Mosaic 2008
Editors
Lauren Cenac
Elizabeth Sanders
Editorial Advisors
Jackie W. Jackson
Carolyn Gorman
Tiffany Duet
Marla Bernard
Katherine Tracy
Graphic Designer
Jerad David
Department Head,
Languages & Literature
David Middleton
Acknowledgements
Deborah Lillie
Rusty Bouvier
Bruno Ruggiero
Kerry Boudreaux
Wayne Molaison
MOSAIC 2008
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Table of Contents
Foreword
“Letter from the Editors” by Elizabeth Sanders and Lauren Cenac .................................................4
Poetry
“That I Shall Never Leave” by Trisha Marie Hukins . .........................................................................5
“Sustenance” by Devin Gene Martin .......................................................................................................7
“Fishing at Four-Mile Bayou” by Barbara Barras .................................................................................9
“For Louise” by Trisha Marie Hukins .................................................................................................. 11
“Euology for a Friend” by Adam O’Conner . ....................................................................................... 18
“A Simple Wish” by Jacob Roby . ............................................................................................................ 22
“Rosie the Riveter” by Leah Peterson..................................................................................................... 26
“Check-Up at Pap Smear Plantation” by Anne Benoit ...................................................................... 31
“I Guess Death Stopped for You” by Brandon Picou . ....................................................................... 39
“The Chicken” by Trisha Marie Hukins ............................................................................................... 41
“Hottest Man on Earth” by Beau Himel .............................................................................................. 43
“If I Were a Shoe” by Erin Dickey ........................................................................................................ 43
“A Supermarket in Louisiana” by Anne Benoit ................................................................................... 53
“Crossing Paths” by Jacob Roby ............................................................................................................. 54
“Citrus Crush” by Tristan Robert . ........................................................................................................ 56
“Orchids” by Brandon Picou . .................................................................................................................. 57
“Reflection on Reflections” by Nathan Folse ....................................................................................... 59
“The Sick Sense” by Nathan Folse ......................................................................................................... 60
“Phantoms” by Brandon Picou ............................................................................................................... 61
“Thoughts Like Smoke” by Adam O’Conner . ..................................................................................... 62
“Voice” by Ross Durocher ........................................................................................................................ 64
Fiction
The Funeral Club (Novel Excerpt) by Jena McCoy ............................................................................. 36
“A Twisted Little Red” by Travis LaBouve ......................................................................................... 44
“A Lady Friend” by Callie Dubois .......................................................................................................... 49
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MOSAIC 2008
Essays
“I Should Have Been a Truck Driver” by Guillermo Munive ......................................................... 13
“Sunflower Seeds” by Shayla Piquet ...................................................................................................... 19
“Family Things” by Maya Kennedy . ..................................................................................................... 24
“Like Tabasco in an Ice Cream Parlor” by Elizabeth Sanders ........................................................ 27
“The Search for Susan” by Erin Dickey ................................................................................................ 32
“The Best Part of Waking Up” by Heath Santiny ............................................................................. 47
Art
“Untitled” by Amanda Percle .....................................................................................................................6
“River” by Julie Marie Guerrera . ..............................................................................................................8
“Untitled” by Katrina A. McDonald ...................................................................................................... 10
“Self-Portrait” by Joseph Allen Boquet ................................................................................................. 12
“Questionable Know-It-All” by Emily Verret Huffaker .................................................................... 17
“Blud Copy” by Andrea Dupree-Cenac ................................................................................................. 18
“Touched” by Amanda Percle .................................................................................................................. 21
“La Fête des Tuileries” by Marie McChargue ....................................................................................... 23
“Ginger” by Chance Cenac . ..................................................................................................................... 25
“Disk Tea Pot” by Rusty Bouvier ........................................................................................................... 26
“Untitled” by Brandon J. Champagne ................................................................................................... 27
“Sulky Girl” by Rusty Bouvier ................................................................................................................ 30
“Self-Portrait in Shadows” by Cory Michael Burgess ....................................................................... 34
“Faceless” by Chance Cenac . ................................................................................................................... 35
“Water Landing” by Emily Verret Huffaker ........................................................................................ 37
“Carmelina Goes Snorkeling” by Rusty Bouvier ................................................................................ 38
“Lizard Cat” by Joseph Allen Boquet .................................................................................................... 40
“Head of an Older Man” by Cory Michael Burgess . ........................................................................ 42
“School Abandoned” by Julie Marie Guerrera .................................................................................... 46
“Long Journey Ahead” by Emily Verret Huffaker ............................................................................. 48
“Thirteen” by Emily Verret Huffaker . .................................................................................................. 53
“Untitled 2” by Brandon J. Champagne ................................................................................................ 55
“World Weight” by Andrea Dupree-Cenac . ........................................................................................ 56
“Untitled” by Ashleigh Arceneaux ........................................................................................................ 58
“Disconnection” by Chance Cenac ......................................................................................................... 61
“Self-Portrait” by Rusty Bouvier ............................................................................................................ 62
“Vote for That Other Guy” by Tiffany McCullough ......................................................................... 63
MOSAIC 2008
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Letter from the Editors
“We pilgrims on the road of life would like to leave our mark,
To have the folks remember us beyond this earthly day,
But like the village oak that disappeared without a trace,
The time will come when they won’t know we ever passed this way.”
–Heloise Grant, 2006
This excerpt comes from “The Village Oak,” a recent poem by Heloise Grant, who attended
Nicholls’ first year, 1948-49, and who served that same year as editor of Pencil Tracks, the
precursor to Mosaic. The excerpt contains an important truth, namely that most people will be
forgotten sometime after their deaths, but it leaves out that there is more than one way to leave
a legacy. Even if we are not remembered for it, we have spent three years working on Mosaic,
and the continued life of the magazine is an important accomplishment that we leave behind.
In our first year as editors, we had to fight to keep Mosaic, and thanks to the support of
numerous faculty and alumni and the votes of the student body, we succeeded. The fact that
such support came indicates the importance of our on-campus literary magazine, not simply
to us as editors, but to the readers, writers, and artists who experience it. Mosaic is a place
for students to express themselves to their peers through writing and art in a manner that
otherwise would be denied them. Regardless of contributors’ major, age, or life experiences,
Mosaic looks for students with strong voices and encourages those students to speak. Ross
Durocher’s poem on the last page of this year’s magazine reflects how important this
opportunity can be.
Now that our last year is upon us, we look to Mosaic’s future, and we hope. We hope that
students will continue to offer their support, that more voices will be heard, and that the
magazine remains published so long that we will be forgotten.
Elizabeth Sanders and Lauren Cenac
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MOSAIC 2008
That I Shall Never Leave
by
Trisha Marie Hukins
Do you suppose that I shall ever leave
Louisiana’s heart, land of my birth,
Crumbling Old South with the vanishing earth?
Like a baby to mother’s breast I cleave.
And what do you think that I can achieve
Of real value or measurable worth
Where rarely a soul is given wide berth
By gods more loathe to give than receive?
I’ve been baptized in the bayou’s water
Its green, muddy brine has cleansed my soul.
I’m the fatted calf spared from the slaughter.
I still recall when I hear church bells toll,
I’m Jesus’ and Dixie’s Creole daughter.
Here in this hallowed land, I am made whole.
MOSAIC 2008
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Untitled (Pinhole Photography) by Amanda Percle
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MOSAIC 2008
Sustenance
by
Devin Gene Martin
Driving home from Thibodaux
in my beatup pickup,
The heavy scent of Champa
curling into my breath
And around the red beads
of a St. Rita Rosary.
The stick’s stuck in the mouth
Of a non-functional tape deck,
My feet pushing the ground
So it rushes beneath me.
Thick smoke rises up
to the rearview like ticker tape
Intact because there’s no air,
Split by the image
of a swinging Saint.
Because I’m chasing money
That will never slow down
and stop to be caught,
I keep running, keep rolling,
Waiting for Good Dough. . .
Then maybe I
can install one of those
Babylonian Air-Cooling Mechanisms.
But I won’t because I’ve grown to enjoy the scenery
Through avant-garde, love-bug-splattered glass:
The gingerbread cookie-cutter homes, with
cheerleader pom-pom makeup landscapes,
Then the barefoot shotgun shacks, flanked by
iron-combed rows of cane. Their lanky legs
run by.
Or do I?
Ready for this long dry hot summer
to be washed away, dreaming
of a more refined state,
believing in the pretty myth
that our destiny is sweeter.
MOSAIC 2008
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7
Working hard to make this world
palatable for those who don’t
like it raw, like it comes:
black, strong, bitter.
Then the sky turns heavy and darker
and my gaze grows a bit softer.
I can’t help but fall for this land
when it pours out its pardon
so close I can hear the hushed sounds
of the rain and my heart, beating.
It comes down in sheets
to this place where I make my bed,
at least for the Time-Being.
River (Photography) by Julie Marie Guerrera
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MOSAIC 2008
Fishing at Four-Mile Bayou
by
Barbara Barras
Loading up with safety in mind
All the bait is gathered and checked,
Poles and hooks are ready in the boat
As we go flying across Lake Verret.
Ducks run on the water to get away.
No-wake zone comes up quick as we slowly
Drift through the little camp’s canal.
Egrets are shopping for lunch on the banks.
Two more canals till we see the log,
We pull up and run our trout line.
Now we are ready to anchor out
Fixing our lines and baiting hooks.
The line whizzes as it is cast out,
The plunk is heard as it strikes the water,
The current pulls it until it is tight.
Time to enjoy the sights combined with sound.
On the other bank turtles sun on a log,
A gator drifts by on his way to fish,
The Blue Heron tiptoes through the shallows.
Far away we can hear echoes of an owl.
All around we hear the splash of fish.
Flocks of pelicans fly past overhead.
The water is calm; it mirrors the view,
Then I feel the quick tug of a fish.
I quickly pick up the pole and pull,
The fish pulls back and I know it’s hooked.
I reel it in nice and steady as it fights,
My trophy is quickly dropped into the boat.
I look at the silvery gray and white catfish,
He grunts at me, reclaiming the hook.
We can hear the sizzle of hot grease,
We’re ready to eat the catch of the day.
MOSAIC 2008
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Untitled (Photography) by Katrina A. McDonald
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MOSAIC 2008
For Louise
In memory of Mildred Louise DeVillier (July 10, 1935-September 17, 2005)
by
Trisha Marie Hukins
After thanking you for Chinese supper
That last night, I see your dim silhouette
As I start my old car to return home.
When the high beams click on, the lights bathe you
In seraphic luminescence that leaves
Forever painted on my stretched canvas
Of memory, the quick image of you
Standing at your door, waving me goodbye
With your thin weathered hand, while your other
Tired arthritic hand grips the walker.
There you stand dressed in warm, rich autumn tones
Of mocha, cayenne, and paprika red
That complement your ivory complexion—
And your spicy, soulful complexity.
The chunky beaded earrings that you wear
Jiggle joyfully like the aged flesh
Of your upper arms that you like to keep
Covered with long sleeves of delicate crepe,
Chiffon, and brushed silk because you are selfConscious of the dark marks Time has branded
You with. Your cloudy eyes glisten with peace,
Contentment, and the love you feel for me.
For nearly a decade, you’ve been my friend,
My mentor, my angel with unseen wings.
Had my fortune cookie read: This will be
The last living time you’ll see Louise,
I would tell you just how much I love you.
I would stay just a little while longer.
MOSAIC 2008
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Self-Portrait (Photography) by Joseph Allen Boquet
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MOSAIC 2008
I Should Have Been a Truck Driver
by
Guillermo Munive
It was late December in the Gulf of Mexico, and I was trying to stay out of the
freezing wind and rain and at the same time keep my balance as the ship pitched and yawed
in the rough seas. I walked out of the galley about the dive support vessel Midnight Star
onto the back deck after the safety meeting and was trying to enjoy my coffee. The seas
were too demanding to continue diving operations even with the stern of the boat tied
to the platform, so I was planning to shut down all work for the night. Freezing weather
with unforgiving seas is always expected at this time of year, and the dive crews working
on deck prepare for it by wearing everything they own all at once like vagabonds, so that
the only things we see are their eyes reflecting in the darkness. My plan that night was to
take pity on them and get those guys off the back deck and into shelter until the weather
improved. I was planning to stay up during the night and keep watch over the back deck
in case the equipment got damaged by the wave action or a fire broke out. I had to decide
whether to watch movies or shanghai a green hand to play cribbage with me. Either way, I
had a long night ahead of me.
I was new to this vessel, and I was still getting used to all the movement of the
overcrowded and poorly-placed equipment. The constant barrage of the waves hitting
the boat created a rhythmic question and answer symphony of clatter. The waves hit, and
anything metal that wasn’t welded would rattle, bang, and clank.
In charge of the boat and personnel was the company’s top dog, Superintendent
Marc, who took pleasure in striking fear in the dive crew by threatening to fire them
if coffee or cigarettes weren’t produced fast enough. I was relieving the day shift
dive supervisor Darrin, who had been diving in the “Guff ” for over twenty years. I
was confident that everything would continue to go without incident despite the clear
objections from the weather. One thing that was familiar to me was the putrid stench of
rust-infected metal decaying in sea water.
One of the divers came out of the darkness of the back deck, running towards the
galley, shouting, “Where’s the medic?”
“What happened?” I asked.
The diver was already past me and halfway up a flight of stairs heading to the
wheelhouse. “Martin got hurt!”
I navigated my way in the darkness over and around the labyrinth of obstacles to
see what had happened. Next to the pedestal crane at the stern of the boat, and inbetween
some equipment, were six divers trying to hold one another up as if they were defiant
bowling pins. In between them all was Martin, a young muscular kid with a thick Yankee
accent, who had told me that his girlfriend was due with their first child any day now. We
lowered him gently to the wet and cold deck and assigned one of the divers to keep his
head still until we figured out what to do. Martin was going in and out of consciousness
and would not hold on for long in this weather without immediate medical attention.
The diver holding Martin’s head was a stocky, rough-looking black kid whose eyes
MOSAIC 2008
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13
betrayed his emotions. He was the only one who actually looked like he was desperate to
get his friend some help. I couldn’t remember his name. “Keep talking to him, and don’t
let him black out again,” I said, giving him something useful to do. “Somebody tell me
what happened!” I snapped.
“He was crushed by the crane on the tugger!”
“The crane was swinging around and trapped him at the hips on the tugger in a
scissor action!”
A voice from the shadows added, “He passed out, and we caught him before he fell
on deck.”
I said, “Make sure the crane is shut off and secured.” Rule #1, secure the scene
to help the injured; my training as a medic was starting to kick in. Conducting an initial
assessment of Martin’s injuries in the dark was damn near impossible. The waves crashing
on the open back deck and washing ankle-deep sea water on Martin were not helping the
situation. I palpated Martin’s upper body and did not find any broken bones or obvious
damage. When I got to his pelvis, Martin let out a painful scream, as if he had been
startled awake from a bad dream. I pulled my hands back to find blood on them. A million
thoughts raced through me. Martin could have a crushed pelvis that severed his femoral
artery and might be bleeding internally. I didn’t want to let my feelings of desperation
show, so I didn’t say a word.
What Martin needed was somebody who had experience handling emergencies
at sea. The on-shift supervisor, whose twenty years definitely outranked my four, was
nowhere to be found. I hope that he chokes on the fried salt cakes in the galley where he is hiding,
I thought. Marc needed to be made aware of the severity of Martin’s injuries and decide
on the best way to help him. “Somebody get the stretcher and six blankets,” I said, and a
couple of people took off into darkness. “Make sure to keep him talking, and cover him
with one blanket to keep him from going into shock. Somebody get some lights back here!”
I started to make my way to the wheelhouse. I needed to know where the hell our
fearless leader was and why he wasn’t storming the deck ready to kill somebody and fire
everybody else. Marc would undoubtedly already have emergency transportation to the
beach arranged and an ambulance standing by at the dock by now.
Have to think ahead, not getting any help. He’s breathing, has a pulse and possibly bleeding
out from internal injuries. It was a short list in my head, but was one of the worst you could
encounter two hundred miles offshore. As I walked to the wheel house, the captain turned
to look at me with a cigarette in one hand, a VHF radio in the other, and what appeared to
be a thousand years of wear in his face. “Where’s Marc?” I asked.
Father Time silently pointed behind me. I turned to see the worst possible sight I
could have imagined in this situation. The company’s most experienced superintendent,
our boss, our “Don’t fuck me or I’ll fire you,” had a look of absolute terror on his face.
“What do we do now, Guillermo?” He asked me the same question I had for him. It was
then that I knew what it meant to have your heart sink and your head swim all at the same
time.
Martin is still on deck. Keep thinking, keep moving, the voice in my head repeated. “I
need to get Martin off this boat right now, cap’n. What are my choices?”
“Helicopters don’t fly at night, and the closest crew boat is three hours away with a
six-hour travel to the closest dock.” That was the best the old salty dog could do.
“Not quick enough. Martin needs to be in a hospital within an hour. Call for a
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MOSAIC 2008
Med-Evac, PHI, or the Coast Guard, whichever is closest, and have them land on the
platform! While you’re at it, wake everybody up on the platform and get the crane operator
to lower the personnel basket to get us off this boat!” I ordered as I left for the infirmary
to find the emergency medical kit.
Due to the shortage of bunk space, the “infirmary” had been modified into an
office for the client’s representative, and its contents had been neglected over the years. A
thorough search of all the cabinets and closets turned up nothing. There were no gloves,
no C-collars, no bandages, not even an IV or saline in case of shock. A stethoscope was
hiding in a medicine cabinet. “Good, I’ll be able to hear Martin’s heart stop,” I said to
myself. Keep moving, keep thinking. Get back to Martin was the only help available in my
head.
Martin was more coherent and trying to talk to his friend “what’s his name.” As
a group we rolled him over on his stomach on top of a blanket in a futile attempt to keep
him warm and continue my assessment. There was dark red blood on the lower half of
Martin’s shirt, and the seat of his pants had a combination of blood and fecal matter. That
must have been painful. I had to determine if he bled out from his anus or if he had a
laceration that he was bleeding from. Time stood still as I was trying to decide what to do
next. I could hear the engines of the boat straining and struggling against the seas and
current, trying to back up closer to the platform and get under the crane.
My experienced Spiderco knife was in my hand and opened in a natural motion
as had been done a thousand times before. The flick of the blade snapping open got
everyone’s attention. The congregate formed a ring of semi-privacy around Martin. Some
of them were holding flashlights that made our little enclosure appear like a performance
show. All the available eyes were trained on me, and a collective breath was held as they
waited for me to perform.
The looks of half expecting and half dreading what needed to be done didn’t help
my confidence. Martin’s shirt was cut down the middle, but his pants were too thick and
would have to be cut in sections. The razor-sharp instrument made the cuts without a flaw,
but trying to keep my hands clean was hopeless. I was able to determine that Martin had
a laceration on his left butt cheek that started near his anus. He must have emptied his
bowels out of pain. He didn’t have internal bleeding; we had finally caught a break. The
sea water washing up was used to clean and dress his wound. Getting the body fluids off
my hands took more time in the rust and sea-water mixture. “Keep him warm, and help get
us closer to the platform!” That was for everyone’s benefit.
I made my way back to the wheel house to relay the information via satellite phone
to the Coast Guard helicopter that was in transit from Mississippi. They received the
initial assessment of Martin’s injuries, and they asked if he was critical. The Coasties
informed me that they could take him into Texas to an excellent hospital for that type
of injury, but they would need to refuel along the way, or they could take him to the first
available hospital with the fuel on board.
It must have been “We do whatever Guillermo decides” day. “He’s stable for now
and in a lot of pain. How long until you arrive?”
I checked my watch—five past midnight. It felt like hours, but only fifteen minutes
had gone by.
“We will be on the platform in forty minutes,” crackled the response on the other
end.
MOSAIC 2008
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15
“Roger that—we’ll be standing by.” I tried to hang up the phone in the dark room,
but missed the receiver. I looked out the windows that overlooked the deck and witnessed
the lopsided battle taking place. “The seas are too strong. The boat can’t make any
headway against the current!” That sinking feeling came back. We were going to need
more than forty minutes to get to the platform. I could see the personnel basket coming
down from the platform, caught in the wind, waiting for the boat to get under it. It wasn’t
even close. All that work, and we wouldn’t be able to get Martin off this floating piece of
rust and into that helicopter. I looked Father Time in the eye: “Get us over there now!” I
commanded, as long as everybody was obeying me.
I got back to Martin, and with the help of the dive crew, we rolled him into the wire
mesh stretcher that was lined with the rest of the blankets.
What sounded like a loud gun blast interrupted the constant straining of the
engines behind me. Instinctively, I covered Martin with my body, and a few others jumped
on, forming a human cocoon. In that instant, I looked back to see the mooring line that
was tied to the platform fly towards us like an overstretched rubber band that had snapped.
It was under so much strain that the metal bit on the platform broke, and it went flying
over our heads and landed back on deck with the fifty feet of four-inch rope still tied to it.
I was starting to suspect that Martin had made some terrible mistakes in a past life, and he
would have to pay the price before the night was through. Now would be a good time to
make Poseidon a peace offering.
The boat started to blow thick clouds of asthmatic black smoke as it struggled
with nature in a fight for position. After an endless amount of hoping for the seemingly
impossible, the boat finally started to get closer to the platform. I yelled over the noise at
the small group huddled around Martin, “We’ll only get one shot at this. When that basket
hits the deck, you guys hold the netting open for us.” I recruited Martin’s friend, who had
been so useful: “You, grab the head of the stretcher and walk through the basket to the
other side, and grab on because you’re going with us.” My new recruit didn’t even blink
in doubt about what needed to be done. Good, at least he thought this could work. What
the hell was his name? I looked down at Martin, who was immobilized in the stretcher, and
assured him, “If we all go into the water, don’t panic; you’ll be safe. The stretcher has a
flotation device and so does the basket. You will have your upper body out of the water.”
That should keep him calm. I wondered if he knew that if that happened, we would have
to hold onto him and swim him away from the platform so that the waves wouldn’t smash
him into it.
The basket hit the deck, and the divers performed like pros. We got Martin on the
personnel basket, and the crane held us up in mid-air as the boat fell from under us in the
wave action. The stretcher was longer than the basket, which didn’t leave any room for us
to stand on. I had to hold on and hang from the netting. As I looked down at the boat, I
saw how much it was getting tossed around. I lost sight of the boat in the darkened rain
and hoped that the rest of the crew had got off the back deck.
We were placed gingerly on the top deck of the platform and were greeted by the
supervisor. We were informed that the helicopter had contacted them and would arrive
in a couple of minutes. We carried Martin up a flight of stairs into a waiting area out of
the rain. Martin was looking better after he warmed up and was talking to all of us. He
looked directly at me from his protective shell and said, “I should have been a truck driver,
Guillermo.”
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MOSAIC 2008
I cracked half a smile in surprise. “You and me both, brother. You and me both,” I
responded, trying to catch my breath.
The Coast Guard helicopter landed within minutes. The medic came down in his
clean deep-blue flight suit and shiny helmet to claim all the glory of saving Martin. The
medic stopped dead in his tracks when he walked into our crime scene. He found us sitting
on the floor, completely soaked, huddled around each other to keep warm, and exhausted.
Martin was in between us and still wrapped like a papoose.
The medic was informed of Martin’s condition, and we carried him into the waiting
helicopter. That was the last I saw of Martin, and I have never been so relieved.
The platform had no room for Steven and me to spend the night. We had to wait for
the boat to come back and pick us up. It was going to be a while, which gave me plenty of
time to decide whether to remove a large chunk from or add an appendage to somebody’s
ass. It was going to be a long night.
Questionable Know-It-All (Photography) by Emily Verret Huffaker
MOSAIC 2008
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17
Eulogy for a Friend
by
Adam O’Conner
You should see the black scribbles,
Taking up space in my notebook
From where I had crossed out
The pathetic attempts at a proper eulogy
You should see your mother’s broken wrist
And the fist-shaped hole in the wall
From when she punched it
After the cops knocked on her door
You should see the tear-shaped blotches
Dotting my i’s for me
Like some goddamned editor
Looking over my shoulder.
And if only you could hear
The endless, awkward platitudes
Then you might understand
How no one really understands
You should see the red mark
Forming on the cap of my knee
From when I slapped it
“God, you sure know how to knock ‘em dead!”
And if only you could see
The gaping holes in our chests
Then you might know the exact place
You once held in our hearts
Blud Copy (Ink Drawing) by Andrea Dupree-Cenac
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MOSAIC 2008
Sunf lower Seeds
by
Shayla Piquet
It was my first Halloween back in the city since Hurricane Katrina had hit. I was
so excited. The streets were busy with a handful of kids trick-or-treating and a couple of
cars. My family and I were all in the living room of my house. We were talking about all
the events they believed had led to Hurricane Katrina. My aunt thought Katrina was God’s
way of punishing the city for all the killing that was going on prior to the hurricane. I
remember her stating, “It’s God’s way of lending a hand to a troubled world.”
After conversing for about an hour, my aunts gathered around the table to play
cards, my grandpa went up to bed, and my cousins and I decided to take a walk to the
porch to get away from my aunts’ loud voices. As soon as we got to the door of the house,
we all did the usual “I Got Dibs” game. This game is an assurance of getting a seat on the
porch by saying, “I got dibs.” I called dibs on the corner chair, and my cousin Preslyn sat
next to me. Chelsea, Ibrielle, and Courtney had dibs on the bench. Janelle, Jamar, Tony,
and Brandon stood up against the railings of the porch because they didn’t call “dibs” fast
enough.
We sat around joking and eating until about eleven o’clock. We ate the candy out
of the bowl that was supposed to be for the kids who came to trick-or-treat. The bowl was
huge. It was filled with big-sized candy bars, little bags of chips, and packs of sunflower
seeds that my mom had bought from Sam’s. We all took turns getting candy out of the
bowl. Jamar went first, since he was the youngest. He didn’t take much. I think the only
thing he wanted was his favorite candy bar, a Snickers. I went next, picking out all of the
packs of sunflower seeds for my favorite cousin, Lance. I hated sunflower seeds, but my
cousin loved them. Next to get the bowl was Chelsea. “Who took all the sunflower seeds?”
she yelled.
Everyone looked at me because they knew I had taken all the sunflower seeds. To
shut her up, I gave her a pack. After passing the bowl around the porch until it was down
to candy that no one ate, we put it aside. We sat on the porch for about an hour.
A little after eleven, we got up to go inside. I stood outside to pick up the sunflower
seed shells that I knew would make my mom mad. As I was sitting on the porch picking up
shells, I could hear a car approaching the house. I knew it was my favorite cousin Lance,
because his music reached the house before his car did. I decided to stay on the porch and
scare him as he got out of his car. Sitting directly across from the walkway, I could see
him get out of his car. Just as he closed his door, I popped up and yelled, “Lance!”
He turned and looked directly at my hand. I was holding a pack of sunflower seeds.
He asked, “Is that for me, Phat?”
Just as I was about to say yes, a black and silver Dodge Charger pulled up in front
of the house. Bullets came flying out of the car’s limo-tinted windows.
I was terrified.
I dropped down to the floor of the porch and sat there crying hysterically until the
shooting stopped. After about a minute, the gunshots stopped, and the car took off down
the street.
My aunts came running out of the house, nearly running over me. Before I could
get up to see what had happened to Lance, I could hear my Auntie Terry scream, “NO!”
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19
I stood up in shock with my face full of tears. My cousin was lying on the ground
with gunshot wounds to his chest. My body went numb as I watched my aunts pull on his
still body. I remember my mom telling me to go call the ambulance. I couldn’t move. I
stood there with tears in my eyes as my cousin looked me directly in the eyes. He was still
alive, but his clothes were covered in blood as he lay there on the ground. His T-shirt with
the words “R.I.P. Soulja Slim” had two bullet holes in it.
The ambulance arrived along with the cops. The emergency rescue team rushed
over to my cousin’s body, pushing away my aunts as they held onto Lance’s hand. The
police just walked around the house and started asking questions: “Did anyone witness the
shooting? What time did the shooting start? Was the victim in any sort of trouble that
the family knew of ?”
I knew that I had all the answers that the officer needed, but instead of telling
him, I pulled my mom to the side and said that I saw everything, but I would prefer not to
talk about it. While my mom and I were off to the side talking, we heard my little cousin
Jamar scream, “No, man, not my brotha! Why did they have to take my brotha?”
When I heard that scream, I dropped to my knees. I knew for sure that my cousin
was dead. At the young age of twenty-four, my cousin’s life had been cut off. My whole
family at that moment just dissolved into tears. Everyone then turned to me. They turned
to me because they knew that Lance was my favorite cousin. We were two of a kind. He
was like my brother from another mother. I loved him more than any of my other family
members.
The police immediately began putting up the yellow tape. They put it all around
the house. The medical team asked us a few questions, and then the worst part of that
night came. The coroners picked up my cousin’s body and stuffed it into a large black bag.
As I watched all this happen, all I could think about was why it had to be me to see this
happen to him.
After the police left and everyone cleared the street, I went to bed. My head was
pounding. My aunts followed the ambulance to the hospital. My cousins came and slept
in the room with me. Jamar and I slept in the bed together and held each other and
reminisced about how happy Lance had made us and how sad we were going to be now that
he was gone.
The next day I didn’t want to get out of bed. My head was still hurting, and my
throat was killing me. Everyone had gotten up before me, so I was the last one downstairs.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could hear people talking and smell the scent of
bacon frying. When I reached the bottom step, I looked over at the table in the middle
of the foyer and stared at it. That was the table that Lance always put his keys on after
coming through the door. Instead of seeing Lance’s keys, however, I saw the packs of
sunflower seeds I had taken out of the bowl for him. I stood on the step staring at the
packs. Tears began to fill my eyes. I was devastated.
My mom walked down the stairs behind me and put her arm around me and
whispered in my ear, “Pick up the packs and save them. That way you can always have
something to remember him by.”
I gave her a funny look, thinking to myself, “Why would she think I wanted
sunflower seeds to remember my favorite cousin? I didn’t even like sunflower seeds.” Then
I looked up and saw the picture of my cousin taken days before his murder, and there he
was holding a pack of sunflower seeds. I kept one of the packs, just like my mom told me
to and decided to give the other pack to Lance.
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MOSAIC 2008
The day of the funeral arrived. Everyone was sad. I was eager. The funeral was
almost over, so I knew the priest was about to tell the family to come up for the final
viewing of the body. After we finished the final remarks, the family lined up and began
walking up to the casket. This was the saddest part of the funeral. As I approached the
casket, the church fell silent. I reached down in my coat pocket, stood over Lance’s casket,
and pulled out the other pack of sunflower seeds. I placed the pack in his casket, kissed
him on the forehead, and told him, “Here, Lance. I’m watching out for you even though
you left me alone. Don’t show Chelsea, or else she’s going to get jealous. I love you, Phat.”
Touched (Photography) by Amanda Percle
MOSAIC 2008
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21
A Simple Wish
by
Jacob Roby
His favorite food is bacon, eggs, and cheese
Wedged between two toasted slices of bread,
But when the doctor noticed his slanted eyes,
Some wondered what rough beast had just been born.
Only his parents were content with their first son
Born with a forty-seventh chromosome.
Others thought the family tree was now stained
By the extension of this new branch, this new boy,
But eleven years of growth changed the minds of all.
When school let out, I saw him with his teacher,
But when he saw me, he released her hand
And waddled his short legs ferociously
Until he met me; then with all he could muster,
He jumped on me with arms spread open wide
To embrace me with the most violent hug
I’ve ever received, but with such passion
And well-intent that I did not notice
My aching back. Riding home from school,
With windows down, his blond hair blowing
In the breeze, he turned on the radio.
We played the guitar with our seat-belt straps
To the tunes of an Elvis song on the radio.
He grew tired of “Jail House Rock” and switched
The station. Suddenly we heard a voice
Utter a word he recognized as profanity.
He demands I fuss the speaker;
So I scolded the radio and switch it off
To inform him that a surprise is upcoming:
John from the Make-A-Wish Foundation
Was waiting for both of us to arrive.
We pulled up to his house. John was there
Standing on his front lawn, and claped for him.
John asked the excited boy, “What do you want
More than anything else? A trip to Disney World,
To meet Mickey Mouse? Do you like the Saints?
You can meet Reggie Bush if you want to;
Anything you please, tell me what you want.”
He took no time to think about his choices;
Smiling, he responded: “I am very hungry.
I want a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich.”
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MOSAIC 2008
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La Fete des Tuileries (Photography) by Marie McChargue
MOSAIC 2008
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23
Family Things
by
Maya Kennedy
“Debra and the girls” is what people called my family when I was growing up in
southern California, although my mother was married for a time. We lived in a house full
of women, and there was always some form of communication. There was never a quiet
moment, a fact that greatly irritated me when I was growing up, but I look back on that now
with affection. We argued over phone time with the heat and blows of a boxing match. At
the kitchen table, we dissected family drama and romantic relationships. Necessity made
us close, and, being women, we dialogued our way through life. Our speech was not always
understandable to others, even those who knew us well. Friends would come over and become
confused, not just at our words, but also at the way we mixed them together.
The one word that we have had the longest is “thing.” “Thing” can mean anything; the
trick is to understand context. My stepfather was never able to understand what we meant by
the word “thing.” For instance, my sister would come into a room and ask, “Have you seen my
thing?” and I would reply, “I saw your thing on the thing.” We would fully comprehend each
other, and my stepfather would look on in confusion, never knowing that my sister had been
looking for her hairbrush and that I had told her it was on the kitchen counter. If someone
asked how we knew what the other meant, we could not answer. Thinking about it now, I can
only suppose it must be some kind of secret knowledge or psychic intuition developed by us
through the years of shared blood, shared stories, and shared space.
We have a phrase that can cover almost any situation: “He showed out.” I am not
certain where this phrase came from; perhaps my older sister created it, or perhaps we co-opted
it from popular slang. It is a phrase that can have positive or negative implications, depending
on the way it is used. If someone fifty pounds overweight was at the beach in a bikini, one of
my sisters would lean over to me and say, “She showed out,” meaning that the woman looked
awful and should be ashamed of herself. What makes it confusing to outsiders is that we use
it to mean good things also. Mary J. Blige, dressed to kill for a concert in thigh-high boots
and a designer outfit, was also “showing out.” I remember having a conversation with an
ex-boyfriend trying to explain what the phrase “showed out” meant. He could not grasp the
concept of it; the changeability of the nature of the words eluded him, as did my explanations
of nuances and tone. He never did get it.
When we were young, my younger sister and I made up our own language. It was a
language that no one else understood then, and neither one of us remembers it now. However,
this privately shared language is still a bridge in my sometimes-difficult relationship with my
sister. I cannot recall a word of the dialect, but I remember well the many hours spent with
Iyicka in the back room of our grandma’s house debating pronunciation and spelling. I can
only wonder at the girlhood secrets and confidences so private they needed their own tongue
to express them. As we grew older, we eventually forgot the language, but we never forgot the
delight of having created an exclusive club, with just two members.
Our closeness and affection can be seen in the way we talk to one another. Ours was
always a feminine domain, and women are more intuitive than men are, which is why many of
our codes are subjective. It is not just the words that give away their meaning; we also factor in
tone, eye expressions, facial expressions, and a thousand other details seamlessly. Iyicka can tell
that I am calling to ask her about money from the way I say, “Hi, Sis.” Oneka, the oldest, can
24
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MOSAIC 2008
always tell when I have been crying, even eighteen hundred miles away. My mother somehow
always says exactly the right thing to comfort me although she might not know what problem
I am having. Our patterns of communication spotlight the closeness we have developed
as a family through shared hardship, heartache, and celebration. If others do not or cannot
understand, we forgive them. After all, we are just doing our thing.
Ginger (Acrylic Paint on Wood Panel) by Chance Cenac
MOSAIC 2008
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25
Rosie the Riveter
by
Leah Peterson
Rosie the Riveter at your service
When all the men are getting nervous.
Who will support the defense industry
For the deadliest war in history?
She will work in the lumber mill
And weld all of their armored steel
So the Allied Powers can then prevail
Really not worried if she breaks a nail
A woman that is not just a wife
The one at home helping save his life
By building guns, planes, and ships
Now with muscles to accompany those hips
18 million Rosies in World War II
Doing what women always do
Rolling up their sleeves, wiping off the sweat,
Showing them what they haven’t seen yet.
Disk Tea Pot (Ceramic) by Rusty Bouvier
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MOSAIC 2008
Untitled (Sculpture) by Brandon J. Champagne
Like Tabasco in an Ice Cream Parlor
by
Elizabeth Sanders
Receiving a letter in the mail always fills me with joy. Whether it is a Wal-Mart
birthday card with money nestled inside, a reminder from my dentist that I need a check-up, or
even a letter telling me of an award I have won, I feel a great sense of worth every time I open
the mailbox and find an envelope addressed to me. I felt better than usual in my seventh-grade
year when my journey to the mailbox revealed not one, but two letters with my name on them.
As I traveled back to the house, my thirteen-year-old mind buzzed with excitement; I clutched
the letters tightly, half expecting them to disappear. I scurried through the front door, tossing
the remaining mail on the kitchen table and giving a shout of jubilation to the rest of my
family–“Mail’s here!”
While the remaining five people searched through my discarded pile, I ran to my room,
eager to open my mail. I carefully examined the first letter. The envelope, made of a thick,
parchment-like paper, reminded me of some of the legal documents my father brought home
from his office, and the ebony print looked as if an artist had painted it. Stupefied by the
sheer beauty of the object in my hand, I thought I might find a magical golden ticket inside,
but the letter proved just as astonishing. The letter congratulated me for having been one of
the students chosen in Louisiana to participate in Duke University’s Talented Identification
Program, a program that allowed seventh-grade students to take the ACT and have their
scores compared to those of other participants around the country. It also informed me that
I was one of the students who scored high enough to attend a state level awards ceremony.
MOSAIC 2008
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27
Even as my heart whooped in victory, the letter hinted at how some children who scored
exceptionally well had the opportunity to attend a national ceremony at Duke University.
Immediately my eyes looked at the second envelope, which seemed similar to the first. I
snatched it up, ripping it open in mere seconds. The words on the paper confirmed my hopes; I
was going to North Carolina.
I hardly remember what happened next. I know my mom and I searched for the
perfect dress to wear to both ceremonies, and we found it on the bargain rack at Sears. The
cloth resembled the Louisiana sky on a cloudy midnight, navy enriched with silver glitter that
shone as a multitude of stars. I twirled in front of the full-sized mirror in the changing room,
enjoying how the changing light turned the simple silver into every color of the rainbow. I
looked and felt like a winner when I wore that dress. I vaguely recall attending the state awards
ceremony, but my thoughts occupied themselves more with the national ceremony I would
be attending in just a few weeks. As I glanced around the crowded auditorium, I wondered
who else would be going to North Carolina, which few had proven themselves worthy of
representing our great state.
The day before the national ceremony, my parents and I flew into North Carolina
aboard a Delta aircraft with comfortable seats and as many honey-roasted peanuts as a young
girl could eat. All that night I lay awake in my double-sized bed at the hotel, my anxious mind
conjuring up images of the events that were mere hours away. In the morning I felt the thrill
of adrenaline speeding through my veins. Showering quickly, I soon slipped into my sparkling
dress before glancing at myself in the mirror. The bright, cheerful face that greeted me said it
all: I was ready.
After waiting for my parents to get dressed, I scrambled into our rented vehicle, and
we drove to Duke University. When I first saw the campus, I became convinced it was a
castle. The stone block towers, complete with spiraling staircases, the various crests sewed on
colorful banners that streamed down the walls of the buildings, and the pleasant green hills on
which my family and I walked only confirmed my belief. The ceremony was being held in the
chapel, and I held open the polished wooden door for both my parents before entering myself.
Rows of welcoming pews invited me inside, while hundreds of stained glass windows colored
the sunlight red, green, and blue before allowing it to settle halo-like upon the heads of the
cheerfully chattering children. The sight struck me with awe, and for a few moments all I could
do was stare at those around me. I suddenly knew how it felt to find paradise.
When I recovered, I left my parents amongst other adults and found my seat before
glancing nervously over a program that had been provided for me. As I traveled down the
guest list from each state, I received a terrible shock; I was the only one from Louisiana. At
first I felt out of place, like a bottle of Tabasco in an ice cream parlor, but soon my selfconfidence rose. I thought of my fun-loving nature, my taste for fine cuisine, and the polite
kindness I demonstrated to adults and children alike. Who better embodied the ideals of my
home state? Two boys sat beside me, one a North Carolina native, and the other, though born
in Connecticut, represented South Carolina, his new home. The latter conversed with me until
the ceremony began. I waited on the edge of my seat until I heard my name; I walked down
the aisle with the dignity of a queen. I shook hands with the spokesman, and I received a
certificate and a large book in return. The book delighted me with its rough forest green cover
and smooth silver lettering, and I gently traced the name of Mark Twain, the author whose
works I held.
After the final person received his award, my South Carolinian friend and I looked for
our parents. We happened to run into his first, and he eagerly introduced me. His parents
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seemed open and friendly, and for a few moments I exchanged pleasantries with them.
Suddenly, his mother asked, “So, Elizabeth, where are you from?”
With a proud smile, I replied, “Louisiana, ma’am.”
Her expression instantly changed from her polite conversational mask to one of honest
bewilderment, “Oh? I didn’t think there were any smart people in Louisiana!”
If she had reached out and slapped me across the face, it would have been far less
painful. I thought of my parents, the ones who had seen my intelligence and trained me to
use it. I thought of my three siblings, each as academically gifted as I. I thought of all the
children at the state awards ceremony and all of the parents and teachers who had celebrated
in their triumph. All of those people no longer existed as individuals; they were all wrapped
into one bundle of ignorance tied with a ribbon of prejudice. Finally, I thought of the 30
I had scored on the reading portion of the ACT, the score that had insured my place at this
prestigious ceremony. My sparkling jewel of accomplishment changed to tarnished glass, and
though I smiled, inside, my soul snapped like a string of beads used in a game of tug-of-war.
Nearly suffocating under the weight of her accusation, I murmured a nonsensical apology
before hastening away to find my parents.
Those words haunted me on the return flight to Louisiana, repeating in my mind like
a devilish mantra. I thought I would cry at any given moment, but I kept on smiling because
my parents expressed only joy. I never told them of the insult, the insult that targeted not
only me, but every single person who came from the state I loved. Even when I slept, I could
not escape my sorrow. Nightmares plagued me, filled with images of beer-drinking hillbillies
watching the Super Bowl and sucking the heads of crawfish while the rest of society pointed
and laughed. When I snapped back to consciousness, my breathing came in pants. I nearly
let my tears fall, seeing that both my mother and father slept peacefully, but I touched a heavy
object in my lap that comforted me. It was the book I had received at the ceremony, flipped
open to A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. I found a kind of perverse glee in the story,
knowing that the knights knew as much about the Yankee as that Yankee knew about me.
When I returned home, I poured myself into my work. I won science fairs and
quiz bowl matches; I graduated as valedictorian both my eighth-grade year and my senior
year of high school. I gave speeches to motivate my classmates, and I decided to follow my
dream of becoming a writer. Since then, I have received several letters in that same mailbox
ranging from scholarship offers to certificates from national honors societies. With each
accomplishment, I build my case against the claim of that woman so many years ago. Let her
think that there are no intelligent people in Louisiana; I prove her wrong every time I succeed.
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Sulky Girl (Painting) by Rusty Bouvier
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Check-Up at Pap Smear Plantation
by
Anne Benoit
The gynecologist’s office
Has a porch with two rocking chairs.
No real monument or obvious history
To this converted house.
Stirrups where bedposts should be,
Almost funny bordello-style lamps
Meant to brighten
Our cold, nervous leg spreading.
The china hutch is filled with pamphlets,
And there’s a microscope in the pantry.
The clinic pretends a charm,
Has this porch and these rockers,
My daughters and mother are inside
Waiting on velvet couches,
Not a hoop skirt in sight.
And I sit outside a moment,
And I rock once, twice,
And the South clings to me
Like some thick lotion
That won’t rub in,
That won’t wash off.
People in cars
See a woman in a rocker
And have their own sense of South,
But I refuse to participate.
I sit still and think
Of women in these chairs
Before me and after me,
In a feminine façade
On this doctor-lined street
In the pit of the South,
Women cradling darkly nestled beings
Yet to be born, never to be born,
Women helplessly rocking
Their rotting insides,
Maybe a gift from a waterway to a body
Of a troublesome, unwanted heirloom,
Rocking before the exam,
The motion of their mothers
A brief, physical forgetting,
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Antiques and quaint parlors
No distraction
As they sit aware,
In this too-quiet spot,
Nothing goes as planned.
The concrete porch
Should be wooden,
And this is not a house
But a clinic is a clinic is a clinic,
No matter its pretty face.
There’s a lie on Scarlett’s tongue,
Syrup-sweet and scalpel-sharp.
There’s a wonderfully difficult anatomy
All dressed up in a pink curtain.
And Tara’s cupboards
Hold no specula.
My oldest daughter steps outside
And laughs when she sees me
In the rocking chair.
“We’re ready,” she says,
“What are you doing out here?
Drinking a mint julep or something?”
“Fiddle dee dee,” I think.
And I rush with my ladies
Out to the car
As if the Yankees were coming
Bearing bad lab results.
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The Search for Susan
by
Erin Dickey
The idea of who we are is something that we begin to develop in infancy. This
highly personal search for our own meaning continues for most people through adulthood.
We struggle to find a sense of purpose and belonging while trying to reconcile both with
acceptance of our lives. In Doris Lessing’s “To Room Nineteen,” we are introduced to Susan
and Matthew Rawlings. The Rawlings’ marriage is founded on reason and intelligence.
Determined to avoid the common pitfalls of the average marriage, they decide to make all
decisions governing their lives based solely on a practical approach to the situation. While
in theory this might seem to be a reasonable strategy, the reality is that practicality does not
always allow for personal ideals. Susan Rawlings meets a tragic end in the story, leading the
reader to ponder whether she’s gone mad before her death. However, when we look a little
closer at the underlying clues in the story, we find that she’s not mad, but lost. Susan goes
through various stages of self-renewal and has a progressively more difficult time adapting to
the changes she chooses, as well as the ones society inflicts upon her.
Susan and Matthew marry in their late twenties. Being more mature than most
newlyweds, they have each already grown into a sense of themselves. Both have had previous
relationship experiences, successful careers, and established homes. This is the first in a series
of identity changes that leads Susan to her impending death. The transformation for Susan
is subtle. She goes from being a self-sufficient single woman to being Matthew’s loving wife.
However, the idea that her daily routine changes very little allows her to maintain a healthy
sense of self-worth. The change is enjoyable and well managed for Susan. She is happy being
half of “a popular young married couple” (2543). Unfortunately, the changes that are still to
come are considerably more complex.
The first real indicator of trouble within Susan comes after she and Matthew have
children. Susan gives up her successful career because “children need their mother to a certain
age, that both parents knew” (2544). She is no longer the independent woman she knows
as herself. She is now completely dependent on Matthew not only for financial support, but
also for social and emotional support. He is her only connection with a world that she had
successfully immersed herself in prior to her current role as “hub-of-the-family” (2547).
Though she loves her children, she begins to question the validity of the arrangement.
Feeling irrational, she comforts herself by reasoning that she changes for the love that she
and Matthew have for each other: “Yes, it was around this point, their love, that the whole
extraordinary structure revolved” (2543). She accepts that her new place in life is to be
Matthew’s wife and the mother of their four children. She has come to reason that “her soul
was not her own, as she said, but her children’s” (2546). She’s already beginning to rationalize
and suppress her need for something more. In accepting the typical role that society has told
her she should play, Susan becomes submissive to the male-dominated society in which she once
took an active part.
Susan’s already fragile identity takes a significant blow when Matthew confesses to
sleeping with a girl after a party. Susan forgives Matthew and allows him to move on from
the ordeal. Though she and Matthew had joked that they of course would not be able to be
faithful to each other for an entire lifetime, the affair leaves her questioning everything she’s
come to accept about her life. She finds herself thinking that if this is her husband’s first time
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in ten years, “either the ten years’ fidelity was not important, or she isn’t” (2545). However,
she quickly discounts these feelings and forces herself to move past the situation. The ordeal
leaves Susan struggling to understand the situation she finds herself in. If her marriage is not
what it is supposed to be, then what does that say about her? Instead of working through the
emotional ramifications of Matthew’s infidelity, she uses reason to explain her natural feelings
of betrayal in an attempt to avoid the difficult outcome that irrational emotions cause. In doing
this, she draws herself away from the family to which she has given so much of herself.
When Susan takes her two youngest children to their first day of school, she returns
home to find her insecurity waiting for her. Without the constant distraction of the children,
Susan is forced to acknowledge the demons that are eating away at her. She retreats to the
garden outside her home in an attempt to find shelter from the nagging self-awareness that is
beginning to haunt her. In her examination of the story, Glenna Bell enlightens us to the color
imagery. She states that Lessing uses “white to intensify the representation of the house as
the embodiment of Susan’s inescapable existence” (181). She goes on to say that “the ‘emerald
grass’ and the ‘brown river’ of the garden typify the naturalness of a fertile and productive
life—the antithesis of Susan’s ‘colorless,’ structured, and barren subsistence” (181). Susan is
becoming a stranger to herself. Her life is not what she expected to get out of making careful
decisions. She is plagued by feelings that she deems irrational. Her inner consciousness is
begging her to become someone other than the person she decided to be. Literary critic Linda
Halisky acknowledges that Susan is “no longer the self she set herself willingly, sensibly,
reasonably to become” (49). Throughout the children’s holidays from school, Susan again forces
herself to behave “with a controlled decency that nearly drove her crazy” (2549) even while
looking forward to the time when they will go back. The responsibilities that have tortured
Susan through the whole of her married life seem to prohibit her from progressing into a more
gratifying and fulfilling identity. The housekeeper, the children, and Matthew consistently pull
her back into the roles she doesn’t seem to fit any longer.
Eventually, Susan starts searching for a place to hide. She wants to hide from the
family who still expects her to be the person she has always been, as well as wanting to hide
from the very part of herself that tells her she isn’t that person any longer. Halisky writes
that Susan “chooses retreat rather than confrontation” (47). The old Susan is gone, and in her
place is a woman wrought with emotions and ideals that she does not feel entitled to. Instead,
she rationally suppresses the uncomfortable monster raging within her and deems herself
a “madwoman” (2555). Halisky agrees when she states that Susan is looking for “alienation
from the self she has carefully, rationally defined” (47). She isn’t capable of being a wife and
mother and wants desperately not to be the irrational mess that she has become. Her sanctuary
comes in the form of room nineteen at Fred’s Hotel. Susan begins visiting the room three
times a week. Eventually, the isolation of herself from the accountability of her home, and all
that resides within it, drives her to talk Matthew into hiring an au pair. This enables her to
retreat to the stillness of room nineteen every day. This movement towards isolation further
distances Susan from the responsibility of knowing who she is or even who she should be. She
has created a new peaceful identity as Mrs. Jones, who, Halisky writes, “spends an inordinate
amount of time hugging the solace of her own solitude” (47). Bell writes that the drab green
curtains and bedspread “constitute an artificial surrogate for the natural green of the garden”
(180). However, Susan’s attempts to savor the barrenness of her artificial freedom are thwarted
when Matthew hires a private detective to locate her. The anonymity of the room is gone for
her. She no longer makes daily visits. Susan returns home and assumes the same identity she
outgrew so long before. She makes several trips to room nineteen searching for the isolation
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33
that comes with being Mrs. Jones, but instead all she finds is the stain of Susan Rawlings and
her irrational madness.
The last piece of evidence that Susan has totally shut herself away from the world
comes when Matthew admits that he has been having an affair with Phil Hunt. In questioning
Susan about what she’s been doing in Fred’s Hotel, Matthew inadvertently gives Susan the
message that he would prefer that she was having an affair rather than knowing the truth about
her emotional condition. He even goes so far as to suggest that Susan and her imaginary lover
have a foursome with Phil and himself. The realization that there is no longer any reason for
her to be Susan Rawlings shatters the last fragment of her identity. She is able to return to
room nineteen and find the peaceful Mrs. Jones waiting. Susan Rawlings is gone. Lessing
writes Susan’s last moments with an air of relief. Her battle is over, and now she can rest.
Every change in Susan Rawlings’ life means a change in whom Susan was allowed to be.
Each time she altered the concept of who she was, she left a piece of herself behind. Susan is
never able to pick up all the pieces before she was expected to be somebody new. She handles
each change with more difficulty than the one before. When looking back to try to find the
turning point where Susan begins her downhill slide, there are many ideas to speculate on. She
has a passionless marriage, a sedentary daily routine, and memories of a time when she was
more productive and happy. Or, perhaps, Susan herself points out her fatal error when she says,
“from the moment I became pregnant for the first time I signed myself over, so to speak, to
other people” (2547).
Works Cited
Bell, Glenna. “Lessing’s ‘To Room Nineteen.’” Explicator 50.3 (1992): 180-83.
Halisky, Linda H. “Redeeming the Irrational: The Inextricable Heroines of ‘A Sorrowful Woman’ and ‘To Room Nineteen.’” Studies in Short Fiction 27.1 (1990): 45-54.
Lessing, Doris. “To Room Nineteen.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Vol. 2. 7th ed. Ed. M. H. Abrams. New York: Norton, 2000. 2542-64.
Self-Portrait in Shadows (Silver Gelatin Print) by Cory Michael Burgess
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Faceless (Acrylic Painting on Wood Panel) by Chance Cenac
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35
The Funeral Club (Novel Excerpt)
by
Jena McCoy
“So, I’m Marti, and I don’t want to be here,” I said, and then paused to hear her
response. It took her a minute to get it.
“Oh. . . “ she finally said. She looked nervous and even scared of me. “Well, I’m Zoey
and I, um, had to come here so. . .I’m here.”
“Yeah.” I looked at her with confusion. Where was her emotion? “Parents made you?”
“What? Oh, no. My grandmother did.” She didn’t make eye contact. “She knew the,
um. . . .”
“Dead woman,” I said.
“Y-yeah.” She looked down. “They were friends.”
At that moment, an angry-looking, tall brunette dragging along a pathetic-looking boy
came charging toward the two of us. I, for some reason, didn’t budge. Zoey looked terrified
and dodged halfway behind me, as if the woman would run right over her if she didn’t.
“Here are some kids your own age. Now talk to them and stop embarrassing your father
and me! We will go home later! Now, behave yourself !” she yell-whispered to the blank face of
the boy and then stormed away.
We were left with a handsome, albeit gloomy boy around our age. He was unfazed by
the scolding from his mother in front of two strangers, as if it happened all the time. He gave
a lethargic sigh and turned toward us.
“That bitch would be sorry if I told this entire crowd that I was gay,” he said, “which I
would honestly love to do, just to see her face. Fuck the consequences.”
I laughed openly at the statement while Zoey turned a shade paler than she had been.
She looked nervously around as if someone were watching her interact with this strange
specimen of a male who spoke ill of his mother and used such vile profanity.
“How’s that for embarrassment, mother?” he directed his last word behind him before
turning back to us. “So, the dead chick was my father’s client. What’s the story with you two?”
I liked him immediately. I was drawn to his anger just as I had been drawn to Zoey’s
insecurity. It was dysfunction that intrigued me, and these two had plenty of it. Something
told me that we would need one another some day. So I kept it going.
“I’m Marti, and the woman was my dad’s teacher.” I saw him nod and turn to hear Zoey
respond.
“Oh, hi, I’m Zoey. She was my grandmother’s friend.” She finished quickly. Apparently
she didn’t like talking about death. How normal. It almost made me sick, but it kept me
interested in her. What could have made her this way?
“Okay, cool,” the boy said. “I’m Jacob, I hate my parents, and you are now the only two
people who know that I’m gay. Congratulations.”
It was then that the game was born. I went next.
“I witnessed my own dog get hit by a car two weeks ago.” The admittance surprised me.
I hadn’t talked about it since it happened. Jacob got the idea and took another turn.
“I once overheard my parents call me a mistake.” He had a victorious look about him
after he said it. I thought I had won, and I gave him a challenging glance in return. The
staredown lasted a few more seconds.
“My grandmother thinks that my dead grandfather’s soul is in her cat, which she makes
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MOSAIC 2008
me call grandpa, and I have to treat it like a person. If I don’t, she cries and asks me why I
don’t love him any more and says that God would be ashamed of me.” Zoey looked from me to
Jacob with a mixture of uncertainty and hope.
There was a moment of silence.
“You win,” I said, raising both my hands in defeat.
“Yeah,” Jacob said, mimicking my hand motion.
Zoey smiled in her victory as something sparked in her. A bit of pride had come out
of the pain that fueled her silence. Jacob laughed at her reaction, displaying the first trace of
happiness in him that day. And I felt this thing in my chest, something I’m still unsure of when
I look back on it. Maybe if I were to give it a clichéd definition, it would be happiness. God,
that sweetness makes me sick, but I guess that’s all it can be called. So I found friends, and so
did they. It was a new beginning for each of us, and it had come at a funeral.
Water Landing (Photography) by Emily Verret Huffaker
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37
Carmelina Goes Snorkeling (Painting) by Rusty Bouvier
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I Guess Death Stopped for You
by
Brandon Picou
Although you could—not—stop for Death—
It seemed—he—had time to spare—
He waited for—who knows how—long—
To take you—in—his care—
We know you—wrote—while you waited—
Many things—mostly—dashes—
And sat alone—in—a tiny room—
While—life—went on—around you—
But what—if anything—did Death–do?
You made him—wait—so long—
To take you—where he wanted—to go—
He must—have done some—thing else.
Perhaps he learned—to play chess—
Or perhaps—to chariot race—
Maybe he—mastered—solitaire—
While you drew out—your days—
Which was—somewhat—selfish of you—
To make Death—wait so long—
I’m sure He—had—a great date planned—
But you—were too—busy for—Him—
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39
Lizard Cat (Sculpture) by Joseph Allen Boquet
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The Chicken
by
Trisha Marie Hukins
Once upon a Sunday dreary, another Saints loss made me weary,
No matter how they tried, they could not seem to score—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my glass storm door.
“Jehovah’s Witnesses,” I muttered, “tapping at my glass storm door.
Only this and nothing more.”
Finally I flung the storm door open, when with many a flit and flutter,
In there stepped a homely chicken that belonged to Juan next door,
Not the least cackle made she; but a large brown egg laid she,
And with the air of a nosy neighbor, pecked outside my glass storm door—
Pecked, and pooped, and nothing more.
And the chicken, never flitting, still is sitting, sometimes shitting
On the plastic lawn chair just outside my glass storm door.
My cats appear, seeming of fresh chicken dinner to be dreaming,
And the egg the chicken laid is broken, yolk oozing out upon the floor.
Christmas lights o’er her streaming, I’m throwing cornbread on the floor,
Clucks the chicken, “Give me more!”
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Head of an Older Man (Ceramic) by Cory Michael Burgess
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Hottest Man on Earth
by
Beau Himel
Failed as a plant safari guide,
Couldn’t raise an impala ranch,
Didn’t cut it as a melon farmer,
So this was his chance!
Determined to make a name for himself,
A world record he planned to set:
The man with the hottest body temperature
People were sure not to forget.
The leathery man sat in the sun
During the hottest time—noon to three.
Burning to 106.6 degrees
Relaxing and sipping tea.
Doctors say he’s insane,
It’s not a smart thing to do.
He just wanted to make his mum happy,
Earning a degree or two.
If I Were a Shoe
by
Erin Dickey
If I were a shoe
Which would I be?
Would I be a clog
Dancing under a tree?
Maybe a heel,
Spinning in place.
Perhaps a boot
Taking up space.
What about a slipper
Gliding around?
Could I be a loafer
Treading the ground?
Hmmm. . .
I think what’s important
In a shoe’s role
Isn’t its style,
But what makes up the sole.
MOSAIC 2008
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43
A Twisted Little Red
by
Travis LaBouve
Little Red was the newest member of the Louisiana Special Victims Unit (SVU). Her
real name was Cassie, but the department code-named her Little Red because of her short red
hair. Her unit assigned her to a very special case in which an old lady known as Granny was
part of a drug conspiracy and was also a prime suspect in a set of mysterious animal slaughters
being investigated by the SVU and the ASPCA.
“What if it’s just a sport or collection of sorts?” she asked the chief.
“Little Red, if you want to keep your job, you’ll investigate. No one would kill a wolf
for fun. Go out to her cabin and question her. See what she has to tell you. We need evidence
to make an arrest.”
“Who is this old Granny, anyway? She can’t be that dangerous.”
“She goes by the name Big Betty. Use your code name if anyone asks your name; we
want to protect your true identity. Also, if anyone asks where you’re going, just tell him or her
you’re going to your granny’s. Bring this basket with you. We want you to try and buy the
drugs. Then offer her this meat for sale as bait to catch wolves and other wildlife. Call us as
soon as you make the sale so we can get out there and make the bust. We have armed officials
scattered throughout the woods. Just radio in so we know you’re ready.”
So Little Red set out. She had to speak with the old woman even if just to question her.
But Little Red had her reservations.
On the pathway to the cottage, she ran into a woodsman.
“Where do you think you’re going, hot thang?”
“I’m Little Red.”
“You sure are red. Red hot.”
“Sir, if you don’t mind, I’m going to my granny’s cottage to visit her as she is sick.”
“Ain’t nobody in these parts. I think you’re lost. It ain’t safe for a sexy little dame like
you to be here alone.”
“Excuse me,” she said. “I really should be on my way.”
“Here’s my cell phone number. Call me if you need anything. I do mean anything.” He
winked and walked off.
Meanwhile there was a knock at Granny’s door. Granny opened the door, and there
stood a wolf.
“So,” he said, “you kill, stuff, and mount my family?”
Granny looked perplexed. “You’re a dumb wolf. You can’t talk!”
“Shut up! Let me in, you old hag!” The wolf pushed the old lady down, kicking the
door shut behind him. “Big Betty, you frail little mouse.” He grabbed her, thanked God for his
meal, and devoured the poor woman in minutes.
As he licked his lips, there was a knock at the door. It was Little Red.
“Excellent,” said the wolf. “Dessert is here.” He hurried to the bed, slipping into
Granny’s nightie and cap.
“Come in, dear.”
Little Red came in, placed her things on the table. “Big Betty, my name is Little Red.
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Look, I came here from the Louisiana SVU office. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Are you here for some weed?”
Well, that was easy, thought Little Red. Time to move from drugs to wolf-slaying.
“Why do you have so many wolf heads and furs around here?”
“The better to remember my family, dear.”
“What did you say?”
The wolf, realizing that he had slipped, was quick to think. “Uh, I said, the better to. . .
uh, I mean. . .I think they’re such beautiful creatures. Don’t you?”
Little Red approached the bed slowly. This lady doesn’t look so good, she thought to
herself. “Why, Granny, what big eyes you have.”
“The better to see you with, my dear, but my, how they are failing me.”
“Granny, what big ears you have.”
“Did you say something, dear? My Miracle Ear’s been malfunctioning.”
“Ma’am, what happened to your teeth?”
“I had to sharpen them the better to eat you with, you little tramp!” He leapt out of bed
and began to chase her around the room.
She yanked her phone out in a panic and thumbed the button to call the SVU office.
“May Day! May Day! Christmas Day! Columbus Day! Get your damn butts out here! Code
Red!” She ran outside and found a tree branch lying on the ground. She picked it up and
smacked the wolf with it right on the nose.
“I’ll negotiate with you if you stop running.”
She didn’t believe that garbage. She reached into the basket for the wolf bait meat and
whacked him smack in the eye.
“What the hell, you little bitch!” He raced to her faster than ever, knocking her to the
ground. He knelt over her, slapped her, then kissed her, and then he said, “Dear God, thank you
for this meal which I am about to receive. AMEN.”
Then a gunshot was heard, and he fell over.
“You’re welcome,” an undisclosed voice said.
As the wolf was lifted off of her, there stood the woodsman. “So, now, how about
dinner and a movie?” She finally caved in, and since Betty was slipping through the wolf ’s
digestive tract and she had no family, SVU donated the cottage to the Animal Rights League,
where the stuffed corpse of the wolf stood out front.
In Memory of
Travis LaBouve
Student, Musician, and Friend
August 27, 1980 – February 10, 2008
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45
School Abandoned (Photography) by Julie Marie Guerrera
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MOSAIC 2008
The Best Part of Waking Up
by
Heath Santiny
There was a time when the main reason for waking up was that I could not sleep
anymore. The only thing that scared me was the thought of missing something if I
didn’t make it to the club early enough. I had my work, but it was merely a means of
financing my off time. My wife was, and continues to be, a driving force in my life. My
wife, sleeping, and partying were the three main ingredients that made up the “Heath
Santiny soup.”
A turning point in my life occurred on a foggy fall morning. The date was
October 21, 2003. Immediately following a series of pushes, a couple of grunts, and
a few curse words, Ethan Santiny graced us with his presence. The first sight of my
firstborn son sparked a love that I had never felt before. The tears of joy that fell
down my cheeks permanently bonded me to a relationship that is sure to expand in the
future.
I still remember the drive home from the hospital. My hands practically made
impressions on the steering wheel from holding it so tight. My shoulders ached from
the nervous tension boiling inside of me. Every corner and vehicle on the road seemed
to be testing my parental driving skills. After a long thirty minutes of driving, the
house came into sight. Little did I know that many sleepless nights were in store for
my wife and me. All of a sudden we were smashed between the acid reflux train and
the colic express. We needed to stay up with the baby while he cried. Unfortunately,
there wasn’t anything that we could do to help him except hold him tight while trying
to absorb some of his pain. This also meant that you need to expect the unexpected.
Sometimes we would play with him and expect a smile, yet we would get a projectile of
spit that would shoot from his mouth like a Civil War cannon ball.
Everything changed around the sixth or seventh month when, to our surprise,
the spitting up came to a halt. The crying changed to smiling and laughing, and
the spitting changed to baby talk. I remember the first time he rolled over onto his
stomach; I was unbelievably proud of him. Many would not believe the gastronomical
hurdle that had just been leaped. It did not take long for him to progress to the handsand-knees-rock, either. This looks like a small car stuck in the mud, obvious effort but
with no forward progress. Before our eyes our little flower had blossomed into a blondhaired, blue-eyed cutie that surpassed anything I had ever seen.
At this point, he is providing us more entertainment then ever before. I
remember when he was beginning to walk; I was scared that he would fall and hurt
himself. Now he runs through the house throwing the remote control at whatever he
thinks deserves it, whether it be me, April, the door, or even Buddy the dog; our worry
is now what he will hurt. It amazes me that in fifteen months he has developed such
a personality. The best word to describe it would have to be “president.” He is the
boss; if you don’t know it at first, he will quickly show you. It may be something as
noticeable as what I like to call his “grab-and-pull.” He zones in on an object that you
have in your hand and decides he wants it. He shoots across the room, and before you
know it, you’re empty-handed. Another method he likes to use is his “here-are-yourshoes-now-let’s-go.” I will be sitting on the sofa as Ethan runs in from the bedroom
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47
with a set of midnight black pumps. To the untrained eye, this may seem puzzling, but
I know it’s his way of telling me to take him outside.
At this point of my life, Ethan is the absolute center of my thoughts and reason.
The reason I work offshore is to provide for him. I am trying to further my education
in order to gain a position that allows me to come home every night to him. I want
to provide more than just money for him; I want to provide emotional and physical
support. To be able to kiss your son goodnight every night is something many take for
granted. When I’m away from Ethan, I feel empty. Before Ethan, I was afraid that if I
didn’t make it out early enough I would miss something. Now, I’m afraid that if I go
out I will miss something that Ethan says or does. My life has changed, and nothing
makes me happier.
Long Journey Ahead (Photography) by Emily Verret Huffaker
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MOSAIC 2008
A Lady Friend
by
Callie Dubois
Conway Twitty was my only comfort in the back of that Chevy S-10. Since the only
songs we ever listened to were sung by him, I had developed an unnatural liking for him at the
age of seven.
“You’ve got a way of doing little things that turn me on, like standing in the kitchen in your
faded, cotton gown. Oh darling, how I’d love to lay you down.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I
sang it anyway. His voice was calming, and it would almost make me forget where I was going.
“Luke! When we get to Carolyn’s house, will you play in the front yard with me?”
While I was asking, I was also poking him in his side, squeezing my hand between the door and
seat. I knew it was aggravating him.
“I might play with you if you stop touching me. But I’ll definitely play with you if you
ask Carolyn why she’s such a Jesus freak.”
“OK! What do you want to play?”
“Damnit Luke! Stop calling Carolyn a Jesus freak! And stop saying those things to your
sister!”
Our dad had suddenly re-discovered religion. He had signed up for a religious retreat
because one of his friends had gone to one alone and had returned home with a “lady friend.”
Somehow, all of the people that were attending the retreat, the people that were actually
religious, thought our dad was being sincere. He was quite the actor. A man filled with shit,
some would say. He also returned home with a “lady friend.” Her name was Carolyn, and her
short hair always framed her face perfectly. She attended Mass on a regular basis. My dad
would take us to church not because he wanted to hear the Gospel, but because he wanted to
show the town what a wonderful parent he was.
“Bless his heart! He’s such a great father! Bringing those poor little children to church
alone like that. How could his wife ever leave such a man?” That’s what he would have liked to
believe was said anyway.
“Callie doesn’t even know what Jesus freak means, Dad. Besides, she wouldn’t actually
ask Carolyn that. You just need to calm down.”
“That’s not the point, Luke. It’s disrespectful to call someone that. You wouldn’t call
your mother a freak and. . .”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t call Mom that. But this woman is not my mother.”
I was tired of listening to them argue, so I reached forward and raised the volume on
the radio.
“You want a man with a slow hand. You want a lover with an easy touch. You want somebody
who will spend some time, not come and go in a heated rush. Baby, believe me, I understand when it
comes to love you want a slow hand.”
Luke and I were stretching our legs on the side of the truck when we heard the front
door open.
“Hi! Both of you came! This is great! Give me hugs! I have a surprise for both of you.
I bought something today that I think you’ll like. It’s waiting in the living room! Go check it
out!” Luke couldn’t have cared less, but I ran inside as fast as I could. I had so many ideas of
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49
what it could have been. A Nintendo? Some books? Movies?
“Grrrrrrr.” Where was that coming from? I turned and saw a dog running towards
me from down the hallway. I ran back outside as fast as I could. She couldn’t have bought me a
dog! That would be like me buying her. . .the devil! I was terrified of dogs!
Luke started laughing when he saw me run back outside. She had told him what the
surprise was since he wasn’t interested enough to walk into the house.
“Dad! There’s a dog inside, and he tried to bite me! He chased me through the house
and tried to bite me! I want to go home!” I knew it wasn’t going to convince him to drive me
back home, so I decided to exaggerate the story.
“Maybe he chased you because he doesn’t know you. You should walk back inside to
meet him. Let him smell you, and show him that you’re not there to hurt him. Luke, go and
make sure he doesn’t bite her.” We knew that meant he just wanted us to leave him alone so he
could be gross and kiss Carolyn.
I followed Luke inside, holding onto the back of his shirt. I was prepared to climb up
his back if the dog came by me again.
“Hey dog! Where are you, you little shit? Come out! Callie wants to play with you!”
We could hear his toenails on the floor, but we couldn’t see him. All of a sudden, a piece of his
white-tipped tail was poking out from under the sofa. He crawled out backwards. Luke walked
over to pick him up. When I finally looked at him, I decided that he wasn’t too ugly. He was
cute, actually. He was black with a white mustache.
“I wonder what his name is.”
“Probably God.”
“I’m going ask.” I stuck my head out the front door and yelled across the driveway to
where Carolyn and Dad were standing.
“What’s the name of your dog? Is it God?” For some reason, my dad gave me a mean
look. Carolyn made a funny face.
“No, silly! His name is Rico! Isn’t he precious?” I did agree with that, but I didn’t let
her know it. I wanted to play with him, but I was scared. I walked back into the living room.
“Luke, you’re so dumb. His name is not God. His name is Rico.” He started laughing.
“Did you really ask her that? You’re such a dumbass! I knew that wasn’t his name! Dad
is going to be so pissed!”
“Why? I didn’t do anything. Where’s Rico? Can you hold him so I can pet him? I
don’t want him to bite me.”
Luke started looking for the puppy. By the time he found him again, Dad and Carolyn
had walked into the house. Dad was throwing fire bullets at Luke with his eyes.
“Hey Dad! Luke is going to hold Rico so I can pet him. He just told me he would!”
“You’re such a liar. I didn’t say that. I’m not going to hold a dog all night for you to
pretend like you’re playing with him. Just hold him yourself.”
“Luke, you’re going to hold Rico so Callie can play with him.” Dad looked very angry.
“Don’t listen to Luke! He really did say he’d do it. He’s just being. . .a dumbass.” My
dad turned to stare at Luke again.
“So, Callie, I hear that you like to sing? Your dad told me that he has a cassette player
in his truck. Do you think you’d like to listen to something besides Conway Twitty? He told
me that you love Conway Twitty! You can look through my collection if you want to.” I was
starting to get tired of the old country songs. I followed her into her bedroom.
“I love The Beatles! Paul is my favorite. I have all of their music on cassette tapes. You
can borrow those, but please be careful with them! Do you want to listen to a song?”
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MOSAIC 2008
“Yeah!”
“I’ll buy you a diamond ring my friend, if it makes you feel all right. I’ll buy you anything my
friend, if it makes you feel all right. For I don’t care too much for money, for money can’t buy me love.”
“I like it! It’s not like Conway Twitty. Can I really borrow your favorite tapes? I
promise I won’t mess them up!” I was proud that she was giving me such a big responsibility.
The two of us walked into the living room to rejoin my dad and brother.
“Callie, I found Rico. Come pet him. I’m going to hold him for as long as you want.”
Luke didn’t seem very excited about it, but I sure was! For the first few minutes, I just looked
at Rico without touching him. He didn’t look like a biter. When I had finally built up the
courage to pet him, he didn’t even move. He just sat still in Luke’s lap.
“Can I hold him?” Luke looked at me like I was stupid and then put Rico on my lap. He
sat still and stared up at me. I let him sit there for a while before petting him. When I did start
to pet him, he curled up in my lap and closed his eyes.
“He likes me! Look! I’m holding a dog! And he’s not biting me!” I sat still because I
didn’t want to disturb him. I sat with him in my lap until it was time to go home.
“Luke, Callie–tell Carolyn goodnight. We have to leave now.” Luke nodded in her
direction and walked outside. Dad shot more fire at him.
“Carolyn? Can I come visit Rico tomorrow?”
“That’s sweet. You can visit anytime! Maybe I’ll visit you sometime soon. I’m sure
Rico would like to visit, too!” Why would she even suggest a visit without Rico? Did she want
to spend time with me? She gave me a hug, and I climbed past Luke to get into the tiny cab. He
shut the door.
“You’re such a kiss-ass. What the hell were you asking her to come back for? Do you
really want to ride back there for a whole hour to play with a dog? You don’t like her, do you?”
I was scared of what Luke would say if I told him the truth.
“I don’t like her. She’s stupid.” He seemed to like that answer. Dad had finished with
his nasty goodbyes and had gotten into the truck.
“Dad? Can we listen to The Beatles on the way back home? Carolyn told me they were
‘kick-ass.’” Dad turned to Luke as if he was about to scream at him.
“Yeah, Callie. You can listen to them.”
“OK! Let me pick one real fast!” I thumbed through her collection, not knowing which
songs were good or bad, and picked the prettiest cassette case. I took the tape out and handed
it to Luke.
“Be careful, these are really important!” He gave me the stupid look one more time and
shoved the tape in.
“Asked a girl what she wanted to be. She said, Baby! Can’t you see? I wanna be famous, a star
of the screen. But you can do something in between. . .”
“Chipper is rounding second, third. . .heading for home. . .he’s safe!” I was jumping up and
down in the living room when Carolyn walked in.
“What do you want to eat for supper? I was thinking of having some salad and then
some spaghetti? Your dad won’t be much longer, so when he gets home we can ask him, too.”
“That sounds good to me. If you need any help, just knock on my door. The game
just ended, and I’m going to start my homework. Do you know if Luke is coming over to eat
tonight?”
“I’m not sure. Your dad didn’t say anything about him coming. You can call and invite
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51
him over.” I gathered my books and brought them into my bedroom. Rico followed me and sat
down by my feet.
There was a time when I would have never offered to help Carolyn for any reason. After
I passed my awkward years of hating her one day and liking her the next, I began to realize she
wasn’t so bad. She had turned into my lady friend (in this case, only meaning a lady that was
my friend) and my dad’s wife. She had moved into our house, along with Rico. She realized I
didn’t need her to be a “mother” to me. I already had a great one. I didn’t need two. We had
those late nights playing cards, eating pizza, and talking about boys. She became a great friend.
And how convenient that she lived in my house!
“I realized that I didn’t have as much homework as I thought. You want me to start the
salad?”
“That would be great! I just talked to your Dad on the phone, and he said spaghetti
sounds good to him, too. Do you mind if I play country music tonight?”
“Not at all. I’ll listen to anything but Conway Twitty!” Carolyn agreed and then
walked out of the kitchen.
“Are you ready? This guy is no Paul, but he is good looking!” I walked into the living
room and Carolyn pushed play.
“Well, I went down to the Grundy County Auction. Where I saw something I just had to have.
My mind told me I should proceed with caution. But my heart said, ‘Go ahead and make a bid on that!’
And I said, Hey! Pretty Lady, won’t ya gimme a sign. . . .”
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MOSAIC 2008
A Supermarket in Louisiana
by
Anne Benoit
What few thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman.
I do not sing the body electric. Nothing wonderful to send over the rooftops, no.
A tired poet am I, in a tired place, pushing my cart next to another man’s smug silence.
We walk these aisles lifelessly; light shines from freezer doors. We’ll both be lonely.
At one time, he would laugh here. He placed bottles of wine in our cart then,
Winking about later, when the kids are asleep, later; wink, wink.
Tonight we go through the motions; we get essentials, we are quiet, we are ending.
At one time he ran the aisles just to make me laugh; tears came as he ran to gather coupons
From automatic dispensers, again and again. It was adorable when he was only acting childish.
We stroll down the freezer section, short words passing, attitude building, something snapping.
I reach over the frozen delicacies and I turn—where were we going? You are not my Angel.
I turn and tell him plainly, “You are truly an asshole.”
He leans in, the love of my life, jaw clenched and eyes joyless,
He leans in and he sneers when he says,
“Why don’t you go write a poem about it?”
Thirteen (Photography) by Emily Verret Huffaker
MOSAIC 2008
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53
Crossing Paths
by
Jacob Roby
I’m walking on the sidewalk
Outside Beauregard Hall
When I see you in the distance
Wearing a yellow shawl.
That shawl was a gift I gave you
For your eighteenth birthday
Long ago when we were sweethearts,
Yet you wear that today?
I thought you burned that in a rage
Soon after we last spoke
When I walked away unconcerned
Of the heart I just broke.
Yet you wear that now as you walk
My way and I walk yours
Along with others hurrying
To take their seats indoors.
What will you say when we cross paths?
Will you greet or curse me?
I hurt you and felt no remorse,
I’m sure you’re still angry.
Time seems to slow as you walk by.
Our shoulders nearly touch,
But you ignore me as I pass
You don’t even so much
As acknowledge my existence
With a nod or a smile
So, I just keep walking to class,
Which seems like a mile.
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MOSAIC 2008
Untitled 2 (Sculpture) by Brandon J. Champagne
MOSAIC 2008
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55
Citrus Crush
by
Tristan Robert
I wish to be an orange. I want my skin to be
As its leather: protective and sun. I could sit with
John and Granny Smith all day, cradled gently by
Canary arms. My life would be to wait and sit
Until some shadow tells of Rapture,
Then to tremble, back from days of wind
And branches, still sitting as twilight tonight
Descends and is reborn into the light.
Take me back, back, to that warm womb!
Instead, slow torture as I’m flayed after every soft
Caress. I do not know, would I rather it be quick as a
Tanner or this slow lizard’s shedding, eager and anxious
Of what may come next. Without my hide, I have no
Resistance against that cruel probing of my center
And that rising to vermillion gates. Would that I
Were as wanted as an orange.
World Weight (Ink Drawing and Watercolor) by Andrea Dupree-Cenac
56
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MOSAIC 2008
Orchids
by
Brandon Picou
Orchids blooming in a vase
On the table, in the living room
Of a man who lives alone.
The vase is smooth, sound,
Sturdy and lacquered. The clay he used
To make it does the trick quite well.
He’d always chosen well, when he built
His designs, the artist. Only the best.
The best clay for the best vase.
She had liked orchids, the woman
Who used to live with the man
But now lives with no one.
Her vase was not so well built;
He did not put his best into it.
He was careless with her, his flower,
So the water fell through the cracks
He left, and she wilted, dried up, and
Her petals fell to the ground.
MOSAIC 2008
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57
Untitled (Silver Gelatin Print) by Ashleigh Arceneaux
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MOSAIC 2008
Ref lection on Ref lections
by
Nathan Folse
With solemn sags and risings you disrobe behind the door
To separate the sock from pants, the shirt from underwear—
When stepping to the shower past the mirror makes you stare—
The first true love of Eve* appears, the multi-suited whore,
Now opposite Narcissus, but no less self-absorbed.
You look into the frozen water, pondering the One
Forbidden by your eyes to see—or hidden for their good—
And knowledge of the difference never fully understood—
Adam stares in naked splendor at his long-befallen son,
The apple in his throat descends with all the ill it’s done—
Now leaving from the symmetry of imperfection’s guise,
With hope a bath will wash the wisdom stained upon your face,
Will cleanse the selfish thoughts of self-infesting former grace—
But grace is sin without the gaze of some opposing eyes,
And wisdom bears no fruit but for the wicked to be wise—
So solemnly you dry and dress and step outside the door
In vain and venial vapors, still no cleaner than before—
The steam upon the mirror shows the passion of your sin,
As every fallen line reveals the lust of looks within.
_____________
*From Milton’s Paradise Lost, Eve’s first memories are of seeing her reflection in a stream, which caused her to fall
in love with her own beauty before meeting Adam.
MOSAIC 2008
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59
The Sick Sense
by
Nathan Folse
Ghosts of thought swim like smoke in the face of my reason,
Ascending to vanish—Asphyxiate flames—
Singing the surface of shallow gray pits
Where the long-buried brains still meander the earth—
Open eyes and raised palms follow figments of form,
Not by light but the signals of shadows ahead.
Acrid air stings the tongues of the tasteless crowd
All consuming the fumes of their fellow dead.
Sense the sounds of dull perception
Flood the streets in blind procession
Gathering amongst the graves,
Their hollow hurting hearts unheard.
Since Truth was severed from the Word,
Their souls became his slaves.
Now unaware they stand and stare,
Caressing cold and lifeless stones—
A texture lacking substance feeds
Their need to feel the fog.
Scents of pine and lemon fragrance
Hide the musk of mindless vagrants
As the furthest shadow flickers toward the all-deceiving dawn,
The ghosts depart their scenery in one collective yawn
To channel all the energy their apathies evoke,
And swimming into subtle skies, they vanish with the smoke.
****
Growing thoughts pulse with life as the grace of my reason
Ascends from the ashes—the decadent flames
Disappear as my senses resurface
And now, with a purpose, describe their rebirth:
Feel your wisdom’s warm reflection
Drown the shadows of deception
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MOSAIC 2008
Phantoms
by
Brandon Picou
Spring births cicadas—
Sundered husks attacking trees,
Ghosts alive in sound.
Disconnection (Digital Media) by Chance Cenac
MOSAIC 2008
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61
Thoughts Like Smoke
by
Adam O’Conner
The flame, like a thought
Flares up in my pipe
Then with a show of smoke
Is promptly extinguished
The pen, like a match
Strikes the paper ad nauseum
With only a black smudge
To show for my efforts
My mind, like my lungs, billows smoke
Equal in their futility
So I throw pen and pipe both
Swearing never to touch either again
Self-Portrait (Photography) by Rusty Bouvier
62
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MOSAIC 2008
Vote for That Other Guy (Photography) by Tiffany McCullough
MOSAIC 2008
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63
Voice
by
Ross Durocher
my voice
echoing listlessly
in the dark room
that i occupy
from my mind
through my body
to the world
from the world
through my mind
to my body
it is a sword
a weapon
of mass instruction
a bomb
strapped with verbs
thrown
through the windows
of your intellect
collected over time
in dusty volumes
that take up space
in empty libraries
where transients
seek to wash their
bodies in the sink
documented in photographs
of people
in the streets
burning flags
wearing beads
condemning our nation’s deeds
wanting but never needing
to be seen
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in your bedroom
when you sleep wanting to be closer
to your calm breath
wanting to be closer
to your warm body
summing up
in sweetened sentences
the enormous awe
i have for you
summing up
in unworthy words
what i think
of your miraculous face
i give thanks to ears
for letting it be heard
even when i do not speak
i sit down silently
on the ground
and know that it is
all around me
present in springtime
flowers
present in october
leaves
present on children’s
faces
and in the handshakes
of friends
ever present
always
and
everywhere
my voice
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MOSAIC 2008