “How are you doing?” I saw as his eyes quickly traveled to the living room and back to me.

“Things are good,” I said quickly, “we’re trying to have a baby, actually.”

Wes’s eyes widened in shock as if that isn’t what married people do.

“And how is that going?” Wes asked quizzically.

“No progress, yet. Danny says he isn’t ready yet.” I spoke in a gravely tone. He reached for my hand and looked me in my eyes before I had a chance to look away.

“It’ll happen, I promise” he spoke softly.

Danny ambled into the room and noticed our hands. I placed my hands in my lap again and continued to peel off the excess nail polish that was too stubborn to leave my nails. Danny grabbed a PBR from the fridge, the only beer we could afford, and opened the can with his back to us. I could hear the liquid swashing in his mouth before the inevitable deep gulp.

I pulled the crumpled postcard that had been living in my back pocket from its hiding and placed it on the table. Wes smiled and held the postcard in his hands. His fingers ran over the image and he placed his palm on their naked bodies so that only their faces were staring back at us. Slowly, he moved his hands so that my father’s image was completely covered. His fingers were shaking and his smiling face was replaced with a furrowed brow and wet, glassy eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered quietly. He ignored me and continued to stare at the picture only he was crying now. I ripped the card from his hands. Danny had turned around and was now resting against the counter staring smugly at Wes.

I had only seen Wes cry once. It was when he had come home from a hunting trip with my uncle. He had shot his first deer but it didn’t die right away. My uncle had to snap its neck so that it wouldn’t suffer but Wes was covered in its blood. I began feeling like that deer just waiting for my neck to be snapped.

“Please,” I begged. My eyes began to tickle the way they do before I start crying.

“Something with his heart…” he managed to say after a loud swallow. I felt a sigh of relief thinking the worst had happened.

“He’ll be fine,” I stammered, “all of that nude recreation probably caused his heart to work in ways it hadn’t in a long time.” I tried to laugh but instead it came out as a sob.

His eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that his eyebrows almost disappeared. He shook his head slightly and opened his eyes to stare at the wine stain that I couldn’t get out of the tablecloth.

“The service is on Sunday,” he said.

The news struck me like one of those dreams where you’re falling and you wake up just before you hit the ground. I felt my body contract as I dug my face into my knees and let out bursts of sobs that sounded more painful than distressed. My eyes squeezed shut and I remembered my father. He was always quiet but funny. People always wanted to know what he was thinking, including me. He had always told me that he loved me and I’m sure that he did, but I could never be completely positive. I think I loved him back. It had been three years since I talked to him and I’ll never have the chance again. My ears began to ring from the lack of oxygen to my brain. I don’t know how long it was before I was able to hear again. It first came back in strange sounds that I realized were voices.

“It’s not like he made an effort to be in our lives,” I could hear Danny’s voice but it sounded muffled.

“He wanted to be in her life!” Wes was yelling which made it easier to hear. “It was you that turned her into this! You control her every move. It’s like she isn’t even human anymore.”

The words stung almost more than the news.

“Do you think they’re going to bury him naked?” Danny sneered causing Wes to jump across the table and grab Danny by the shirt collar.

“Enough!” I yelled inches from Wes’s face. He let go looking more hurt than before. “You can stay tonight but I don’t want to see you in the morning.”

“Lana, I came here to take you with me. Mom needs us,” he choked. I looked down.

He looked from me to Danny and back again. He turned from me and grabbed his bag. I placed blankets and an extra pillow on the couch and walked quickly up the stairs before he had time to speak or look at me. He had ruined everything.

 I was out of breath by the time I reached my bathroom. I rested my weight on the counter and took several deep breaths before looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bright but streaked red from my crying. I drew my hair into a bun before showering my face with cold water from the sink. My reflection dried her face and stared back at me. I look at the curves of my body through my clothes. It’s the first time I really noticed it. I took off my thick sweater and then the old t-shirt I got from church. My fingers stung from cold as I unbuttoned the metal disc of my jeans and pulled them down with my panties. I stepped out of the heap of clothing that now cluttered the floor. Finally, I unclasped my bra and looked back in the mirror. My skin was so translucent that I could see my bright blue veins running from my arms to my legs. The curve from my waist to my leg was delicate yet contoured. My shoulders sloped softly like that of a woman in an old Renaissance painting. My breasts were small but well shaped. The bedroom door closed shut letting me know that Danny had come to bed. I opened the bathroom door.

There was no light besides the lamp set on our bedside table that shown on me like a spotlight. I could feel my skin glowing. He didn’t notice me at first and looked at me hard in the face when he did, never at my body.

 “Put your clothes on, Lana,” is all that he said. He looked the way I felt when the chubby girl was singing on television. Vulnerable and embarrassed. I walked back into the bathroom before he could see me cry again and put my clothes back on one by one.

I waited until Danny fell asleep before pulling my red suitcase from the top shelf of our closet and filling it with every nice item of clothing I owned. I zipped the bag shut and carried it slowly and carefully down the stairs before entering the living room where Wes was sleeping. I sat on the edge of the couch by his stomach causing him to stir awake.

 I whispered, “I’m ready.”

December's Featured Writer, SCAD-Atlanta sequential arts major and creative writing minor, Gabi Santelices.

Gabi is an anemic from Florida who now lives in Atlanta where she suffers through her own living hell in the cold to study sequential arts at SCAD-Atlanta. She minors in creative writing and is fueled by cute things and sugar. 

For more information on this story and the writer, visit the Q & A page!

Light

By Gabi Santelices

We know this night is different. He does not belong here, just outside our reach. We stretch, grasp at the darkness, and try to disperse it. We see the intensity of his glare at the end of our misty reach. His face denies us, covered in black matte hair. His eyebrows are thick; we cannot see his eyes.

But we know we would not shine in them if we could. We have seen this man before, and his eyes are as dim as the darkness we defend from. Each week he meets another, one he passes and touches palms with for only a moment. They then both disappear into the night, going on their way.

We have never shown in his eyes. There is no warmth from him; we see only a veil of glistening black ice.

We want him gone. We cannot make him move. For a long while he stands just outside our reach. His body is turned towards a corner on the opposite street, and we know he is waiting for something. We feel we will not like it.

We shift consciousness to the street where his gaze falls. We feel our molecules buzz as we see her coming. Her long brown hair shines with us as she hurries forward on her path. She comes this way once a cycle of dark, and us. But this night is different; darkness has taken over much more of the world than is usual for her passing.

We remember this has happened once before; the last time the man had touched palms with another. We try to remember more. A lightning bug had held our interest that night, and we cannot recall if he saw her.

She turns the corner where he waits.

We switch consciousness once more, back above him. Her gaze flicks around in fear of the dark surrounding her. We reflect in her eyes brightly. She is afraid. Afraid of the areas we cannot touch. It is a common fear with women, one we only realized after we were harnessed. The women usually have nothing to fear, but this time it is not the case. She does not know the danger she fears is really there.

We see him moving now.

He passes under us and heads for her.

A car is passing by, we want to blind him. We move to the high beams and shoot towards him. He blinks hard, but continues forward. No more cars pass us; we are forced back into the lamp high above the street.  She sees him, she knows. Her fear has dissipated the glow she once emanated.

We cannot stop him.

He grabs her arm, and we can do nothing.

He has pulled her into the darkness of an alley. Her head hits the concrete. We see it bounce. We flicker madly in our bulb. Maybe someone will see. Someone will see us faltering and come to check why.

But the streets are empty, and no one comes. He has taken her clothing from her, and she flails without effect.

The lightning bugs are coming now. We enter one, by his face, and blink more rapidly than natural. He pays no attention to us.

He’s begun the deed, and we can do nothing.

He swats the bug and us into the wall. We must flee to the lamp on the sidewalk in front of the alley.

We can do nothing but watch.

She has long been limp, and he covers her in the grime covered discards scattered around the alley.

He leaves, passing under us with the red glow of satisfaction. She lies all but motionless, her chest barely moves. A couple is coming down the sidewalk. They will see her like this.

We remember the beauty who stepped beneath us, seemingly aglow.

We hate them for being too late.

We hate ourselves for being so useless.

We do not want them to see her like this. We can see her tears, heavy, silent on her dirtied face. She does not want to be seen either, we are sure.

We go out.

November's Featured Writer, SCAD-Atlanta graduate writing student, Caitlin O'Grady.

Caitlin is a graduate writing student at SCAD-Atlanta. She writes and lives in Candler Park with her husband and their dog.

For more information on this story and the writer, visit the Q & A page!

A Creation Story
(Excerpt)

By Caitlin O’Grady

“The night I drank red wine from a red glass I threw you up. I remember that I drank the red wine from the red glass that night because it was something that I had never done before and I remember at the time, thinking how sweet it was-to drink red wine from a red glass. So, I remember that. Also it was also raining. Also, there was no one to talk to and I was doing a crossword puzzle.

When I had just figured out the theme of the puzzle I caught a lump in my throat.  I swallowed but couldn’t hold it down.  I thought I was going to throw up something awful so I rushed to the bathroom- but I couldn’t make it, before I was even down the hall you came right out. A perfect little boy.

You were a little wet with spit but I could tell right away from your dark hair and dark eyes that you were mine. I asked if I could keep you and you said that you didn’t have anywhere else to go so you didn’t see why not. I asked if you wanted something to eat and you wanted eggs (naturally this endeared me to you right away). I fried you a couple eggs with soy sauce and you told me that you’d never had eggs like that before. You smiled. Then I asked you to go on a walk with me.

We dressed you in some old clothes of mine. I told you that we would walk to the store and buy you some things of your own since you were in my care now. The ladies at the store loved you right away. The caressed your cheeks and pushed the cowlick above your temple down. (Right from the start that cowlick didn’t cooperate. I’m sorry about that.) We got you some clothes and I appreciated how you chose simple cotton shirts and denim pants. You also asked for wool socks. We splurged on a dark blue, fleece jacket that day because it was cold and it was your birthday and because you were a good boy who had his heart in the right place.

That first week you got a fever every day. Every time you got a fever you cried. It was the only time you cried- when you had a fever. I would scoop you up and hold you and rock you and then you would be cured. If the fever was high I just rocked you longer to bring it down.

You loved to go canoeing. But it was hard for you to hold the oars so I held them for the both of us. Once when I was rowing you and had your hand dangling in the water a baby snapping turtle swam right into your hand. You remember that? You yelled to me: “Mom, look” and you placed it on your knee cap for us to examine. It was smaller than a silver dollar but you could still see the ridges in her jaw and the spurs on her tail. You wanted to keep her but I convinced you to put her back. I told you that her mother might miss her and you asked me if everyone had a mother. I told you, of course, all animals and people have mothers and even some plants. It’s impossible for anyone not to have a mother.

So you’ve asked me if you’re ever going to have children, I don’t think it would be possible for you unless you wanted to do it the conventional way. This way was complicated though. It means that you have to get a girl to like you, this means that you’re going to have to make sure to smell nice and learn a few good jokes and brush teeth and learn to drive. You might also have to get a job because you might find it nice to have money.  More likely than not though honey you’re going to have to get a girl to love you. Most girls- at least the good ones- are not going to have sex with you unless they love you. This means you’re going to have to go above and beyond. You’re going to have to be kind and listen and play her love songs and read her poems and meet her mother and call her on the phone and buy her presents. If this happens then you might sex with her (without a condom and she can’t take birth control because both of these things prevent you from having a baby). That means you penetrate her with your penis and then you have to ejaculate semen into her and then one, only one out of all the sperm that you send into her must travel up her fallopian tubes, this is going to be hard because hormones in her body with recognize your sperm as an intruder and so her body will try and kill your sperm and fight it out, so your sperm will have to be strong enough to get to her egg this has to be done at the precise right time that her body releases an egg down her fallopian tubes, this might be a problem because it’s not every month that all women release and egg down the fallopian tube, but if one of your sperm is strong enough it will reach her egg and penetrate it and then they will fuse together, it has to plant into the lining of the girl’s uterus and then the cells will replicate into the umbilical cord and then from that a fetus has to grow and you’ll want to make sure to take care of the mother while the fetus grows in her and you’ll want to feed her the right things and make sure that she takes vitamins and that she doesn’t fall over or run too much and then after nine months the fetus will come out as a baby.

Then you will have to raise that baby and it will take some time to raise it before you can feed it eggs and take it on canoes. It’s something to think about. I just want to be honest with you dear. A mother should always be honest with her child.”

September's Featured Writer, SCAD-Atlanta graduate writing student, Courtney Marcelo Norton.

Courtney Marcelo Norton is a graduate writing student at Savannah College of Art and Design in Atlanta.  She lives in Buckhead with her husband and four-year old son.  She has also practiced as a trial attorney in Atlanta since 2004.  She enjoys writing fiction.

For more information on this story and the writer, visit the Q & A page!

Snake Oil
(Excerpt)

By Courtney Marcelo Norton

A Reconstructive Tonic, says the sign, the words curling above a delicately drawn glass bottle.  A nerve and bone cordial for man or beast.  Recommended for:  rheumatism, seizures, sprains and bruises, hysteria, stiff and weak joints, corks, chafes, galls, nervous disorders, cuts, wounds, Etc.  Serpentine patterns undulate like water moccasins down the length of the bottle.

The words have a kind of breathless untrustworthiness.  They appeal to me the way a wonderful lie does.  A cure for everything, apparently, has materialized out of the February drizzle.  The sign, and the wagon it leans against, arrived in the middle of the night, settling at the edge of town, across from the graveyard where white crosses blossom in tidy rows.  There is also a cross on the side of the wagon—deep scarlet.  I wait, with the rest of the town, for the wagon to open, clouds of cold ghosting up around us.  Blackbirds huddle above us on the bare oak limbs like musical notes on a chord.

A mud trail leads to our town, Quitman, Mississippi.  There used to be a railroad line, but it is gone.  There used to be a bridge crossing the Chickasawhay River, but that is also gone.  Even the trail gets overgrown occasionally, and our visitor, the owner of this traveling medicine show, probably slashed his way through blackberry bushes and trumpet vines and hibernating wisteria.  Quitman is miles from anything, surrounded by thick pine forest.  Thirty years ago, a brigade of Union soldiers came through.  And there are still reminders of the raid everywhere.  Gnarled metal loops sit at the edge of town where the railroad lines were torn up.  The metal was bent around trees, twisted so that it could not be reused.  At Christmas, we hang decorations on them.

I was born shortly after the raid and so the relics of the former city are all I know about it.  It would be strange to see anything other than the charred foundations of what used to be plantation homes and stores.  The courthouse was rebuilt, and a few stores huddle in its shadow, forming a kind of main street.  But gradually the buildings become unfinished thoughts:  lumber skeletons, red clay foundations, and finally just creeping forest.

When I was younger, I would sneak through the brambles to the blackened ruins of the hospital.  Like a scientist exploring a forgotten world, I would pick through the charred wood and inspect the things I found there—metal clamps, mildewed vials, a rusted handsaw.  I pulled a chair with wheels out of the rubble.  I sat in it and rolled around in the ashes.

Miss Elizabeth, the oldest woman in town, now leans toward me:

“Will the medicine fix my hands?” she whispers.  And she is close enough that I can see the papery quality of her skin, the green veins curling like tendrils at her temples.  “They swell at night.  My feet do as well.”

She holds her hands up and they are not swollen.  But they are wrinkled, the nails crooked.

“We’ll have to see,” I tell her.  She lays one of those craggy hands on my shoulder.

“And perhaps it will take the spots off your face,” she says helpfully, smiling at the marmalade freckles on my forehead and cheeks.  “You’d be so pretty without them.”

Her withered talon rakes through my black hair.  It occurs to me that she smells unpleasant, a kind of sour milk smell wafting from her mouth.

“And then you’ll find a nice man to marry,” she says with confidence.  She has me diagnosed and fixed in the same daydream.  The improved me, with smooth skin and a husband.

Judge Hickman has come down from the courthouse to inspect the sign.  He is not from Quitman.  He lives in Meridian and rides the circuit, coming here a few days out of the month to sign papers at the new courthouse, the best building in town.  Then he leaves and the building sits empty for weeks.  Judge has knocked on the door of the wagon but nobody responded.

“Peculiar choice of words,” he says, pointing at the sign, his ashy tongue tasting the air.  “What is a reconstructive tonic?  Restorative is the better word, isn’t it?  I believe that’s the intended word.”

He looks around for our concurrence.

“A restorative tonic,” he explains, “is one which might return the drinker to some previous state.”

He picks at his white beard.  He has one of those meat-colored complexions—red even when he isn’t sunburned.

“A reconstructive tonic,” he continues.  “Well, that suggests something else.”

He pinches at the air, as if the words are there, waiting to be nipped out of the mist.

“It suggests a rebuilding,” he says. “An improvement upon the original, a removal of defects.”

It seems that we all glance quickly—guiltily—at the Millers’ boy who has a cleft pallet, his top lip parting under his nose like a grotesque curtain of skin, revealing his teeth.  And we look from the boy to Emmett Rogers, with his right pant-leg tied into a knot because the leg is no longer there.  It was injured.  It rotted.  And later it was sawed off.  The knobs of his crutches sink into the mud.  These are our defective citizens.  They would not be rebuilt, not by any tonic.  Emmett would not bud a limb where the old one had been severed, he was not a starfish or an earthworm that could regenerate himself.  The Millers’ boy would not seam his lip together.  He was not an oak tree that could grow back its bark, closing the wound.

“We should remember that this, most likely, is quackery,” says the judge.  “Be cautious.  Be mindful of—oh!  See here.  The door is opening!”

We hear the unbuckling of a latch.  We look expectantly at the wagon.  The doors swing open.  And a man steps out with a snake draped over his shoulders.  I have never seen anything like it:  serpent and human braid together, black-eyed man and reptilian beast.  He wears the snake like a fox-fur stole, and the animal is blackish-green, shiny as a mallard’s head.  Its skin is a quilt of wet-looking diamonds, which, together, stretch and shrink as the animal adjusts itself around the man’s torso.

I startle at first.  A prickling feeling, like reaching for a spindly hair-comb and seeing, instead, my hand closing over a black spider.

“God almighty,” someone breathes.  There is a moment of soft, shocked laughter.

Then we start to clap.  We cheer!  The judge slides two fingers inside his ruddy cheeks and whistles with approval.  It is not entirely clear why we are applauding.  A man caught in the squeezing caress of an untamed animal—that is enough to entertain us, apparently.  The jungle beast seems not to notice our appreciation.  It blinks its black eyes and tries to wrap its tail under the man’s jugular.  Its face is impassive.  Its tail is murderous, feeling around, trying to squeeze the man to death.  The man casually pulls him loose.  Then he walks into the crowd, bringing his jungle creature touch-close.

“Don’t let that thing near me,” says Miss Elizabeth, clutching my hand and burying her face in my arm so that I can smell her milky breath.

“Makes a cottonmouth look small!” someone jokes.

“Wouldn’t want that curled up in bed with me,” someone else responds.

There is a kind of nervous shuffling.  The snake is arm-thick and when it opens its mouth, the black ribbon of its tongue unfurls.  This animal is foreign, much larger than the grass snakes that hide in the cabbages.  The man is also exotic.  His eyes are lined in black kohl.  His dark hair is slicked back, sleek as the glittering snake that clings to him.  The make-up around his eyes makes him look like he has wandered into Mississippi by way of the Spanish hill country or the jungles of India.  Under the snake, or perhaps, by comparison to the richly green animal, his clothes are shabby.  His rust-and-cream striped trousers are muddied at the hems.  His flax-colored shirt is yellowed around the neck and at the armpits.

He comes close to me.  He smells like wood, a moldy tree trunk baking in the sun.  He fixes his black eyes on me.  His flat-headed snake turns toward me too.  Two pairs of glittering eyes settle on me.  I feel my face, with its scatter of freckles, burn.  The sear spreads all the way to where my black hair is pinned behind my ears.  He reaches for my hand, turns it open, and lays the snake’s head in my upturned palm.  It opens its mouth, making a kind of clicking sound.  I can see the pink roof of its mouth.  I hold the animal’s head in my hand.  More applause.

Meanwhile, the animal’s tail inches back around the man’s neck, as if lured by the pulse there, wrapping itself like a noose.  What an untrustworthy animal; it looks you in the eyes as it kills you.  I reach up to touch the snake where it is wrapping around the man’s neck.  And the man’s hand closes over mine.  He feels at his neck, where the reptile clings to his throat.  He smacks the snake, a light tap for a naughty child.  He yanks on it, the way one loosens a scarf.  There is a brief struggle.  The snake is stubborn.  It would prefer to continue choking its owner.  But in the end, the man shrugs off the serpent, discards it into a basket with the casualness of someone putting away a heavy coat.

The snake is gone.  We clap again.  Having won our attention, the man waves his arm toward his wagon.  Inside, glass bottles are lined up, filled with amber liquid.  Objects float in the bottles, bobbing like jeweled fruits.  I strain my eyes to see what is in them.  And when my eyes adjust to the dim light of the wagon’s interior, I gasp.  The bottles are filled with snakes.  Half coiled, half erect, with their mouths open to expose their needle-fine fangs.  The creatures bob in their watery prisons, brined to death and bottled just for us.  Here is the medicine we have been waiting for, a cordial of snake blood.  Here is our miracle tonic.

The man spreads his arms wide.

“My friends,” he says.  “I’ve come to take your pain away.”

August's Featured Writer, SCAD-Atlanta writing student, Briana Almeida.

Briana Almeida, aka “Bre”, is an undergrad writing major at SCAD-Atlanta from Boston, Ma. Originally an illustration major, she found passion in creating artwork of words and plans to obtain her masters in fiction. She hopes to incorporate her journey in tattooing, watercolor art and foreign cultures into her work, while maintaining a day job as a cranky online magazine editor.   

For more information on this story and the writer, visit the Q & A page!

Dulce De Leche

By Briana Almeida

“Agh,” papa spits onto the concrete. “Eso puto.”

Pitbull bounces from the radio, a regaaeton station, so I twist the knob. Papa has a thing about Americans. Especially Pitbull.

 “Que tipo de cubano eh?” He mumbles at me, angry, and I don’t know what kind of Cuban Pitbull is. Not the right one. A bottle of Presidente shakes in his shriveled hands. The silence resumes.

There is no breeze through Vieja today, so we sit shirtless on the balcony stuck to the plastic of our lawn chairs. Morenas saunter past below, and we call out to them, never expecting more than an annoyed swat of their delicate hands.

Two ‘o’ clock rolls around and there’s a game on. When I finish my can Papa sends me downstairs for mas Presidente. There are none. He turns up the radio so I start out for the liquor store. Calle Trocadero is tight, full from sidewalk to sidewalk of women and tourists. Kids on bicicletas race past. “Hijos de puto,” I mumble, sucking my teeth. The sky is cloudless.

Paint chips litter the sidewalk, faded teals and oranges. As I walk old men wave, playing dominoes for change and beer.

Crossing la calle, I cut through an alleyway. Above, a sign reads: “Jesus, te amo!” In Miramar, Mama whispered it the nights Papa came home from the bar accusing her of stealing all his money. But Mama stayed in the house with me, or Mama went to church. For tithe, she’d sob, for us to move to America. And on my sixteenth, she did. But then I became the thief. Not the women standing outside Amelia’s, or the cold cervezas inside.

On Calle Aguila, old women grin and nod, “hola m’ijo.” I am not their son but they are all my mother.

Here there is no shade, so the sun beats on my back stronger than the boys who play drums further up. Cupping my hand to my forehead, I see the bolero girls, skirts with no panties billowing out from their waists and their thick hips forming figure eights like invisible labyrinths. They are all swollen lips and sharp tongues, with flowered hair in tight coils. When they gather their hands to their chubby navels, full of platanos y pollo, it is ten times the beauty of sunset.

Once, when I used to play, a girl danced for me. She peeked beneath her eyebrows and flashed her teeth, spinning and twirling. When I softened the beat, her hips responded, rising and falling delicate and slow. Her jasmine perfume filled the air, warm as the velvety chocolate of her skin.

When I pass the girls I smile, even though mi dulce, my candy, soured on me long ago.

 “Por que,” she begged, “ ¿por qué no te vienes conmigo ? ” Because the States are far, I told her, and Papa is alone. The day she left, she handed me a piece of candy. Do you know why men love this, she said, and I shook my head. Because it is the sweetness of milk (dulce de leche), from the breasts and hearts of the women; without it men wither and die.

At the top of the hill, a breeze floats past with the hint of the sea on it. The liquor store appears on my left, but I slow before I enter. Beneath me is Habana Vieja, Old Havana: her skin the brick streets and bright buildings, teals and corals; her heartbeat the drumming of the boys, the quick feet of the bolero girls; her spicy perfume lechón asado, roasted pork and yellow rice. She oozes from every one of us like sweat under the glaring sun.

Oozing from Papa, oozing from me.

 A tiny ding sounds with the door, despite the game thundering from the fuzzy TV.

“Que quieres?” The owner calls out, eyes never leaving the screen.

“Presidente,” I say, grabbing a six-pack and hauling it to the counter.

“Como e’ta tu Papa,” he says, turning to me. When I say he’s fine, he wonders when they’ll return to Miramar. Shrugging, I pay and leave.

 Papa is hunched over the cooler when I return, his clawed fingers curled into his chest. Cracking one open I hand it to him, and as he leans over his wallet tumbles from his pocket. It flips in the breeze that’s picked up off the water. Mama’s face smiles up at me. Without a word he closes it gently, and stuffs it into his pocket.

May's Featured Writer, undergraduate SCAD-Atlanta writing student, Seth Crowe at Ivy Hall.

Seth 
Crowe
 is an undergraduate student in the writing program at SCAD-Atlanta. He previously attended Carrollton High School and the University of West Georgia. Crowe is in his final year at SCAD and plans on continuing his work as a fiction writer.

For more information on this story and the writer, visit the Q & A page!

The Dead Confederate
(Excerpt)

By Seth Crowe

New York, May 1964

They wore their skin like it was too tight; a cramped movement of dead weight and mangled bone, nobody could sleep in Greenwich Village. A young harmonica player took deep breaths between riffs, crashing chords across the face of his dark-wood grained guitar. A yellow fog hovered above the bar. The high-ceilinged bulbs poured dim light over finely adorned panels crafted from stained timber. Two doors from the corner of 11^th and University, a light drizzle rapped against the windowpanes of the Cedar Tavern. The floor was tacked from spilled beer. It created a familiar stick that whispered from the shoes of college students, sophisticates, and emerging beatniks. A man with a clean-cut moustache dressed in a double lapel, black suit and green tie leaned across his bar stool to emphasize the tail end of his conversation with a young woman. He said, “It’s not illegal in any procedural manner, not by current standards mind you.”

She stirred the two cubes in her drink and raised a sarcastic brow, “Because burning draft cards represents the ideal patriot.”

He wiped the stray ashes from her dress and said, “That’s why you’ll vote for Goldwater, and the first amendment will be another piece of liberal garbage for him to wipe his ass with.” A mischievous smile crept over his face as he continued, “I must have missed that chapter in Goldwater’s book, was it not in between The Welfare State and The Soviet Menace? Or is it another unspoken conservative bylaw? I just assumed he would rather put three more notches in the Bible belt before giving a damn about anymore bloodshed.”

Across the room, the ragged musician wiped his forehead and waived to the bartender from his dim corner of the tavern. A scotch appeared next to him. He took a sip and began the next song lightly strumming his six-string:

A bullet from the back of a bush took Medgar Evers’ blood
A finger fired the trigger to his name

She crossed her legs and let out a quiet sigh. Taking a long drag from her cigarette she ran her hand through her hair and said, “You assume I’ve read the book. My president died in the back of a Lincoln Continental.”

He pointed to his glass, mouthed, “another please.” The bartender nodded, he turned to the lady, “But are southern girls not steeped in such tradition; born with iron-clad chastity belts and baptized in the waters of White and Villard?”

Taken back for a moment by the man’s comment she paused, then quickly replied, “And what makes you think I’m from the South?”

Adjusting his black-rimmed glasses he reached for her drink, “Yankee women don’t drink bourbon, not straight with two cubes.”

The small crowd seated at tables surrounding the young guitarist began tapping their feet in rhythm with the verses spilling from his lips:

A handle hid out in the dark
A hand set the spark
Two eyes took the aim
Behind a man’s brain

She smiled and nodded her head from side to side. He drained the remainder of her drink and adjusted his tie, pulling the single Windsor snug to his collar. She said, “I suppose the crows are in the corn.” After a sterile, inquisitive stare she added, “I don’t even know your name.”

The bartender poured the man’s drink and walked back down the bar to hear the music. The mustached man grabbed it and handed it to the woman, “I’ll tell it to you over breakfast; grits, scrambled eggs, and biscuits should suffice I would dare to venture?”

But he can’t be blamed
He’s only a pawn in their game.

She choked on a drag from her cigarette, “Quite the presumptuous one. I’m married.”

Reclaiming his drink he took a hefty swig and said, “ ‘a master, a mistress and two slaves, making in all, two.’ ”

“What is that? Locke?”

“Bierce.”

The rain came down in waves as the door to the tavern swung open revealing a drenched, dark figure wearing cowboy boots and tattered blue-jeans with a bronzed buckle and sheathed Bowie holstered to his leather belt. He shook the rain from his time-worn jacket and covered his face as he let out a bellowing sneeze. A young couple turned from a table near the door and said, “Bless you.”

The soaked man extended his hand towards the pair and said, “Thankye very kindly.” The young man shook his hand and said, “You’re very welcome, sir.”

His boots replicated the proverbial stick as he walked down the bar wiping his nose on the corner of his sleeve. His left leg moved slower than his right, an informal gait not far removed from a recognizable limp. Surveying the crowd he made out a familiar face and approached the man in the black suit sitting at the bar. He said, “All God n’ hell Hank. If ain’t never seen nothin’ more stupifyin’ than yer ugly face. Ya don’t look a day past shit.”

Hank turned in surprise, “Jesus, Walter.”

Walter snatched the drink from Hank’s hand and downed it without pause. He pulled a cigarette from the lady’s pack on the bar and said, “Howdy ma’am,” with a wide grin.

The bartender approached, “What can I get for you?”

He slapped Hank on the back, knocking the wind from him, and said, “I believe this fine fella is gonna buy me a beer. Whatere’ ya got on tap’ll be just fine.”

Hank recovered from his temporary shock and said, “Walter this is…” He paused pointing towards the young lady, “Actually I don’t believe I got your name.”

She snuffed her cigarette and smiled. Taking her handbag from beneath the barstool she laid three crisp bills on the counter and said, “I didn’t give it.”

Walter grabbed his beer over the bar, “Thankye.” He looked to Hank, “I like her,” raising one eyebrow.

“Well you’re out of luck. She’s married.”

Walter took three gulps from his beer and dropped a dirty satchel bag to the floor. He placed the stolen cigarette in his mouth and began patting his pockets. Before he could find a light, the young woman struck a match and lit it for him. He took a deep drag and said, “Hitched are ye?”

She climbed down from her stool, “I suppose I am as you say, ‘hitched.’ ”

Hank nervously ran his hands through his dark brown hair and began tapping his right shoe against the foot-rail on the bottom of the bar. Walter ran his index finger across the bottom of his nose, “Ya know what they say bout them nuptials right?”

She began to walk away. She turned and paused, “No, what do they say about it?”

“‘A master, a mistress and two slaves, makin’ in all, two.’”

The young woman looked at Hank. She nodded her head in agreement, “I’ve never heard that before.”

Walter rummaged through his satchel bag. He said, “Well, now ya know, and knowin’ is half the battle.”

Hank stirred the remaining cubes in his glass and straightened the pleat in his pants. An air of apparent anxiety overcame him. Raising a hand to the young lady’s departure he said, “I’ll see you at draft card burn tomorrow.”

The lady laughed as she walked towards the door saying, “Because you’re such an advocate of the first amendment.” She raised her hand with her back turned to Hank and Walter waiving adieu.

Hank hung his head, “Shit.”

Walter sat down, not wasting any time he finished his beer and took a long drag from his cigarette, “Who in tha hell is that?” He pointed to the young man with the guitar.

“That’s Bob.”

“He ain’t half bad.”

Walter stared at the selection of top-shelf liquors. He rubbed the stubble on his chin with his thumb and index finger, “Daddy’s dead, Hank.”

Bob finished his set quietly strumming his old six-string singing,

But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
That fired the gun
He’ll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain:
Only a pawn in their game.