Mosaic 2007
Editors
Lauren Cenac
Elizabeth Sanders
Art Editor
Heidi Domangue
Editorial Advisors
Jackie W. Jackson
Carolyn Gorman
Tiffany Duet
Melissa Garner
Marla Bernard
Graphic Designer
Jerad David
Department Head,
Languages & Literature
David Middleton
Acknowledgements
Rusty Bouvier
Bruno Ruggiero
Wayne Molaison
Kerry Boudreaux
MOSAIC 2007
Table of Contents
Foreword
“Celebrating Mosaic. . .Again!” by John Doucet.............................................................. 4
Poetry
“Out Far” by Kristen Angelette.......................................................................................... 5
“Haiku” by Tori Louviere..................................................................................................... 5
“The Hermit Crab” by Ferrin Folkert............................................................................... 6
“Siamese Fighting Fish” by Angela R. Lovell................................................................. 6
“Bayou Teche” by Leah Peterson........................................................................................ 7
“Round One Bend” by Tristan Robert.............................................................................. 8
“Invasion” by Tristan Robert.............................................................................................. 9
“Change” by Abby Roccaforte............................................................................................. 9
“Stages of Spring” by Tori Louviere...............................................................................10
“Meditation” by Melissa Montelaro.................................................................................10
“Walt” by Devin Gene Martin...........................................................................................11
“The Two Fridas” by Anne Benoit...................................................................................12
“Mary, Mary” by Anne Benoit...........................................................................................13
“Elevator Music” by Ferrin Folkert.................................................................................15
“Hot Chocolate” by Tristan Robert.................................................................................19
“The Battle of Pleasant Hill” by Elizabeth Sanders....................................................19
“Inspiration” by Clay Melvin.............................................................................................26
“Galactica” by Elizabeth Sanders ....................................................................................27
“The Wind Blows Home” by Jonathan Lafleur.............................................................49
“A Hole in the Sky” by Adam Rouse................................................................................51
“Crash” by Leah Peterson...................................................................................................51
“Howl” by Devin Gene Martin.........................................................................................52
“Disturbing the Universe” by Adam Rouse...................................................................59
“Brainstorming” by Benjamin Duthu..............................................................................61
“Too Late Old Friend” by Jonathan Lafleur...................................................................62
“Music Pirate” by Adam Rouse.........................................................................................62
“An Open Life” by Tori Louviere......................................................................................63
“Solicitation by a Non-Practicing Catholic” by Zachary Camardelle......................64
Fiction
“Sophie” by Brandy Toups..................................................................................................14
“Eggshells” by Rosemary Ramaraj..................................................................................16
Soul Reader (Novel Excerpt) by Elizabeth Sanders......................................................32
“The Asylum” by John Ray................................................................................................34
“Death of Silence” by Brandy Toups...............................................................................50
“Not Tonight” by Raymond John Legendre III............................................................53
MOSAIC 2007
Art
“Resting” by Callie DuBois.................................................................................................. 7
“Snatched into the Cloudland of Dreams” by Heidi Domangue................................ 9
“Smoky Rays” by Heidi Domangue..................................................................................11
The Tower by Joseph Boquet..............................................................................................12
“Erath” by Callie DuBois....................................................................................................18
“Downtown” by Callie DuBois..........................................................................................24
“Bubblehead” by Andrea Dupree-Cenac.........................................................................27
“The Eyes of My Sleep” by Heidi Domangue...............................................................31
Daedalus’s Digits by Jason Naquin....................................................................................40
Eternal Sleep by Betsy Seal.................................................................................................41
“Mann Ray” by Darrick Victor.........................................................................................48
Muse: Emergence by Todd Musso.......................................................................................49
Aquatic Dreams by Erin Chauvin.......................................................................................52
“Have u seen” by Andrea Dupree-Cenac.........................................................................58
“Reoccurring Dream” by Barbara Barras.......................................................................60
An Illustrator’s Dream by Pam Boudreaux.......................................................................63
Essays
“What Gets Heard” by Nicholas Comeaux....................................................................20
“Like Every Sparrow Falling” by Clay Melvin.............................................................22
“Tempting Fate” by Rhonda Dennis................................................................................25
“Existing in Unreality” by Nathan Folse........................................................................28
“A Murder Committed–or Not?” By Moye P. Boudreaux...........................................41
“Thumbtacks and Hand Grenades” by Jason Robert Boudreaux.............................45
MOSAIC 2007
Celebrating Mosaic… Again!
It was only recently that Nicholls celebrated a milestone in the history of its official student literary magazine.
Publication of Mosaic 2004 marked the 25th anniversary of continuous publication that began in 1979. In this 28th
continuous year, with publication of Mosaic 2007, there are several new causes for celebration.
First, the true history of Mosaic begins in 1949, with a side-stapled, mimeographed publication on letter-sized
paper called Pencil Tracks. Some regard Pencil Tracks as the “predecessor” of Mosaic. But careful reading of the
Foreword to Mosaic 1966 reveals that the two titles refer to one official student literary magazine and the same,
as the student leadership decided simply to change the name. The name “Pencil Tracks” was used through 1964
for 14 editions, and the name “Mosaic” was used for the first time with the 1966 edition and until the 1968-69
edition. After a decade’s absence, Mosaic re-emerged in 1979. Therefore, Mosaic 2007 marks the 45th edition of
the magazine. In wedding circles, that nice, round number is cause for celebration: publication of Mosaic 2007
therefore marks the Sapphire Anniversary of the wedding of Nicholls students to their official literary magazine.
Second, the emergence of a student literary magazine at Nicholls in 1949 makes Mosaic one of the oldest college
student literary magazines in the state, second only to The Delta (later named Manchac and still later named The Delta
again) of LSU-Baton Rouge. That magazine began publication only two years earlier but nearly a century after the
doors of its institution had opened to students. Given that Nicholls only opened its doors in 1948, student literary
publication is much more an integral tradition here than at any other college or university in Louisiana.
Third, Nicholls students in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s didn’t simply establish the new series of Mosaic as
their legacy. Literary magazines at other state universities depend upon grants, royalties, and donations and, as a
result of this uncertain funding, go into and out of publication. In 1981, Nicholls students were prescient enough
to self-assess financial support of their magazine and thereby secure its continuity. This past spring semester, on
the 25th anniversary of that initial referendum, Nicholls students recognized the need to meet continually rising
production costs and approved a new referendum to increase self-assessed support for Mosaic. Now, students
at our university can not only continue to enjoy the magazine but also begin to celebrate the fact that they have
strengthened the literary tradition at their alma mater for future generations of students.
Each of the tens of thousands of students who have passed through the doors of Nicholls—the contributors,
editors, readers, voters, and the simply self-assessed—have all served to support Mosaic. Together with faculty
who have served as advisors and friends of the magazine, these supporters are keepers of an historic collegiate
literary tradition. Holding Mosaic 2007 in your hands now is a moment of celebration for all and for all yet to
come.
Dr. John Doucet
Associate Professor of Biological Sciences
Director of the University Honors Program
Past Student Contributor to Mosaic
MOSAIC 2007
Out Far
by
Kristen Angelette
The seagulls gathered in their raucous caucus
Far above the sun-drenched beach.
Shells crunched as I walked along the shore:
A parade of charcoal and bone-colored stone.
I moved away from the ice cream stands
With their vanilla swirls and chocolate twirls
The boardwalk echoed with the steps of tourists,
Sounding like planks crossed over with tanks.
I stopped where the trash became relics
Like sand pails from a generation long gone.
Driftwood had become petrified
And only crabs scuttled on.
I looked out upon the sea’s expanse
And remembered the poet’s words.
Knowing I could look neither out far nor in deep;
Still I was satisfied.
Haiku
by
Tori Louviere
Full moons light the way,
As anglers and trout connect
On night’s fresh waters.
MOSAIC 2007
The Hermit Crab
by
Ferrin Folkert
Poor fellow, so naked if you
Are not wearing another’s clothes,
Homeless, if you can’t find
Someone else’s vacant home.
Exposed, for your legs are always
Too long, the shell too small
To hide all of yourself when
Curious hands interrupt your crawl
And turn you upside down.
Bruised and dizzy, when they try
To shake you from your hideout.
Invaded, when fingers try to pry
You from your privacy, your safety.
Poor hermit, who can’t stay hidden.
Siamese Fighting Fish
by
Angela R. Lovell
The iridescent shades of turquoise
Magnify the liquid air,
Within the pre-fab world
Of gaudy gravel and plastic fern,
As the Siamese suspends, poised.
Fluid fins sensuously sway
With each meandering movement
Of the fierce fish fighter
As it surveys its home dome—
An Americanized display
Captured by consumerism
From Thailand’s tranquil stream
For its splendid spectrum colors
And its fighting ability—
Left to languish in a peep prison.
MOSAIC 2007
Bayou Teche
by
Leah Peterson
An early morning on the Teche,
The murky water smooth like glass.
Locks open letting current pass.
We make a wake of wave so fresh.
Fins flap, gills bubble, and tails thrust.
We still jump in when the boat stops.
With dives, toothpicks, and belly flops,
Swimming until we prune and rust.
Tying itchy ropes in oak trees,
Dangle from limbs like gator bait,
Cut like a knife with my wakeskate,
No buoys here, just cypress knees.
It’s time to head back home to land,
Stayed until the sun starts to set.
Sun-burnt, tired, and dry clothes wet,
Never envying beach or sand.
Resting (Photo) by Callie DuBois
Resting (Photo) by Callie DuBois
MOSAIC 2007
Round One Bend
by
Tristan Robert
Cherry blossoms drift
Over the waterfall’s mist
From bonsai mountains
Round one bend, then round another
A little down, then back up
First one bridge, then its brother
Over roaring water
To visit a hut with respect
Leave gifts on its doorstep,
What the ancestors expect.
With the porch newly swept
Rest there for a night, for a day
Partaking of warm sake
Tasting what one can’t convey—
Except in haiku
Replete with bound bonsai mountains
Hidden by cherry blossoms
Misted with ancient fountains,
Obscuring the village
That goes around another bend,
A little up, then some more,
Leading to bridges to mend
Over roaring waters.
MOSAIC 2007
Invasion
by
Tristan Robert
Pinecones spiral down
Forced by the strong wind; people
Pull their coats tighter.
Change
by
Abby Roccaforte
Cool breezes enter under
A rough-edged leaf.
I begin to see your bones.
Snatched Into The Cloud Land of Dreams (Photo) by Heidi Domangue
MOSAIC 2007
Stages of Spring
by
Tori Louviere
Releasing the ice, the ground begins to thaw.
The trees shake off leftover frost
To welcome new leaves.
Cold winds lose their potency,
As calm breezes take their place.
Renew the gardens, seeds are ready to bloom
Roots begin to dig and settle,
While buds await permission
To open and share their
Excitement for the new season.
The last taste of winter has disappeared.
Revitalize with sounds and smells, leave hibernation behind.
The blooms have flowered,
Chasing away the last of the desolate white.
The pollen that dances through the air
Promises of more to come,
As spring invites life with birth and renewal.
Meditation
by
Melissa Montelaro
Lying in the cold prickly grass
While watching the sun come up.
Peaks of yellow, orange, and red
Envelope the sky.
Clouds float by like cubes of ice
In a lemonade dome.
Early morning slow and quiet
Brings peace to the waking world.
We ask for what more the world
Will give to us, yet never stop
And see what is in front of our eyes.
Quiet, neon mornings
In a trance of slow-moving sky.
Soft, cool green pillow
Under our heads
And time to sip on its wonder.
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MOSAIC 2007
Walt
Dedicated to Walt Whitman
by
Devin Gene Martin
his words like the sound of wind through young oak saplings
the sound of prayer
prayer for the light of the sun and soft rains and the wind which serves to
strengthen and steady the bole. . .
because most of us are saplings, looking up through the dappled light
cast down by wise twisted branches of the older trees
and wishing ourselves to be that, to be strong and wise and home to much life
steady, dependable, hardened yet soft
soft enough to take the carved names of lovers
and hold them for the world to see.
Smoky Rays (Photo) by Heidi Domangue
MOSAIC 2007
11
The Two Fridas
by
Anne Benoit
Ellas no se miran.
Her old friend back from old pain
Back again, never far away.
She knew to take her hand
To remind her to survive.
She is the strong one,
Heart torn open, exposed,
A hemostat halting
The flood that threatens
To cover innocent skirts,
To spill the past
That always manages
To find its way out
And bring the blood of lost children
That must be held back like tears.
The other is whole
Without physical wounds,
She is the one who still wants him,
Still dresses for him,
Still feeds him,
Still waits.
She holds her frog prince infant,
That old idea of Diego,
Cradled in her lap
Like the child she never was.
There together,
Two sides of her story,
Beating broken, holding hands,
Frida connected to Frida connected
To the loss and the desire.
Pero, ellas no se miran.
The Tower (Sculpture)
by Joseph Boquet
12
MOSAIC 2007
Mary, Mary
by
Anne Benoit
The daylight always found you,
With or without your sandals,
Padding softly, running freely,
Up your slide and down again,
Grass-stained knees bending
As you select a handful of daisies
For me to make a crown or chain.
And, like two wise botanists,
You and your grandfather
Would survey the plants and trees,
Speaking in low, excited voices.
Of hummingbirds and monarchs.
You would crush rosemary in your hands
To wear its dark green scent,
Taste the basil and nod to each other,
Gather bunches of mint for tea,
Run fingers over the velvet sage
And through the ticklish parsley.
You, my wingless fairy in the leaves,
A happy sprite beneath plum trees,
Never aware that we can be uprooted,
Or that we would ever exit
The paradise playground you adored.
Transplanted to the backseat,
Surrounded by luggage and toys,
You smiled through the journey
Over mountains cool and deserts dry
To the wetlands of ancestors you never knew.
Then sunshine saw you standing
At the far limit of a chain-link fence,
The lawn, too damp for frolicking,
Full of broken concrete swells,
Bits of oyster shells, and mosquitoes not in a row,
The cars too near and racing the street,
Going 25, going 50, going 80,
Adopted you as their queen.
MOSAIC 2007
Pushing childhood into a small plot
Behind the often-checked lock of a gate.
You explored the grass on sneakered feet.
Dragonflies skimmed your ankles,
Lizards panicked and fled,
And an ever-growing pride of stray cats
The rain brought mud and folding chairs
While the singular beauty
Of great-grandmother’s magnolia
Stood strong and hopeful beside us
During those close, breezeless days
That sounded of crickets and frogs,
That smelled of turtles and moss.
Slowly, so slowly, roots labored into new
ground.
And yet—
And yet, as I watched you,
Singing and skipping from fence to fence,
Weeds and felines your faithful companions,
I saw something able, irremovable, deeply
down,
A seed to last all your days.
In your play, endless petals of daisies,
In your words, a sharp basil sweetness,
In your small hands, the remembrance of
rosemary.
You are, wherever you may go,
Hand in hand with your grandpa,
Learning the greenery, talking to
butterflies,
The finest of flowers within you,
Forever a brilliance kept and carried,
However lackluster your wonderland.
And in any garden quite contrary,
I have seen how you will grow.
13
Sophie
by
Brandy Toups
Sophie shaved her legs. I noticed as she twirled around in her new dress. “Do you like
my new dress?” She struck a pose like a woman in a magazine.
I nodded. It was beautiful.
“My daddy bought it for me today. It cost 75 dollars.” She turned and faced the fulllength mirror on her bedroom wall. She brushed her hand over her silky blond hair, smoothing
the new strands too short to be contained in the two braids that ran on either side of her head.
“Momma said, ‘That’s too much, Richard,’ but you know nothing’s too much or too good for
Daddy’s little girl.” She turned and looked at me with pity. “Maybe, whenever your daddy finds
a better job, he will buy you a nice dress, too.”
I shrugged my shoulders and gave her a half-smile and a nod. I studied her as she
grabbed a tube of pink lipstick off her vanity and smeared it on her perfect heart-shaped lips.
I longed to feel that cool tinted wax on my lips. I once asked my mother if I could have
some to wear. “Absolutely not,” she had said. “You’re too young.” I explained that Sophie was
wearing lipstick, and she was eleven just like me. “That’s a fast girl, that Sophie. You ought not
to be friends with that girl.” I tried to explain that Sophie was not a bad girl. “You don’t hear
what the other mothers say about her.”
“I would let you try some on, but it would clash with your stringy red hair. You’d look
ugly.” She closed the tube and placed it back on her vanity. “You should tell your mother to
buy you some.”
I smiled.
“Did I tell you that Joey Zeller called me yesterday?”
I shook my head.
“Well, he said he wants to take me to the movies tomorrow. His older brother said he
would drive us.”
I was so jealous. Joey was the cutest boy in the sixth grade.
“I’m so lucky. I think I’m going to wear my new dress. What do you think?”
I smiled and nodded my head. She looked gorgeous in it. Joey would definitely want to
kiss her.
“I wish you were prettier so one of his friends would ask you to go, too.”
I lowered my head, ashamed. I wish I were prettier, too. Maybe if I were prettier
Bobby Marsh would ask me to go to the movies.
She looked at my reflection in the mirror and smiled. “Don’t be sad, Lily. I’m sure
somebody will ask you to go to the movies one day. Some boys don’t care about looks.”
I nodded.
“What about Tim Young? He’s in your league.”
Tim Young always smelled and carried bugs around in a jar. He was gross.
“Yeah, I think you should call him tomorrow. Maybe he would take you to the movies if
you offered to pay for his ticket.”
The lips-shaped phone on the nightstand began to ring. Its base, a pink halo of
fluorescent light, began to flash.
“Oh, I bet that’s Joey.” She walked over to the bed and sat. She fluffed her dress, touched
her hair lightly, as if he would be able to see her. She cleared her throat and lifted the receiver.
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MOSAIC 2007
“Hello? Oh. Hi, Joey.” She looked over at me and smiled, excited. “It’s Joey,” she
mouthed while pointing to the receiver.
I smiled and placed my hands over my heart. She was so lucky. I was never going to
get a date, at least not with a boy like Joey.
“What? Well, why, what happened?” Her voice cracked, and tears began to form in
the corners of her eyes. “I can’t believe. . .Hello?” She took the phone away from her ear and
looked over to me. Mascara ran down her face in thin black streaks. “He hung up.” She placed
the receiver back in its cradle. “He canceled the date. He said he’s taking Lindsey Hughes
instead.”
Tears began to fall onto her new dress, leaving black spots on the white material. She
grabbed a tissue from her nightstand and blew her nose, smearing her pretty pink lipstick. She
looked over at me with smeared frowning lips and swollen red eyes.
“How could this happen? I’m way prettier than Lindsey Hughes.” She fell to the bed
and continued to sob.
I patted her back and smiled, happier than I’d been in my entire life.
Elevator Music
by
Ferrin Folkert
Someone wrote and sang this song for their “Moon”—
Tender in a note, sorrow in a word,
Lust herself, pronounced in husky vowels, served.
Reduced, it whines without a kindly tune,
Its breath, its voice, its heart removed too soon.
Now in a fake vanilla room it’s heard,
Above the words that measured voices purr,
Where nine-to-fives quit listening at noon.
Dead songs play from somewhere over my bed—
An apt soundtrack for the reruns in my head.
The clock sounds a cold, deafening rhythm
And the wind plays our sorrowful anthem.
Picture frames and a crystal flower vase
With dead roses reflect my wilted face.
MOSAIC 2007
15
Eggshells (Excerpt)
by
Rosemary Ramaraj
Carrie placed the bait onto the trap and handed it to Robbie. He pulled back on the
bow, set the spring bar, and laid it facing the wall where they’d seen the rats creeping around.
Broken eggshells, enough evidence for a conviction, were spread around the hen house and got
stuck on the bottom of her shoes.
Robbie found a sprung trap from the night before, lifted the dead rat by its tail, and
waved it in Carrie’s face.
“Robbie!” She screamed, backing away.
“Finish it yourself,” she said.
He laughed and set the next trap.
Carrie walked outside. A soft shower of rain splashed off the brim of her cap. Gray’s
Farm was printed on the front. Carrie’s father had given it to her before she left for college four
years earlier. She looked up the path toward the house she’d grown up in. She remembered
playing on the porch on rainy days.
She felt anxious to talk to her father, but she would have to wait until next weekend.
She had to get back home to her animals, to work, and to study for the exam set for next
Monday.
Carrie danced her way into the hatchery, swinging her lunch bag, a waltz from her dance
class stuck in her head. The hum of the tall mahogany incubators was a welcoming sound to
her ears. She opened one of the large doors to reveal a tray of goose eggs. There were a few
muffled peeps from some of the trays. A small opening in one egg exposed a tiny beak. The
weekly cycle of life had begun.
Carrie closed the door and punched in at the time clock. She heard the door slam, and
two figures came in. One was Benny, the hatchery manager, and the other, a guy wearing a
university logo on his T-shirt, looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“Carrie,” said Benny, with a big grin, “I thought you were on to bigger things.”
“I missed you, too,” answered Carrie, glancing at the stranger.
“This is Lon, his first day. I’ll be showing him around this week.” Benny winked.
Carrie nodded and started loading goose eggs into a hatching tray. Lon probably
wouldn’t last the season. It was not easy work, and Benny had a way of culling his workers
that was just as unforgiving as his culling of poultry. Carrie finished loading and wheeled
the stack of trays to the farthest row where the hatching bins stood. Opening the door she
caught a scent of overcooked omelet. Wrinkling her nose, she placed the quiet trays inside. By
Wednesday they would be transformed into a musical sea of downy hatchlings.
She returned to the front and heard Benny explaining to Lon, “It takes 28 days for the
ducklings and goslings to hatch after coming from cold storage. Bantam chicks are 21 days.
Monday and Tuesday we transfer eggs to hatching trays, and by Wednesday we are collecting
birds to be shipped out across the country.”
Carrie listened to his words. This was a weekly ritual she had come to rely on. Life
inside these walls existed under ideal conditions of temperature and humidity. She felt
comfortable here where everything went as planned.
“Does anything ever go wrong?” Lon asked.
16
MOSAIC 2007
Benny shook his head. “It’s a dependable system. I’ve been here more than 30 years,
and we haven’t had to change a thing.”
“Wait until Thursday,” Carrie said. “Rotten egg day. The eggs get candled and bad ones
are tossed. Exploding rotten eggs is something else we can depend on.”
Benny laughed and said, “Hey Carrie, are you back for the whole season?”
She smiled big. “You can’t get by without me.”
He grinned back at her, spit tobacco juice into the nearby trashcan, and began culling
eggs from the stack on the side of the long table.
Carrie had graduated in animal husbandry and had planned to be at the State Veterinary
College this semester but hadn’t gotten a high enough score on the entrance exams to get
called for an interview. It was tough competition with only 12 positions open. She would have
one more shot for the next fall.
It was Wednesday morning, and Lon was running late. When he arrived at the
hatchery, the birds were already being packed for shipping.
Benny called him over. “Come here, Lon.”
Down at the other end of the room, Carrie reached into a small box hidden under the
table and peeked at the three deformed ducklings she had rescued. Their necks were curled in a
tight circle, causing beaks to point to the sky. Nicknamed stargazers, these imperfect creatures
were not able to eat or drink on their own and were usually destroyed.
Carrie looked at Lon and then at Benny. She had hoped to talk with Lon this morning.
He walked over to join Benny filling orders for the day’s shipment.
Benny grabbed several ducklings between his fingers and dropped them in the box.
Carrie put the lid on and labeled it.
Lon joined in, passing a box of ducks to Benny.
The process was repeated several times. They moved with a steady flow of motion until
Benny suddenly grabbed two ducklings out of a box and with a quick twisting motion tore
off their heads, threw them into the trashcan, and then continued to fill the order. Lon stood
frozen looking down in the can at the wriggling bodies and motionless heads.
Carrie saw Lon’s puzzled look and realized what must have happened. She had missed
a few rejects. She had wanted to warn Lon, but there had been no chance of telling him of
Benny’s methods to cull out the weak.
Lon stared for a moment more, looked at Carrie, and then bolted out the door.
She glared at Benny and then went after Lon. “Wait, Lon!” Carrie called.
Lon was already in his car and pulling away. He drove off, and she tasted the salty dust
from the road as it blurred her vision. Carrie looked up at the sky. The day had turned cloudy
and dull.
Carrie went back inside to finish the shipment. She made a face at Benny. He just
shrugged.
The evening sky looked cloudy as Carrie pulled into her driveway. Her boyfriend Wade
was standing in the doorway as she stepped up on the porch.
“There’s a dead sheep in the yard,” he half-yelled at her. “I’m sick of all these animals!”
She looked into his eyes. She knew that nothing she could say right now would help
soothe him. She brushed past him, pulled on her boots, and went out the back door, taking the
shovel with her.
She looked around at the group of misfit animals. She was well known around the area
MOSAIC 2007
17
for taking in the weak and deformed that would otherwise be discarded. There, heaped in the
corner of the pen, was the latest victim of genetic inferiority. He had already gone into extra
innings and had been as comfortable as could be expected. Carrie walked over and looked down
at his crippled body. She bent and lifted him into the wheelbarrow and pushed it out near the
row of hackberry trees.
She dug for twenty minutes before the grave was ready. Sweat was dripping into her
eyes. She lowered the stiff body into the hole, threw a handful of clover pulled from the lawn,
and carefully covered him with the freshly turned soil. She looked across the field at the mix
of alfalfa and Timothy grass. It was just beginning its spring growth. A light breeze came up
and tugged at her hair.
“Bye, Henry,” she said softly, and she turned back toward the barn where the others
were waiting, each with special needs of its own.
Erath (Photo) by Callie DuBois
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MOSAIC 2007
Hot Chocolate
by
Tristan Robert
Toss another log onto the embers
Rekindle thoughts of joyful Decembers
Forget the clinging snow on your jacket,
Dust your mug with cocoa from a packet,
Pour steaming memories from the kettle.
Stir with your father’s tarnished metal,
Inhale the cloud of sweetness that rises,
Sip away a lifetime’s compromises,
Let the silky weight tuck in your tongue.
Listen again to your mother’s dream sung,
Drift into peace in front of the fire,
Float to times when others lit the pyre.
The Battle of Pleasant Hill
by
Elizabeth Sanders
I was playing beneath the magnolia tree when Dad called me to the car.
I settled in a sunshine-sticky seat; thankfully, we didn’t travel far.
I recognized the open field, but someone had grown a sign
That said “The Battle of Pleasant Hill” was located behind the line.
Eventually my family found a seat, although the only shade
Came from the ever-shifting shapes that the clouds above us made.
Out in the field, the soldiers fidgeted, so that I could see bits of gray.
I thought them smarter than the navy men, who had to be hot that day.
The darker men came from the woods, both on foot and horse.
I don’t think they saw their enemies, though they hid all along their course.
Then, like a firecracker with blue and silver sparks, the battle began.
With people falling all around, I tried to keep my focus on only one man.
I found him, a white-bearded man in slate, who charged time after time,
Until a deadly pop of smoke sent him down into the grime.
When he fell, his head tilted back, his eyes round and whitish-green.
The color of cucumbers or kiwi fruit, the creepiest thing I’d ever seen.
I lost interest in the fight after that, glad when it was time to go
Back to the car and Granny’s house because the sun was getting low.
Once we were home, a mist fell, and I suddenly felt the need
To find what I had been playing with: a bright magnolia seed.
Red and wet in the dimming light. I looked at it without a sound,
Not knowing why, instead of pods, I saw men lying on the ground.
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What Gets Heard
by
Nicholas Comeaux
“It is the man that determines what is said, not the words. If a mean person uses a wise maxim, I bethink me how it can be
interpreted so as to comment itself to the meanness; but if a wise man makes a commonplace remark, I consider what wider
construct it will admit.” – Henry David Thoreau
Static cut the still air of the candlelit room, allowing only an occasional, recognizable
human voice to transcend the white noise. As I scanned for a clear signal, the ridges
encircling the round plastic dial of my battery-operated radio left tiny impressions on my
thumb. Hurricane Isidore had crossed the Gulf of Mexico to do its destructive job. Silencing
dispensable voices in its wake, it left me in the dark to contemplate how an invisible signal could
transverse the uneasy air and be translated into valuable information by an antiquated machine,
which performed briefly as a lifeline, only to be tossed back into a dark closet, where it returned
to idle obsolescence.
The storm had passed. We were to stay inside and wait while men did dangerous jobs:
cleaning debris and restoring light. In the quiet aftermath, feeling groggy from the endless
damage inventory, I found a National Public Radio broadcast and–thinking a distant voice
would do me some good—listened. One story drifted from the small speaker, diffused itself in
the surrounding air, then materialized as a bullet and lodged itself in the center of my chest:
On a winding road in Maine, fifteen migrant workers from Honduras and Guatemala were
crowded into a single van, speeding to cover the multi-hour trip from boarding house to work
site, when a high wind tossed their vehicle off a narrow bridge and into the water below. All
but one was dead.
The relentless barrage of the world’s tragic stories can sometimes make a man
calloused, numb. Why did this one shatter my shell like a striking claw hammer? My eyes
fell onto the book in my lap. It was a biography of Woody Guthrie, who once wrote a song,
“Deportee,” about a group of migrant farm workers killed when the plane flying them back
across the border crashed into Los Gatos Canyon. Woody referred to the workers as “dear
friends all scattered like dry leaves.” I accepted this as the impetus behind the impact I felt, until
I remembered Carlos.
During my teen years, my mother was single and dating. I swiftly sassed out most of
her suitors. They had all the answers as to why I was so headstrong and knew just what I
needed to make a man out of me, to tame me. They rode in, one by one, with little variation, the
new sheriffs in town, each eyeing me like a horse he would break. We circled each other slowly,
menacingly, biding our time, drawing in our reserves, competing for the alliance of my mother,
so when the day finally came for the inevitable, sudden clash, the victor would have enlisted
the aid of a stale-mate busting ally. I never cared much for them or their grabs for unearned
authority. They never cared much for me or my smart mouth.
One Saturday night, I climbed into the back seat of our old, green station wagon to
catch a ride to my girlfriend’s house with my mom and her new date. A small, brown man–built
angularly hard and low to the ground like an anvil–turned to face me and presented me with
a brick-like hand and a smile as wide as the gulf he traveled to get here. The usual, brief
introduction followed: “This is Carlos.”
It didn’t take long to figure out Carlos was different. He was among a group of men
who were imported as cheap labor to disassemble a non-productive factory. Carlos spoke no
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English, and my mother was hearing impaired, yet they somehow communicated. On the ride
home later that night, Carlos signaled my mother to pull over. She nodded in comprehension
and guided the car to the shoulder, where it shuddered to a hesitant halt while Carlos laughed,
sang, and ambled his way into the nearby brush to relieve himself of the night’s libations. I
shot my mother a perplexed glance. Her reply would become familiar to me in the months
ahead. “He’s from Guatemala,” she said as she shrugged her shoulders.
When Carlos got back to the car, he said something funny to me, though I don’t know
what it was. My mother turned the key, and our derelict vehicle sputtered in protest, then just
sat there, doggedly affixed to the spot. Carlos’s bright face dimmed for a moment. He muttered
something in Spanish, then gently placed a reassuring hand on my mother’s shoulder as he
glanced back at me and said, “Vayamos, Bambino!” We got out of the car together, peered under
the hood, and I could tell Carlos needed more light. A moment later he was stepping into the
middle of the highway, right into the path of an oncoming vehicle.
The advancing car screeched to a halt. It was driven by a woman and was full of
teenage girls. As we approached, Carlos turned back and winked at me as if to say, “This is your
lucky day.” I tried to explain the folly of his actions, but he just smiled, strolled to the closed
driver-side window, leaned in, and commenced to converse through the glass in a confident and
familiar tone. The woman seemed frightened at first, but the girls appeared amused. I tried to
signal to the driver, over Carlos’s shoulder, that he was harmless. She considered us for a long,
tense, thoughtful minute; then her face relaxed as she rolled her window down. After brief
instructions from Carlos, she drove her car around so her headlights faced our hood. I thanked
her and asked if she spoke Spanish. She said, “No.” I asked how she knew what he was asking.
She said, “I don’t know.”
I saw Carlos almost every day that summer. He told stories, gave advice, called me
Bambino, all in a language I did not understand. Yet, somehow I did. One night, I sat in the
backseat on the way to a different girlfriend’s house, and Carlos turned to me and offered a
bottle he’d been drinking from. The bottle was clear, and so was the liquid inside. I took a swig.
It was like swallowing flame. Carlos looked into my eyes as he spoke at length and in rhythm.
My mother told me he was reciting a poem his mother told him when he was a child. He
finished his verse, called me Bambino one last time, and embraced me. After that night, I never
saw Carlos again. His job was done, and he was no longer needed.
I’ve learned more since then about Carlos and men like him. I’ve learned more about the
world that uses them and then discards them. I’ve grown into a man who counts The Grapes of
Wrath among his favorite books and who appreciates a good migrant-worker ballad. It was a
bad wind that came and blew away all the distractions so I could finally make the connection.
MOSAIC 2007
21
Like Every Sparrow Falling
by
Clay Melvin
I woke to the sound of a cell phone ringing. “Who in the world would call me this
early?” I thought, scatterbrained. I was in northern Idaho as a summer missionary, hundreds of
miles from my family and friends. For a moment, I entertained the thought of an emergency.
Dismissing that almost instantaneously, I answered the phone. Through that cold earpiece,
as if I had possessed a moment of foreknowledge, I received the devastating news that my
grandmother had died.
I took the first plane out of Coeur d’Alene. Had I known the pilot was going to fly so
slowly, I would have taken the second. Even so, an hour into the flight, my mind calmed down,
and I began to ponder many of the things that I loved about “Meemaw.” I had spoken to her
just days before about my longing for one of her chocolate pies. She promised one as soon as I
returned from Idaho. To make sure I would keep in touch, Meemaw sent a letter to me every
week. She told stories of her “old days” as well as stories of her adventurous journeys to the
hairdresser across the street. She had an unsurpassed sense of humor. My best memory of
Meemaw, however, was sitting in her living room with my guitar, singing Bob Dylan songs.
We could pick just about any one and try to mimic the troubadour’s piercing, off-key voice. She
introduced me to Dylan as a young boy. I still remember hearing the sound of “Blowin’ in the
Wind” being drowned out by her pleas that I would one day play the harmonica.
Coming back to my senses, I was finally home and comforted by my family. As we sat
and talked about the arrangements of her funeral, it was requested that I sing during the
service. “I remember that her favorite song was ‘Amazing Grace,’” I said, but that was too
typical. It was too ordinary for such an extraordinary person. Thinking through the night,
those Bob Dylan songs kept invading my mind. I thought that singing a Dylan song would be
a great idea, but what did he ever sing about an old, country woman who lived a simple life in
Louisiana? Surely, “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll” or “Girl from the North Country”
would not be appropriate. Even “Blowin’ in the Wind” would be an awkward choice. This would
not be an easy task.
Months earlier, as I was rummaging through Bob Dylan bootleg CDs, I came across
a great song called “Every Grain of Sand.” Soon after, I discovered that it was on the Shot of
Love album also. Contemplating that night about a suitable song for Meemaw’s funeral, I reread
the lyrics of “Every Grain of Sand,” and I was floored. “This is it,” I said with no hesitation.
I played it for my family that night. My mom commented that the lyrics were deep, and none
of those country folks would understand them. My dad encouraged me to sing whatever I felt
was fitting. I felt that “Every Grain of Sand” described the emotion of the circumstance, and I
wanted to sing it.
The day of the funeral was bright and sunny, an act of God only appropriate to
welcome His child home. Yet my mind was stormy with the sadness of losing my grandmother.
I did not want to sing. I did not want to play. Nevertheless, I grabbed my 12-string guitar
and sat outside the old, outdated Methodist church to practice the song. My voice was so raw,
and my throat lodged shut with a terrible lump. “I can’t do this,” I thought, losing what little
confidence I held. Just then, I was called back into the building, and the service began. My
cousin-in-law spoke and seemed to willfully make the hardness in my throat grow. Tears were
shed, and it was now my turn to sing.
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MOSAIC 2007
I stepped onto the stage and laid my lyric sheet on the worn, brown pulpit. I had to
stretch my neck out to the microphone. I began strumming the chords, and as I looked over
the crowd, I felt as if I had a melodic sermon to dictate to these people–Dylan’s words. My dry,
cracked voice struggled out the first words: “In the time of my confession…” It was clear that
no one else knew the song. “This could be to my advantage,” I reasoned.
“In the fury of the moment, I can see the Master’s hand/In every leaf that trembles, in
every grain of sand.” This truly was a sermon preached by my own heart. I sang as my throat
caught every so often: “I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night.” I thought
of Meemaw, who always said that she couldn’t wait to get her “new body.”
I don’t know if it was the feeling behind a preacher’s pulpit or the fact that I was singing
a Dylan song, but I knew that I had to compel the congregation to hear something meaningful.
As the closing lyrics of the song approached, I did not sing “I am hanging…” Instead, I sang in
my most confident and clear voice while gazing at the faces of the people: “We are hanging in the
balance of a perfect, finished plan/Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.” In that
moment, knowing that truth, I obtained the greatest comfort that I have ever known, because I
realized God’s sovereign and loving hand as the source of all life and death.
MOSAIC 2007
23
Downtown (Photo) by Callie DuBois
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MOSAIC 2007
Tempting Fate
by
Rhonda Dennis
I am guilty of it. Some of my family and friends are guilty of it. I have seen my
sister search desperately for anything wooden on which to rap her knuckles after making a
statement she did not want jinxed. I have witnessed my mother toss grains of spilled salt over
each should simply because she was unable to remember whether tossing the grains over the
right or left shoulder was supposed to fend off bad luck. I have observed a friend’s demeanor
change instantly from being happy and carefree to being nervous and full of despair. She had
witnessed an owl flying through the night sky at the same time that she noticed a shooting star
sailing overhead. Her beliefs had her convinced it was an ominous sign. I have felt anxiety
after a black cat chose to cross my path. I feel apprehensive when my left palm itches, warning
me of money to be spent. I feel relieved when my right palm itches to forecast money yet to
come. I have to live with the fact that I am guilty of being superstitious.
I feel embarrassed to admit that superstition weighs heavily in my life. As far back as I
can recall, I can remember crossing my fingers for luck, crossing my heart to vow my honesty,
and spending hours searching through clover patches hoping to find the rare, four-leafed
variety that would assuredly bring me good fortune. My belief in superstitions continued on
my wedding day when I was cautious not to be seen by my future husband before the ceremony.
Superstitious beliefs also reigned at the time of marriage when, at the insistence of my future
mother-in-law, I walked down the aisle with a bright, shiny penny in my shoe. Even now, I
find myself rifling the pages of a dream dictionary hoping to make sense of some off-the-wall
image my subconscious mind has conjured during my sleep.
After thousands of years of upholding these odd rituals, why are we still insistent upon
performing them? People are scared to tempt fate. The premise of fate has been questioned
frequently, but how else can one explain a person falling five stories and living to tell the tale
and yet another falling six feet to his death? The world is filled with many stories of miracles,
and alternately, with as many stories of tragedies. By performing these various rituals, people
feel that they are able to counter any catastrophe that may befall them. It is a way of trying to
maintain control of portions of our life that are normally beyond our ability to control.
Nearly all superstitions seem silly if one actually ponders them. However, some
superstitions have modified the most common events of our daily routine. The infamous
number thirteen is a valid example. Many airplanes do not have a thirteenth row. Some
buildings do not have a thirteenth floor. Many hospitals do not have a Room Thirteen. In
France a quatorzien’s sole function was to be available at a moment’s notice to be present as
a fourteenth guest at dinner parties where thirteen guests had chosen to attend. The fear
associated with the number thirteen has been taken extremely seriously worldwide. Other
superstitions may seem more trivial. For example, to encounter a gravedigger coming toward
a person is a sign of a future severe illness. Did the gravedigger’s poor wife have to spend day
and night awaiting some horrible illness? Assuredly, he would have to approach her when he
arrived home for the evening. Another example is that it is considered bad luck to sign any
lease or contract in the months of April, July, or November. How many mortgage companies
shut their doors during these supposed ill-dated months? I have not known of any. Yet another
bad luck omen is to rake out a fire completely before going to bed. Would it not be worse luck
to have the dwelling burn to the ground when a stray ember makes its way to a combustible
MOSAIC 2007
25
source? Nonetheless, there are persons who continue to practice avoidance of certain situations
for fear of retributions from God, the cosmos, or some other unseen force.
While some superstitions remain widely accepted by the public, some superstitions have
lost their fervor over time, and some can be considered downright ridiculous. For instance, it is
believed that:
• If I puts toenail clippings in a glass of lemonade and makes someone drink it,
the person will fall in love with me.
• Dropping an umbrella on the floor means there will be a murder in the house.
• Upon seeing an ambulance, one must pinch his nose or hold his breath until he
sees a brown or black dog.
• Touching a frog causes infertility.
• A spider worn in a walnut shell around the neck protects one from the plague.
• If the nails of a baby are cut before twelve months of age, he will be a thief as
an adult.
• One must hold his breath when passing a cemetery, or he will inhale the spirit of
a dead person.
Despite the advances in modern science, many people feel compelled to appease fate by
following ancient rituals believed to bring good luck and to forewarn of future events. The
human mind is comforted by the fact that it has done all possible to preserve a soul’s good
standing with the universe. I feel better knowing that Friday the thirteenth has passed. I am
overjoyed when the black cat that chose to dart in my direction changes its mind and runs back
in the other direction. Superstitions continue to play a predominant role in many cultures,
and I am convinced that future generations will practice tossing salt over their shoulders
or searching for a piece of wood on which to rap their knuckles. Until the day comes when
superstitions become obsolete, one should realize that dropping a pair of scissors means that
one’s lover is unfaithful, and if a girl’s slip shows below the hem of her dress, she is loved more
by her father than her mother.
Inspiration
by
Clay Melvin
Mind clocks
Tick tocks
Padlocks
Id box;
Restocks,
Door knocks:
Child blocks,
Reeboks,
Post hocs,
Wed locks,
Maalox—
rocks.
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MOSAIC 2007
Galactica
by
Elizabeth Sanders
The lights are dimming again, changing to a night sky.
Neon patterns of space, glowing, swirling, catch my eye.
I line up with other statues, at the end of a wooden hall.
All is useless; I must fall.
Even with added weight in my foot, I cannot stand.
The boards beneath me are slippery, wanting me to land
Hard. The natives arrive, selecting shoes before they dance.
Unseen drums vibrate, setting the beat for roughened chants.
After, they take spherical rocks, smoothed so they shine.
I await the Strike, along with the other nine.
Layered mist, and something within, spinning, giving flashes
Of fuchsia, yellow, and lime green, distracts as the stone crashes
Into my band. Seven go; three remain, until the second round,
When another obsidian orb comes and bowls us to the ground.
Down, down we fall, ten idols, sharing a burial pit.
Skeletal, metallic fingers come and pluck us out of it.
We are arranged in an upside-down triangle, always the same.
Pinned loosely to oiled earth, we are silent victims of the game.
Bubblehead (Graphic Photo) by Andrea Dupree-Cenac
MOSAIC 2007
27
Existing in Unreality
by
Nathan Folse
A man who probably never thought of himself as a writer or an artist accomplished
what is perhaps the most ambitious achievement in both literature and visual art. The late
Henry Darger, a quiet, reclusive janitor at a children’s hospital in Chicago, spent his entire
adult life within a secret universe of his own creation. The Story of the Vivian Girls, in what is
also known as The Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnean War Storm, Caused by the
Child Slave Rebellion, is the title of the book which provides the only glimpse we have into this
universe, but at 15,145 typewritten pages in 15 volumes, accompanied by three volumes of
artwork with hundreds of painted illustrations, it is a wider view than anyone other than its
deceased author could fully appreciate. On an unnamed planet to which Earth is a moon, the
Glandelinians, an evil race of child enslavers, fight an epic war against the rebel children who
are aided by the Christian Abiennian troops, the mystical Vivian Girls, and an assortment of
fanciful and deadly beasts, protectors of children by nature. In a perfect blending of innocence
and experience, Darger’s artwork typically combines soft flowing clouds and landscapes,
vividly colored flowers and rolling hills of greenery with images of brutal warfare, mutilated
and tortured children, gunfights, and violent weather. No one has ever read The Realms in its
entirety, and it is doubtful that anyone ever will, since it is estimated that reading all 15 volumes
would take at least fifteen years to accomplish (Taylor 35). It took Darger 60 years to write
them, and from age 19 until 79 he continued to write and paint a world where he fought a lifelong battle with a God he could neither love nor hate enough to satisfy the violent storm of his
passions.
Henry Darger was born in Chicago in 1893, the son of a poor tailor who would soon
become an invalid. When he was four, Darger’s mother died while giving birth to his sister,
who was put up for adoption before he was old enough to remember her. It is believed that this
loss was what triggered Darger’s fixation on children in the novel, particularly little girls, who
make up most of his characters. Psychologists have taken Darger’s treatment of children in the
novel as the result of both the love of his unknown sister and the hate he feels for her taking
away his mother (Homes 125). Darger lived with his father, who cared for him as best he could
until the age of eight, when he was sent to the The Mission of Our Lady of Mercy, a Catholic
home for children. He attended public school and was a good student with a strong knowledge
in civil war history but was prone to making strange noises in class and other odd behaviors
that had him sent to the Lincoln Asylum for Feeble-Minded Children around 1902 (Homes
125).
Today it is believed that Darger suffered from Asperger’s Syndrome, a mild form
of autism occurring mostly in boys, which disrupts one’s ability to relate to others on an
emotional or social level (Taylor 33). Whatever the case may have been, the young Darger
was by no means feeble-minded, as common symptoms of the disease are an above normal
intelligence and strong verbal fluency. On the contrary, Darger’s mind and imagination were
so strong that the books he surrounded himself with as a child became more real to him than
the memories of his own painful childhood (In the Realms). Lincoln Asylum was a horrifying
experience for Henry Darger. He shared the building with 1,500 other children, “ranging from
the emotionally disturbed to the severely retarded” (Homes 125). Part of his duties there was
to work for certain times of the year at a facility called “The State Farm,” located outside the
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city limits (In the Realms). This grueling labor may have been another source of inspiration
for Darger in depicting the tortured child slaves of Glandelina, the violent beatings, burnings,
hangings, crucifixions, dismemberments, and strangulations pictured graphically in his
paintings. At
the age of seventeen, four years after learning that his father had died since he left, Darger
escaped from the asylum after several failed attempts and returned to Chicago. He found a
job as a janitor and a small room to live in, and in 1910 he began writing the book that would
consume his life (Homes 125).
In an emotional sense Henry Darger would spend the rest of his life as a child, despite
his growing intelligence. Living the bulk of his childhood with no parental figures, everything
he learned which could not be found in his books had to be self-taught. This was the case with
his methods for illustrating the novel. Darger developed a technique of tracing images and
copying them into his pictures. He collected thousands of pictures of children, mostly little
girls, from coloring books, magazines, newspapers, and trashcans. There is an image of the
Coppertone girl hidden within one of his pictures, in which the dog has been removed along
with the girl’s clothes. Before transferring the girls to his pictures, their clothing was often
removed and a small penis was drawn between their legs (In the Realms). This is one of the
more puzzling aspects of Darger’s work, though it is quite possible that he knew very little
about female anatomy. What seems clear when viewing the art, however, is that the nudity
of the children is an attempt to express their innocence and purity. Since Darger lived in an
emotional state that was close to that of a child, it seems highly unlikely that these images
played any kind of sexual role.
Working with children’s watercolor paints and sheets of newsprint and glued wax
paper, Darger painted twelve-foot-long panels and used a type of collage to form narrative
scenes on both sides of the paper. As he continued to learn and experience with his methods,
he would later use the local drugstore to get enlarged prints of his clippings, which allowed
him to be inventive with scale and repetition while each time adding to a growing library of
images (Homes 96). In addition to the children, other creatures populated the colorful panels
of artwork (In The Realms). The Vivian Sisters, angelic girls with divine protective powers,
are the most beautiful of all his children. They are young Christians, blonde and beautiful,
perfectly constructed and identically dressed. There are also the Blenglins, flying serpents
with sharp vision that see danger coming from miles away and feel maternally compelled to
protect the children from harm. The Blenglins are thousands of feet long or tall and “feature
colorful plumage, lusciously patterned wings, long tails and lance like tongues that pierce little
girls, shooting a fluid into them they apparently like–it can make them immortal (Homes 125).
There are also the Blengiglomeneans, children with rams’ horns and dazzling butterfly wings.
Familiar faces such as Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck sometimes appear in the form of clouds
in the skies.
Elizabeth Hand explains, “The landscapes are vast, with Toon Town trees and bluewashed skies; though the visual weather consists of cyclones, tornadoes, hail, fire, the ‘insane
fury of crazy thunderstorm’” (3). This severe weather is one of the recurring themes of the
entire novel, and a large part of the conflict itself (as the name “War Storm” suggests) involves
surviving this battle with nature or the forces of Gods as well as that of man. In reality, when
people approached Darger with a question, he could only respond to them by making irrelevant
comments on the weather. Interestingly, in Darger’s world, emotion is communicated through
the weather, serving not only as a vehicle for changes in plot and effect in the story, but also
as the outward manifestation of the violence, anger, and years, in which he recorded rainfall,
MOSAIC 2007
29
temperature, and wind patterns. He often wrote comments in the journal about how inaccurate
the weatherman’s forecast has been on a given day (In the Realms).
Weather also serves as the best indication of Darger’s lifelong struggles with faith.
Darger would attend as many as five Catholic masses a day and accepted communion with
everyone else. His journals and autobiography suggest that he was strongly religious but
also subject to violent fits of anger in which he would shout curses at God or burn religious
pictures, then immediately repent, accusing himself of being an “enemy to the cross” (In
the Realms). In his universe, Darger was a captain of the Abiennean army, leading the fight
against the evil child-hating Glandelinians, but problems with faith in the real world would
have equally drastic repercussions in the story. The darkest part of Darger’s life in both
worlds began when he lost a picture of a murdered little girl that he had used in the story
as a rebel leader. Darger did everything in his power to find the picture and failed. This
failure, combined with the church’s refusal to allow him to adopt a child after endless heartfelt
petitions, caused Henry Darger to surrender to his frustrations, and Captain Darger joined
the side of the Glandelinians. He eventually returned to the children, and in one of the two
endings written, led them to victory against the evil Glandilinean General John Manley,
modeled after a bully from Darger’s childhood (In the Realms). In addition to the texts and its
supplementary artwork, Darger also composed several patriotic war songs for the battles in his
book. He kept a written record of every battle fought within the epic, including death count
and the names of soldiers. The names of storms were documented as well.
Though labeled as an Outsider Artist, there is one author/artist with whom Darger
shares a great deal in common–J. R. R. Tolkien. The two were born only months apart in 1892
and died less than a year apart. Both suffered early childhood losses, Tolkien’s being the death
of his father a few months after his fourth birthday, the same age as Darger when his mother
died. Also, both became orphans at an early age, both began working on their epics at around
the same time, and both use visual as well as written form of expression. Finally, both chose to
dedicate their lives to the creation of one epic history of an imagined world–Tolkein’s Middle
Earth and Darger’s Realms (Hand 1).
In November of 1972, a tired and frail Henry Darger walked out the door of his small
third-story rooming house, the portal to an alternate universe, for the last time in his life. Too
weak to continue climbing stairs, he resigned himself to die at a home for the elderly, leaving
everything he created buried behind him under tangles of twine and trash. When Nathan
Lerner, Darger’s former landlord, entered his room to clean it out, he discovered the longest
work of fiction ever written, in fifteen massive volumes with three volumes of illustrations (“An
Imaginary Life” ). Nathan visited Darger at the home and told him that he had seen his work
and that it was beautiful. Darger’s last known words were, “Too late now.” Indeed, it is too late
now, for no one will ever know the greatest secrets of The Realms or the mind of its creator.
Henry Darger has been labeled as both a protector of children and a pervert. He has been
likened to Milton and reduced to a lunatic with a big imagination. All that can be certain is that
none of these is entirely true, and we will never know by how great a scale they are false.
Now, it is a strange thing, but things are good to have and days that are good to spend
are soon told about, and not much to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable,
palpitating, and even gruesome, may make a good tale, and take a good deal of telling
anyway.
— Henry Darger, In the Realms of the Unreal
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Works Cited
“An Imaginary Life.” Chronicles of Higher Education 48.34 (2002): 1-2.
Hand, Elizabeth. “Henry Darger / J. R. R. Tolkein.” Fantasy & Science Fiction 103.415:
66-77.
Homes, A.M. “Inside Out: The Art of Henry Darger.” Art Forum International 35.9 (1997):
92-96.
In the Realms of the Unreal: The Mystery of Henry Darger. Dir. Jessica Yu. Diorama
Films, 2004.
Taylor, Sue. “Art Out of Mind.” Art in America 91.6 (2003): 33-34.
The Eyes of My Sleep (Photo) by Heidi Domangue
MOSAIC 2007
31
Soul Reader (Novel Excerpt)
by
Elizabeth Sanders
“You came from a village like this. . . .”
The thought sent a thrill through the Hila’s frame, one made of equal parts excitement
and nervousness. This was his first time leaving Coyon, but he had always suspected that he
was not originally from the capitol city. He preferred bird song to the sound of horseshoes
on cobblestone, the scent of trees to the stench of civilization, and the familiar faces of his
colleagues to the anonymous ones that passed each other on the crowded streets. As he paused
to glance at his map, he could not help fingering the brooch pinned to his gray cloak. His
fingers explored the new object, carefully tracing the swirls and curves that had been used to
form it into the shape of a bird’s wing, the symbol chosen by the other Hila to represent him.
The blonde smiled as he spied the village gate, not one covered with sculpture and
grime, but one of slightly imperfect stones mounted atop one another with tendrils of crimson
and orange vines acting as adornment. Both his map and a weatherworn sign confirmed that
he had arrived. This was the village of Ihabes, the village where he had been sent to perform
his first soul reading.
He took his first cautious steps into the village, following the dusty path that he knew
would lead to the town center. Wandering into the marketplace, the first thing he noticed
was how people there acted, and he began to watch them, trying not to be seen, It was a skill
that all Hila had to cultivate; when others knew that a Hila could view their emotional state
simply by looking at them, it made a simple glance embarrassing at least and terrifying at most.
Luckily, it seemed that no one recognized his station, so he began to more openly admire the
auras that he saw. The colors of every aura seemed fresh, as though a painter has just run his
brush over canvas, unlike Coyon auras, which appeared muted because of the greater number
of people.
“You somehow managed to be sent on your first assignment alone, and you let this distract you?
Keep on task!”
The thought sent a bit of guilt through the young man’s heart, and he began to more
actively search for the village Elder. It was both an honor and a sign of the trust in his ability
that he had secured himself this assignment. Ihabes was an important trading post on the
kingdom’s border with Bahyeh, but the Hila remembered it as the site of the last great victory
against their ancient enemies, the Ayzamites. Most of the recently ordained Hila had to have
their first soul reading monitored by a more experienced master, but not the blonde. He had
proven himself capable in skill; experience was what he required now.
He searched for someone who seemed friendly, or at least not too busy, but he had
apparently come at the busiest hour. Stubborn housewives bartered with equally stubborn
salesmen, venders cried to one and all about how reasonable their prices were, and even those
quietly searching the piles of fruits and vegetables had a look of such intensity that he felt too
intimidated to distract them.
“Five denhar! Ay’ll not pay yeh more than three fer the bunch!”
“Why, that’s insultin’! Ay’ve the finest ‘erbs, and ye’d know they’re worth far more
n’that!”
“Git yer fresh froot ‘ere! Only ta dehnar!”
While wandering amongst the stalls, he passed a side street where he heard the sound
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of only two voices going back and forth. This seemed a perfect opportunity. When the
customer left, he could then approach the vender, but as he paused near the street entrance to
wait, he realized that what he had mistaken for bartering was actually an argument.
“I’ve told you before. I won’t serve you. Go away.”
“As I have just explained, you are the only one that has what I need. Name your price.”
“I know you’re not stupid, Jadon. If you want it, go into the forest yourself. You won’t
get a thing from me!”
After that last angry exclamation, a man stalked out of the side street, ramming into
the young Hila. He managed to catch himself with his hands before his back struck the earth,
but when he looked up he froze, staring at the man’s aura. Black… it was pure black?
“Hn. Watch where you’re going,” the tanned man huffed, striding past the prone figure
without a second glance. Gray eyes followed him before blinking, and the young man rubbed
them with his fingers. He had never seen a black aura before. . . .
“That mashoak! Runnin’ yeh down, poor man. Let me help yeh up.”
Rough, strong hands grasped his, and he looked into the sun-beaten face of a middleaged woman, one surrounded by a friendly orange aura with shades of turquoise concern
blended in. Grateful for the help, the young Hila gave a quick bow as soon as he stood, causing
the dame to give a shrill laugh. “There’s no need fer yeh ta be s’fancy. Who or what’re yeh
lookin’ fer? Might be ay can help yeh.”
“I would be most grateful if you could. I am seeking your Elder. Could you tell me
where he is?”
“Ole’ Blinkin’ Bertram? A’course! This time a day he’ll be makin’ his round about the
village. Yeh should try the Fernier place first. He’s been visitin’ there much more a’late, seein’
as the good woman’s been sickly. Ay heard that he sent all the way to the capital fer a Hila.
Can yeh imagine— one a’the blessed folk here?”
“Blessed? Heh…she is going to be disappointed when she finds out that it is just you.”
Despite his doubt the man smiled, though he found his fingers again touching his
brooch. “I am he, though I may not fit your expectations. My name is Byrd.”
Amber surprised flared in her aura, and then tiny slivers of navy curiosity joined in as
the woman rubbed her worn hands. “Well, ay’ll be. M’sorry that I didna recognize yeh, sir.
Ay’ve never seen a Hila before. But enough a’this. A’course ay’ll help yeh.”
“Thank you. I am most appreciative,” Byrd answered, though he hoped she did not see
him clutch his robe in nervousness before she turned to lead him. There was no turning back
at this point; it was time for him to perform the task.
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33
The Asylum
by
John Ray
He stood there looking up at the menacing gate. It had been designed to keep people
from getting out, and he was trying to get in. He peered through the narrow steel bars down
the long grassy yard. The building seemed peaceful; he wasn’t sure why but he half expected
to hear shouts and screams coming from every window or see hands holding the bars and faces
trying to squeeze through them. But there didn’t seem to be any action.
To his left was a call box. It had a small section for the intercom system and a little red
button that was obviously meant to initiate communication with whomever was on the other
side of the gate. He extended his finger about to push the button. “What the hell am I doing?
Am I really about to commit myself to a psych ward? This is crazy.” He was about to turn and
walk away when he recalled last night’s dream. The horrid visions of people he knew being
tortured. The contorted faces that seemed to receive pleasure from the malicious torture they
acted out. He couldn’t deal with the dreams any longer; he needed help. He pushed the button.
A sharp, shrill buzz startled him. Everything inside him seemed to scream NO at that
moment. It was practically audible, so much so that he jumped when he heard it. Run. He
hesitated for a second. RUN! He stepped back and began to turn around.
“How may I help you?” The voice coming through the intercom system froze him. He
couldn’t run now. He thought about how silly it would look to push the button and run off like
a child playing ding-dong-ditch. He might be considered truly crazy then. He decided to stay.
“Hi, my name is—“
“Yes, Mr. Geode, we’ve been expecting you.” Another loud buzz startled him as the gate
began to slide open, “please continue down the drive. A guard will meet you at the entrance.”
“Um, ok, should I—” Click. Whomever he was just talking with had ended the
conversation. His questions would be answered when he got inside; at least that is what they
wanted him to think.
He picked up his bag that contained several changes of clothes and his toiletry items
and began walking towards the opening gate. It creaked on its huge hinges as the iron pieces
rubbed against one another. The sound made him uneasy; he was high strung already and these
high-pitched noises weren’t helping. You need to relax. This weekend is supposed to be about leaving
the stresses of your daily life behind, remember? He looked up at the sign that loomed overhead.
Westdale Asylum. He wondered how he had ended up here.
Nightmares. If only they could be called that. But nightmares only happen when you
are sleeping, right? Not when you’re walking down the street, not in the middle of the day,
when you are at work. Not during sex. Those are. . . . He couldn’t, wouldn’t admit it. But
ignore that fact as he may, hallucinations, horrific scenes tormented him. Sometimes, it was all
he could do not to grab his head and yell for them to go away, of course not in public anyway.
His public life was traumatizing. Often the attacks would come in the middle of some
form of social interaction. Checking the mail terrified him because of the time he had opened
his post office box only to have a thousand screaming faces greet him. They had all been
wedged into a ten-inch slot, yet had all been visible as if the box never ended. He had slammed
the door shut and leaned against it in the hope of muting the voices. People around him had
glared in fear and disgust. “Too many bills,” was the only excuse he could offer with a shrug.
Some laughed; others warily made their way past him and out of the room.
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At his apartment there was no peace. He could not sleep because every time he closed
his eyes all he could see were the images from earlier. Eventually he had sought professional
help from a psychiatrist.
While he was riding on a bus one day, the passengers around him began to transform
into monstrous shapes, disgusting blobs which all seemed to focus on him, whispering at first,
then slowly creeping up to him, claws reaching. Their mouths contorted into grins anticipating
the horror. He couldn’t help but react. A woman noticed and approached him. As she did, people
resumed their normal appearances. She seemed to be an angel casting the demons from his
view. “May I sit here?” she asked with a smile.
Doctor Lomek was by no means beautiful. Her frame was thin and seemed almost
brittle. Her eyes sank into her head and her hair was always pulled back. This did her
appearance no justice as it seemed to exaggerate how her skin stretched over the bone. But her
looks weren’t what had interested Ben; it was the potential to save his mind and his life.
Does he think I’m crazy? Another looney toon checking in? “There goes another
weak-minded individual who is giving up trying to solve his problems and is now
turning to drugs and psycho babble.”
He had hesitated to call the number on the card she had given him. His pride told him
he didn’t need to visit any sort of quack to get his mind right. But the hallucinations never
stopped; in fact since his encounter with the doctor, they seemed to be more powerful. Maybe
whatever it is knows that if I get professional help it’ll be over and something inside of me doesn’t want
to stop. He scheduled an appointment the very next day.
Her office was freezing. It may have been 67 degrees outside, but inside it seemed like
it was in the 50s. He couldn’t understand how a woman that thin could bear to be in such a cold
environment. There was nothing to her. Maybe the cold passed straight through her, and her body
had to emit more heat in order to balance her lack of insulation. Then she would be warm all of the
time.
After Ben was lying on the most comfortable couch he had ever come into contact
with and began pouring out the atrocities he was facing on a daily basis, Dr. Lomek said his
condition was far too advanced for her to treat him in the office. She told him about the hospital
she was in charge of just outside of the city.
That word concerned him, condition, what did she mean? What sort of condition did he
have?
Ben passed the guard shack with a smile and a nod. He wondered what the man inside
thought. Does he think I’m crazy? Another looney toon checking in? “There goes another weak-minded
individual who is giving up trying to solve his problems and is now turning to drugs and psycho babble.”
The guard got up from his chair, sliding the door of the shack open. Ben’s jaw dropped as
the massive guard squeezed through the door. If his skin had been gray, he would have been
MOSAIC 2007
35
mistaken for a gargoyle. The burly man laid one strong hand on Ben’s shoulder and escorted
him towards the main doors of the hospital without saying a word.
When they got to the door, the guard grabbed his ID badge from his waist and slid it
through the scanner. The light on the small panel next to the door changed from red to green,
and a click could be heard as the locking mechanism released, permitting their entrance.
Ben was escorted through the door and was immediately hit by the familiar chilly air
just like in the psychiatrist’s office. Cold–everywhere she went it was cold. Why? His questions
could have been answered then because she stood before him smiling. She must have been
pleased that he’d actually come to get help. He noticed next to her were two men each in white
uniforms, each pristine and neatly pressed, every crease uniform. They stood at attention next
to her, their arms behind their backs; burly men, maybe the guard’s brothers, one blonde, the
other brunette. The blonde man frowned at Ben. The brunette smiled. The doctor waited, arms
crossed in front of her, her hands cupped in front of her crotch. Her frown seemed painted on.
But she wasn’t frowning at Ben; she was frowning at the guard behind him. “You may go now
Daniel.” Ben looked over his shoulder. Daniel nodded and did as instructed. He turned and
pushed a sequence of buttons; the door opened after the familiar buzzing sound.
“Good luck.” Ben whirled to see Daniel who had a teasing smile on his face.
“Wha-” Ben did not know whether to appreciate the comment or be infuriated at the
mockery of his condition. But none of that was going to matter in three seconds.
“Proceed.” The order came from the doctor, who now sounded more like a drill
instructor. A chuckle came from Daniel as he exited the building, returning to his humble
guard shack. But Ben was no longer concerned about the large man leaving; it was the two
approaching him like linebackers that had his attention. The blonde man held a bundle of white
cloth in his hands and was unfolding it as he approached. The other was practically jumping
with both hands stretched out to grab Ben. His wide-eyed expression along with wild smile
assured everyone around him that this was the part he enjoyed the most: subduing the victim.
But Ben was no longer concerned about the large man leaving; it was the two
approaching him like linebackers that had his attention. The blonde man held a bundle
of white cloth in his hands and was unfolding it as he approached.
“Holy—” Ben’s instincts put him into a defensive position, arms held out in front of
him as if preparing to stiff-arm them both. His obviously smaller size and weakness from lack
of sleep and nourishment made what should have been a struggle into a lesson on how to
introduce a man’s face to the carpet, sans gentleness.
Ben’s cheek hit the floor with a thud. The lights in the room intensified for a moment as
the pain spread through his face, then grew brighter as he felt the two hundred fifty pounds of
orderly come slamming down on his back. He let out an urk and felt as if his eyes were going
to bulge out of his head from the pressure. “Don’t kill him, Rich.” The voice was soft, a tone of
compassion flitted in it. It hadn’t come from the doctor.
“You know, Mike,” Rich said through grinding teeth, “you chose to put the jacket on this
guy, so I get to take ‘em down. Next time, you can get ‘em ready for the jacket by rubbing his
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shoulders, ya wuss.”
“Shut up, both of you!” The doctor had finally had enough of the bickering. “He’s right,
Rich, you don’t need to break him.” Rich flashed a dirty look at Mike. “And Mike, this patient
is not to be taken lightly. He is suffering from delusions and could possibly turn violent at any
moment; it’s a miracle he got this far without an episode. Besides that, he will inflict damage
upon himself if we don’t restrain him. Rich, stand him up.”
Rich took his hand from behind Ben’s neck but ground his knee into Ben’s spine once
more, smirking at Mike as he did. He effortlessly flung Ben to his feet. Mike stepped in front of
Ben. Holding the straight jacket open, he instructed Ben to hold out his arms. As Mike slipped
the jacket on, Ben looked at Dr. Lomek, “Why are you doing this? I’m not dangerous. You told
me to come for some tests. What is this?” His voice was frantic. Dr. Lomek stood silent. Once
the jacket was on and Ben was restrained, she stepped forward, uncapping her hands. She held a
small syringe filled with a clear liquid in front of her. She held it at eye level with Ben.
“Don’t move.” Rich grabbed the back of Ben’s head. He didn’t grab a clump of hair; he
folded his massive hand over the back of Ben’s head as if he were palming a ball. Ben’s head
was jerked back, exposing his neck. From the struggle and the excitement, the veins in his neck
were bulging. Lomek easily found one to stick the needle into.
The drug was released into his system, burning its way to his brain. He screamed as it
coursed through his blood. “What the hell did you do? What was that? Answer me, you bitch!”
“Yes, that’s it. I offer to help you, and you strike out at me. You should be thanking me
for this. Once you are subdued and have rested, I will perform several tests including a brain
scan. Your being unconscious will help me monitor the activity. Den I can study da wesulz . . . .”
Ben fell limp into Mike’s arms.
“Aw, see, he likes you,” said Rich mockingly.
“Nah,” said Mike, “you know how the doc’s speeches put people to sleep.” They both
chuckled. Lomek did not.
*****
Ben awoke in a room black as the depths of an abyss. The absence of light seemed to
cause the chill carried in the air to bite deeper. He wounds ached from his struggle with the
orderlies, and his head pounded. He lay on the floor, his arms restrained in the jacket, his legs
limp. He struggled to move. Lifting his head from the floor caused the room to spin. He laid his
head back onto the spot on the floor that was warm from the heat his body emitted. He looked
around, hoping to see something. Rolling over, he saw that a single strip of light came from a
crack in the small observation window on he door that could be slid open to view the patient. It
stretched from the bottom to the middle of the wall in front of him. The light–get to the light.
His entire body was sluggish either from the drug or the beating he had taken from
the orderly. He could lift his head, but convincing the rest of his body to move proved to be
difficult. He never noticed how hard it was to stand without being able to put his arms out to
push off the floor or reach for something to grab on. The drug coursing through him only
weakened him. He laid his head back onto the floor and put his elbows beneath him, shifting his
back into the air. He then set his forehead onto the floor, rocked back, putting his body weight
onto his knees and elbows and looked up. His head hung loosely, and drool dripped from his
open mouth.
He tried to sit up, and the room began to spin. He fell forward onto his forehead and
elbows. Pain shot through him, waking him slightly, but the drug took effect immediately
MOSAIC 2007
37
and eased the pain. He pushed himself up and sat back, leaning his head back for balance. He
swayed slightly but steadied himself. He set one foot on the ground and rested his weight on
the bent knee. He stayed that way for a few minutes and when capable he stood up, hunched
over. He found it difficult to move so he threw himself forward towards the light that was now
distorted and blurred from the drugs.
He collided with the wall, right into the area of light. Sitting down, the light was
long enough to run from his forehead to his feet. He focused on the light, the only thing that
penetrated the darkness. It was the only thing he could focus on, the only thing keeping him
sane.
Ben sat there waiting for anything to happen. He wanted Dr. Lomek to come in and
give him test results. He wasn’t even sure if he had been tested. When would he know?
When would someone come to see him? Would he ever get out of here? His questions were
interrupted by a shadow of someone passing outside. The light was blocked by the figure
outside the door as it crossed the doorway. Was it a guard? Was it Lomek? He decided to
get its attention; he didn’t care who it was. He had questions, and he wanted answers. “Hey!”
Nothing. He waited, wondering if the person was within earshot. The blocked the light again.
“HEY!” The figure stopped in the doorway. Ben was about to start yelling either questions
or obscenities, maybe both, but his voice caught in his throat. Whoever kept passing wasn’t
passing in the hall. The light wasn’t being blocked from outside; it was being blocked from
inside.
The light was blocked because the figure was standing between the door and Ben.
Someone was in the room with Ben. He hadn’t noticed because he’d been staring at light. His
eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness of the room. The figure moved again and was gone. Ben
turned his head to follow, but his shadowy cellmate had vanished into the void.
Ben turned his head from the light and closed his eyes. He waited, counting, hoping
that when he opened his eyes they would have adjusted to the darkness. He opened them. His
strategy had worked, but he wasn’t sure if he was thankful for it. Sitting across the room from
him was the dark figure. He stared at Ben. His face was covered up to his nose by his arms that
rested on his legs. He wasn’t bound as Ben was, but why?
He sits there, watching, waiting. But for what? Is he a prisoner as I am? Ben wasn’t sure what
to think. The two watched each other, Ben through wide eyes, the other peering over his arms.
His eyes seemed to be vacant. Something about him didn’t seem real. Is this another dream? The
man across from Ben began to grow. He seemed to get larger. No. He was moving closer to
Ben, moving without moving as if he were floating, gliding across the floor. Before Ben could
react the man was directly in front of him. He smelled of rotting, burning flesh.
Ben wasn’t sure what to make of the stench; it was more putrid than anything he’d ever
smelled before. The man smiled, then screamed. As he screamed, Ben screamed. He’s not making
any sound. It’s as if I’m screaming for him or he’s screaming through me. The man kept smiling, his
mouth gaping. His breath slapped Ben in the face, scorching hot. It began to burn Ben’s eyes
and nostrils. Ben began to choke. He could feel it drifting down his throat. His body tightened.
The man’s eyes began to glow. He closed his mouth, but Ben kept screaming, struggling to
breathe, inhale, exhale, anything. Help! Darkness filled Ben’s sight.
He awoke hours later. He scanned the room, squinting his eyes to try to see in the dark.
He began to scoot from corner to corner, extending his legs and feeling with his feet since the
jacket still bound his arms. Finding nothing, Ben began to calm down. His heart rate slowed
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but his mind raced, sensing something that couldn’t be seen. He still felt slightly groggy from
the drug; it must have been another hallucination. He couldn’t wait to tell Dr. Lomek that
her drug hadn’t worked. He began to lean back against the wall but the restraints made it too
uncomfortable. Besides, the wall seemed hot, terribly hot, as if it was on fire, but it wasn’t–Ben
was.
His skin seared and popped as the fire consumed him. The burning overwhelmed him,
and he began to yell for help, begging anyone or anything to help him. It had never been this
real before. There had never been pain associated with the dreams. With a surge of strength,
Ben broke free of the restraints. He flailed about trying to put out the fire, he slapped his arms,
and the contact nearly killed him. His flesh began to drip off now, dropping to the floor in small
burning puddles. He was going to catch the entire room on fire!
He closed his eyes and screamed, asking whatever kind of God there was why
something like this would happen. There was no pain. He fell back in relief, running his hands
over smooth skin. He touched his arms and neck, the only tender areas were where he had
slapped himself. He opened his eyes to see the handprints he had made, but instead he could
only see the fire. It hadn’t stopped. Bones from his fingers were visible now as the tips of his
hands burned down. He couldn’t bear to watch it any longer. He closed his eyes and waited
to die. The pain was gone again. It’s me. Only when I look do I feel it. Why? WHY? What’s wrong
with me? What did she do to me?! That shadowy figure appeared in his mind: his cellmate, a
demon that was in the room, there to torture him, to possess him. The demon grabbed his face,
pressing his claws to his eye sockets and screamed in such a gleeful tone, “SEE!”
Ben’s eyes were forced open to see and experience the hellfire once again. “No!” He
screamed and tried to shut his eyes. The demon stopped him.
The monster grabbed his eyelids and held them open. “See.” This time the voice was
deep and terrible. It froze Ben.
“SEE! SEE!” It squealed over and over in a high-pitched voice. The smile on its face
showed the enjoyment it got as Ben suffered. Ben covered his eyes with his hands: relief. The
demon grabbed Ben’s arms and pinned them underneath its feet, the talons digging into the
ground, making sure Ben could not pull free. The monster grabbed his eyelids and held them
open. “See.” This time the voice was deep and terrible. It froze Ben. Staring into the eyes of the
monster he realized what he saw. Hell. This is what the demon suffered eternally. Now, he was
doomed to suffer with him. But why? For what purpose? What had he done?
Everything around them was burning; he saw others around them, writhing in the
flame, the faces from his post office box and the monsters from the bus. . . . He couldn’t take
it anymore. He couldn’t watch this. Only when his eyes were open, when he saw what was
happening, could he feel the pain. So he decided not to look–ever again.
Breaking free from the mental grasp of the demon, Ben brought his hands to his eyes.
Do it! He put each index finger in the outside corner of each eye. His thumbs held his jaw shut,
the rest of the fingers dug into his face. Pressing as hard as he could, he dug into his sockets.
The pain shot through his head. He pushed harder, curled his fingers and pulled. He screamed.
His sockets bled. His hands dropped to his side, an eyeball in each palm. Ben leaned back. His
MOSAIC 2007
39
screams turn to laughter. He sat there cackling, oblivious to the observation window sliding
open. “Oh God. Get Lomek!” Mark frantically searched through his ring of keys for the one
to Ben’s room. “What is it?” Rich tried to peek in through the window. Mark put his hand over
Rich’s face and pushed him. “Just get her!”
*****
A week later Ben was released from the infirmary and from Westdale Asylum. Dr.
Lomek herself escorted him out. Gauze was wrapped around his head; there was nothing that
could be done to save his vision; the report said irreparable damage. Dr. Lomek opened the gate.
“You’re free to go, do as you please.” She said looking straight ahead. Ben turned his head in her
direction.
“I know.” A smile crossed his lips. He walked through the gate, holding a glass jar. A lid
on top kept in the green liquid that sloshed about inside and the two small orbs that lay at the
bottom of the jar–the two small orbs that darted around frantically, guiding their owner.
Daedalus’s Digits (Charcoal and Painting on Masonite)
by Jason Naquin
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Eternal Sleep (Ceramic) by Betsy Seal
A Murder Committed or Not?
by
Moye P. Boudreaux
Edgar Poe presents the whole fancied picture or events in all its details with such stupendous plasticity that you
cannot but believe in the reality or possibility of a fact which actually never has occurred and even never could happen”
(Dostoevski 61).
On the surface, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” written by Edgar Allan Poe, is a story of a
horrendous murder. Poe, the master mystery writer, shows his talent well in this story. He
gives us two stories in one. Story number one is the murder, presented as fact. Discovery of
the second story requires the reader to use deduction and reason. Using those tools, it becomes
obvious that the murder is imaginary, for it could not have been committed as told. The time
doesn’t work, the facilities would not have existed in the home to dispose of the body as
described, and the police could not have ignored the bloody bedroom. An astute reader will
have deduced, after reading the first paragraph of the story, that the narrator is insane. Is it not
reasonable, therefore, to suspect that the murder occurs only in the mind of the narrator?
Charles Baudelaire, who spent 14 years translating Poe’s works, tells us, speaking of
Poe, “For him, Imagination is queen of the faculties” (52-53). Just as I might imagine a “just
revenge” (short of murder, of course) against someone who grievously wrongs me, or like
Eliza Doolittle imagines when singing the song, “Just you wait, Henry Higgins! Just you wait”
(Lerner “My Fair Lady”), let us entertain the possibility that our narrator is plotting this
murder in his imagination.
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If we accept that the murder could not have been committed as the narrator describes
it, then there are many possible alternate interpretations. Critics have studied the narrator’s
insanity and their conclusions vary enormously as to how the insanity affects Poe’s story.
David Halliburton describes the narrator’s paranoia in “The Tell-Tale Heart” and his effort to
prove his sanity this way: “His wall of rationality is, of course, transparent, for his arguments,
proofs, and analyses are simply too ‘technical’ to be believed” (234). Edward Pritcher feels that
the physical organs mentioned in this story are “symbols of reason and intellect” (232). He
tells us “This interpretation of the tale inclines one to dismiss the surface ‘plot’ of a murder
and endorse a reading of the tale seen entirely as a psychological drama” (232). We are told by
John Cleman: “Several other critics seem to believe that the old man in the tale is the narrator
himself ” (631). Michael Davitt Bell says “The essential Poe fable… is a tale of compulsive
self-murder” (qtd. In Jay 84). I agree with the quoted comments of Halliburton and Pritcher,
although we part paths in how the narrator’s insanity manifests itself. I even have no quarrel
with Cleman’s and Jay’s interpreting the story as they do; but my own hypothesis is credible
and, I feel, less extreme. Most reviews I have read at least agree that (1) the narrator is insane,
(2) he is haunted by something, and (3) his story is too “far-fetched” to be true as told. Given
these clues, I will proceed with the story as I see it.
The narrator is alone, speaking to himself. He is angry and worried. The old man has
peeked into his room and caught him performing a sexual act, one that is unspeakable in his
world. Why does the narrator zero in on the eye as the object of his hatred? He may have
spied the old man’s eye looking through the keyhole. He cannot bear the thought that the old
man knows what he does in private. He begins to carefully, carefully conceive a plan to keep his
secret from being revealed, to get revenge for being spied upon, and to rid himself of the “evil
eye” (Poe 235) that he believes is the true guilty party. He begins to spy on the eye, just as the
eye has spied upon him.
Why not just kill the old man, as the surface story would have us believe? Perhaps he
cannot. It’s reasonable to assume that the narrator, since he is insane, is not able to move about
at will. He may be confined in a locked room, and the old man may be his caretaker (Poe does
not tell us their relationship in the story). More importantly, the narrator tells us he does not
want to kill the old man because, as he says, “I loved the old man. He had never wronged me.
He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire” (Poe 234). When the eye was closed,
he says, “it is impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil
Eye” (235). By placing the blame on the offending eye that he spied through the keyhole, he can
believe that the old man does not know his secret and still respects and loves him (for when we
love, we must believe that we are loved in return). Killing the old man would cost him that love
and respect. He doesn’t seem to understand that killing the eye is the same thing.
We determine that the story cannot be true as soon as we begin to reconstruct the
night of the supposed crime. Consider the time allotted to the “work.” In a hallucination time
can stretch out. One scene can consume what seems to be hours. In reality, time moves much
more quickly, and one cannot control movement in the way the narrator describes. He believes
he spent an hour placing his “whole head within the opening” (Poe 235). Then, the old man
awakens, the eye opens, and “for a whole hour [emphasis added] I did not move a muscle, and
in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting in the bed, listening” (235).
Surely it is unlikely that they could have stayed in their relative positions for an hour, the old
man in bed, frightened to the “bottom of the soul” (235).
In support of my theory that there is a sexual element in the narrator’s guilt, I quote Hollie Pritchard, who
addresses sexual elements she finds in “The Tell-Tale Heart.” She tells us “a sadomasochistic element emerges…
although Poe remains covert in any presentation of sexual analogy” (144-147).
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Next the narrator tells the audience (himself ?) that “a single, dim ray, like the thread
of a spider, [emphasis added] shot out… and fell upon the ‘vulture eye’” (Poe 236). Only in
one’s mind could such a tiny beam of light immediately find the object of the narrator’s fear;
with no searching along the wall, no hesitation, it unerringly lands where it is intended. This is
obviously fantasy!
Holding the lantern beam steadily on the eye, the narrator stands still until a “new
anxiety” (Poe 236) seizes him, and he acts. The old man has time only to let out one shriek, and
then he is dead. The actual murderous act is barely described, which is typical of hallucination
and dreams. Sane or insane, our minds shy away from such a grievous sin. The act is
accomplished by dragging the bed over him. He loves the old man, we’ve been told, so his mind
makes the murder as quick, clean, and painless as he can imagine.
Now Poe gives us a clue that is difficult to miss. The narrator tells us he “worked
hastily” and dismembered the corpse. He says, “I cut off the head and the arms and the legs”
(Poe 235). After hiding the body parts, he brags that no one will be able to discern what has
happened. He assures the reader “There was nothing to wash out–no stain of any kind–no
bloodspot whatever” (236). Again I must protest; this is not believable. The body would have
to be held closely to the perpetrator in a position that would allow for dismemberment within
the confines of a tub. The house would not have indoor plumbing and a tub with a faucet and
drain the mid eighteenth century. Could he take off the head and limbs by axe or saw, without
splattering himself, or the walls, or anything in the room? How did he get the tub clean without
any water and emptied without any spillage?
Poe’s illusion continues. The old man’s room is “close fastened” (Poe 235). He lets out
one shriek. Even with the closed shutters, even though he is an old man and terrified, at two
o’clock in the morning, a neighbor hears the sound. The neighbor makes a report to the police,
who then proceed to send not one, but three policemen to investigate. The narrator convinces
the police that the old man is not home and proceeds to show them the murder scene. The bed
has been used as a murder weapon; the head, arms, and legs have been removed from a torso
and the parts taken from the tub to the hiding place; boards have been removed and replaced;
the narrator has not washed nor changed clothes, and all takes place within a two-hour period.
Starting at midnight, the narrator took an hour to get his head inside the door; then he stared
for another hour while the old man sat up in bed. The time of the murder, therefore, would be
at about two o’clock. He had finished “making an end to these labors” (Poe 237) when the bell
sounded four o’clock and the policemen knocked at the door. How could such a grisly act have
taken place as swiftly and as neatly as the narrator claims?
Consistent to my thesis is that, aside from being worried about having his secret
revealed, the narrator is also guilt-ridden over being seen by the eye. It appears his conscience
troubles him. Still hallucinating, he starts worrying. He imagines that he is losing it; his ears
ring, he begins pacing, and the “low, dull, quick sound” (Poe 237) that he imagines to be the
beat of the dead heart increases steadily. The policemen don’t seem to hear it, but the narrator
decides the policemen will surely hear the heartbeat because it’s so loud. He knows he must
pay for his sins (the carnal as well as the mortal). But here the story ends; there is no trial, no
sentence.
Will that be the end of his delusion? The penance due remains unpaid; the heart
(life blood of the eye) has not died. The danger of exposure remains as long as the eye lives.
Natalka Freeland states that Poe’s stories have a “recurrent insistence that those who seem dead
are in fact still alive” (5). Poor narrator! The hallucination may have been repeated again and
The country’s first bathtub with fittings was ordered in 1840, and this story was written in 1850 (Plumbing
Supply Web Page, History of Plumbing in America.)
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again, embellished each time it crept from his subconscious.
Is the “Tell-Tale Heart” more then just a horror story? In a brochure provided by the
National Park Service at Poe’s only surviving home, Poe is credited with creating another
popular form of the mystery story, “the treasure-mystery combination with built-in clues” (Lerner).
I believe this wonderful tale is a treasure-mystery with the clues pointing to the sub-plot
that is the treasure. Such a thesis fits into descriptions we have of Edgar Allan Poe. Richard
Benton describes Poe’s “penchant for secret writing–for mystery, ambiguity, conundrums,
cryptograms, hieroglyphs, diagrams, obscure allusions. . . . in short, for deception and cunning
one-upmanship” (111).
Eric Carlson reminds us “in the words of a recent book on Poe, there is ‘an
embarrassment of critics’ in English alone” (vii). With the number of reviews and diversity of
interpretations, I will not attempt to judge the ideas of those who have studied the work and
found a different interpretation. While my version of the sub-plot differs to some degree from
any I have found, my rejection of the literal version is common among Poe’s reviewers. Has a
murder actually been committed, or has it not? In fiction we have the liberty to draw our own
conclusions. By its very nature, the story is not a tale of fact; therefore, I choose to see “The
Tell-Tale Heart” as the cunning hallucination of an intelligent but deranged mind.
Works Cited
Baudelaire, Charles-Pierre. “New Notes on Edgar Poe.” The Recognition of Edgar Allan Poe:
Selected Criticism since 1829. Ed. Eric W. Carlson. Ann Arbor: UP of Michigan. 1969.
52-53.
Benton, Richard P. “The Folio Club Tales, ‘The Tales: 1831-1835’”. A Companion to Poe
Studies. Ed. Eric W. Carlson. Westport: Greenwood. 1996.
Carlson, Eric W. Preface. The Recognition of Edgar Allan Poe, Selected Criticism Since 1819.
Ann Arbor: UP of Michigan. 1969.
Cleman, John. “Irresistible Impulses.” EAP Am. Lit 63.4 (Dec. 1991) 623 <www.web16.epnet.com/ citation.>
Dostoevski, Fyodor M. Three Tales of Edgar Poe. The Recognition of Edgar Allan Poe, Selected
Criticism Since 1819. Ann Arbor: UP of Michigan. 1969.
Freeland, Natalka. “’One of An Infinite Series of Mistakes’: Mystery, Influence, and Edgar Allan
Poe.” ATQ. 10.2 (1996): 123+.
Halliburton, David. Edgar Allan Poe, A Phenomenological View. Princeton: UP of Princeton.
1973. 25, 334-335.
Jay, Gregory S. “Poe: Writing and the Unconscious”. The Tales of Poe. Ed. Harold Bloom.
New York: Chelsea House. 1987.
Lerner, Alan. “Just You Wait, Henry Higgins”. (Song) My Fair Lady. Warner Brothers. 1964.
Edgar Allan Poe NHS Brochure. Philadelphia 7 July 2004. National Park Service Website.
www.nps.gve/edal/brochure .
Pierce, Charles Sanders. “The Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Pierce. Edgar Allan Poe, A Phenomenological View. Ed. David Halliburton. Princeton: UP Princeton. 1973.
Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and
Drama. Eds. X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. New York: Longman, 2005. 234-237.
Pritcher, Edward W. “The Physiognomical Meaning of Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’”
Studies in Short Fiction. 16.3 (1979): 231+.
Pritchard Hollie. “Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’” Explicator. 61.3 (2003): 144+. http://web16.epnet.com/citation
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Thumbtacks and Hand Grenades
by
Jason Robert Boudreaux
As a young man, I felt a sense of pride towards my country and myself. I was a member
of the Boy Scouts of America as far back into my youth as I can remember. My parents—my
mother was a registered nurse, and my father was a blue-collar worker—were both Christian
missionaries. They raised me to have high values and morals; furthermore, they taught me
to be kind and generous to those less fortunate than I. Looking back, I find it hard to picture
that ten-year-old kid who wanted to sponsor a hungry child from Africa. Of course, I didn’t
have any money of my own, and I had to borrow from my mother, but Sally Struthers, the
spokesperson for the “Feed the World” foundation, made those little kids—fly-infested and
crusty-eyed—look so hungry.
My childhood bedroom was like a living atlas because I had full-color maps of all the
continents hung on the walls. Each map was held in place with those plastic, multi-colored
thumbtacks that most people have in a little cup on their office desks; in addition, the maps
were connected with cellophane tape to create a mural of the world. Marking all the places
that I wanted to visit were more thumbtacks—color-coded according to my desire to visit each
place—and I had a note next to each one describing why I had chosen to bless that particular
spot with my future presence.
My best friend, Musashi, was a mulatto kid whose mother and father were Japanese
and African-American respectively. Musashi and I were inseparable throughout high school.
He always made me laugh because he would make fun of all the “normal” kids at school who
treated him as if he were leprous because he looked different. Looking back, I realize it was
probably not smart to do such a thing because we got beat up quite often.
By the time I was thirteen or fourteen years old, I knew what I wanted to do after I
graduated from high school. I was going to join the United States Marines, and I was dragging
my best friend with me. This would be the beginning of a great adventure for us. It was as if
we were Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn floating down the Mississippi or Louis and Clark
trekking across America. We were about to learn and see many wonderful things; however, we
were also soon to learn that the price for becoming men would be a high one.
The first order of business was to talk to the Marine recruiters. They would usually
come to school a few times a year, and they would show off their colorful uniforms with shiny
medals, patent leather shoes, and pant creases that could be used to shave. The uniform was
the thing that sealed the deal for us. We really didn’t know or care about the other differences
between the Marines and the other branches of the armed forces. After the recruiters had us
hooked and reeled in like a couple of large-mouth bass, we were shipped off to the Military
Entrance Processing Command in New Orleans, Louisiana. This is where all the fun started.
We waited in line for hour upon hour as though we were bottles on a factory bottling line. We
were poked and prodded with myriad needles and air-injected vaccines, and we were asked a
plethora of questions ranging from our propensity for allergies to our color preferences. After
the inquisitions, the physicals, and the aptitude tests came the all-too-dramatic “swearing in.”
There must have been fifty of us in that flag-lined room, many of us just kids, about to swear
our lives and freedom away; however, most of us had no idea what we were getting into.
We landed at San Diego International Airport at about 1:30 a.m. In military time, that
was 0130 hours. Since no one was there to meet us at the gate or in the terminal, we wandered
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around like lost sheep looking for Little Bo Peep. Eventually, a plain white bus showed up to
collect us. The person that stepped out of the bus—a man at six feet, four inches tall and at
least two hundred sixty pounds—was not as nice as the Marine recruiters back home. Looking
back, I remember that he was the meanest-looking person that I had ever seen in my entire
life, and he must have lost his duty roster because he called each of us “maggot” or another
word that rhymes with maggot. His name was Staff Sergeant Johnson, and his uniform was
impeccable. There was not a single thread out of place, from his spit-shined combat boots to
his camouflaged shirt and pants. The summit of the mountain was a wide-brimmed hat, state
trooper style. He looked like the bastard son of Ranger Smith from the Yogi Bear cartoons and
Allison Hayers from Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman.
It was a relatively short ride from the airport to our barracks at the Marine Corps
Recruit Depot. Each recruit found the X spot on the floor in front of the footlocker with his
name on it. Being delirious from lack of sleep and hunger, I did something that I would live to
regret. Not a single word had been spoken by any of us since we stepped onto that bus, and I
hadn’t eaten in about eighteen hours, and at that point it was about 4:00 a.m., and we had been
“standing at attention” in total silence for about an hour. I realize now that it was a test to see
who would crack under the pressure. Of course, I had to be the one to break the silence. To
everyone else’s misfortune, Musashi was assigned the bunk next to mine. Cautiously, I looked
over to where he stood like a statue, and I whispered, “Musashi.” Since he was more disciplined
than I ever would be, he didn’t move a muscle. I tried again to make him look at me, but his
only response was to ever-so-slightly pivot his head from left to right in defiance. Knowing
my attempts were futile at best, I finally faced forward in defeat. Unfortunately, standing three
feet away from me was my surrogate mother, father, and nightmare. He came towards me like a
freight train at full throttle and stopped as close to me as physically possible.
Menacingly, he whispered, “Is that your milk chocolate girlfriend?”
Sheepishly, I said, “No.”
At that time, we had not been instructed on the proper way to answer a drill instructor.
Staff Sergeant Johnson proceeded to tell us that the first and last word to come out of our
mouths should be Sir, and we must yell everything loud enough so that our “mommas” back
home could hear us; furthermore, unless there was spit flying out of our mouths, we weren’t
doing it correctly.
After these instructions, he roared, “Do you understand me?”
In unison, we all belted out, “Sir, yes, sir!”
Obviously we weren’t loud enough, so he barked again, “Do you understand me?
Because we were all afraid for our lives, we all screamed at the top of our lungs, “Sir, yes,
sir!”
Setting his sights back on me, he whispered, “Well, if he isn’t your milk chocolate
girlfriend, why are you whispering sweet nothings into his ear?”
At this point, I remember uttering something incoherent like Porky Pig at the end of
the Warner Bros. cartoons. This is when we learned the first of many lessons. He proceeded
to make everyone, except for me, do fifty push-ups. No, it wasn’t fair, but it was effective. It
helped us realize that we were all the same. There were no races or religions. No one in that
room was smart or stupid, and it didn’t matter how much money anyone had. We were a team,
and if one person screwed up, it could kill everyone else. A seventeen-year-old kid shouldn’t
have to think about things like that. I wanted to go home and play Atari.
The next twelve weeks were mentally and physically grueling. We learned lots of
useful and interesting things. One day we might learn how to make a bed properly or fold our
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clothes, and the next day we might learn the proper method of field stripping an M-16 rifle or
how to throw a live hand grenade. I had never realized that there were so many ways to kill a
human being with my bare hands.
Graduation was getting closer, and we started practicing for the big day. Tailors fit
us for our dress uniforms. The sense of pride that we felt is hard to put into words. We were
part of something special. Despite the jokes and doubts by some of the people back home who
thought we couldn’t do it, we were really going to make it through. I couldn’t wait to see their
faces when we got home.
On September 31, 1988, we were all “spit-shined” and lined up like dominoes on the
asphalt parade field. Because I had the highest score on the rifle range, I was the company
honor guard, and I carried the flag in front of the formation. I couldn’t see Musashi, but I
eventually picked out our parents—who had flown out to California together and whom we
hadn’t seen or spoken to in three months—from the crowd in the bleachers. Our mothers were
crying side-by-side like all of the other mothers. Our fathers were sitting next to each other—
heads held high as though they were matadors who had just slain El Toro Diablo.
When we arrived at the depot three months before, there were about eighty recruits in
our platoon; however, there were only twenty-five of us left. We had done the impossible. We
had beaten the odds, and I knew things were going to be different when we got home. No one
was going to beat us up anymore. We were no longer Pony Boy and Johnny from The Outsiders.
We were not maggots anymore. On that day we became men. On that day we all became
United States Marines.
I held Musashi’s hand as he died on the desert sands of Kuwait in 1991. My best
friend—my brother—was gone. “Why didn’t we go to college like everyone else?” I asked
myself. “Why did we have to become men so soon?” I wondered. Because of the ringing in
my ears from the explosion, I couldn’t make out everything that the Navy medic said. I know
that he had done everything he could; however, Musashi’s wounds were too severe. I had about
three minutes to say goodbye to the only “true” friend I ever had. It was not enough time. Is
there ever enough?
Neither Musashi nor I had turned twenty-one yet. We were planning a big party
because our birthdays were only about a month apart. I still drink one for him every year on
his birthday, December 20th. I truly miss my friend. I see his mother on holidays, and I visit
even more often since my own mother died. She’ll make coffee, and we sit and talk about the
news or what new shows are on T. V. She loves the reality shows. I hate them, but I pretend to
be interested for her sake. Sometimes we talk about Musashi or his father—who passed away
about six months before my mother. Between working in the oil and gas industry and my time
in the Marines, I was given the opportunity to visit several of the places that were marked on
my maps. She usually asks me to tell her stories about my travels and adventures. I oblige her
because she has never been anywhere other than Japan, California, and Louisiana, and I love to
see her smile. Sometimes she closes her eyes as I am talking, and I think she imagines that it is
Musashi telling the stories. I wish it were.
I often think about the day in the desert. I sometimes blame myself for Musashi’s death
because it was my idea to join the Marines. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. I hope
that he forgives me.
A twenty-year-old kid shouldn’t have to die like that.
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47
Mann Ray (Pencil Drawing) by Darrick Victor
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The Wind Blows Home
by
Jonathan Lafleur
Wave, flag, wave
Upon the ringing winds of freedom
Bringing the battleships of peace
Declaring wars were won with words. The stars and stripes are numbered,
And our history reminds us
That our brotherhood unites us
And states that this is home.
Warm, house, warm
With family ties that bind these walls
And keep our kinship safe inside,
Sharing dreams by firelight.
We hold each other close
And even closer when one leaves
In prayer and thought and certainty
That this is still their home.
Love, darling, love,
And let me know your heart is mine
To come inside and be your man
By the kindness of your hand.
Let our time together
Take us where the wind should blow,
And sailing on toward wherever;
With each other we are home.
Muse: Emergence (Ceramic)
by Todd Musso
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49
Death of Silence
by
Brandy Toups
I could still taste the whiskey on my lips and feel the burn in my throat as I opened
a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels. The empty bottle sat on the coffee table next to the stack of
papers. That stack was the reason I had started drinking again. I placed the fresh bottle on the
table and thumbed through the pages. It may have been the alcohol or maybe the tears, but the
words on the page became blurry. I could still make out the colored stickers asking me to sign
here, here, and here.
I tossed the stack back on the table and took another swig of whiskey. I had stopped
bothering with a glass hours ago. I poured the liquid poison down my throat trying to numb
my brain, my body, my heart. I sank back into the couch and nestled into the goose-down
throw that had become my sole sleeping partner over the past few weeks.
A man on television in a swanky blue suit preached to me about making amends for my
wrongs. He stressed the importance of saving my soul and scared me with thoughts of eternal
damnation. I wondered how he knew, and then I thought, “It’s too late.”
I turned the volume down, and silence smothered me like quicksand, creeping up my
body, oozing into my ear canals, and closing me off from the rest of the world. The sounds of
family no longer existed, at least not in this house. No Fisher-Price toys played lullabies. No
one asked for help with his homework. The sounds of dinner being prepared had vanished, and
the smell of pot roast had been replaced by the smell of molding dishes.
I sat up and began to thumb through the pages again. I knew it had to be done. The
least I could do was to make this simple for her. After all, my bottle and I were to blame. As I
grabbed the pen, my breath grew short. I felt a pressure on my chest and a lump formed in my
throat. I signed each piece—there, there, and there.
I stuffed the papers into the accompanying envelope. It already contained the $2.50
postage needed to mail it off. Its destination had already been printed on the front: James
Nolan, Attorney-at-Law, 528 Main Street, Suite C, Butler, AL 36904.
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A Hole in the Sky
by
Adam Rouse
The stars live on, and I ask myself why;
They’re negative space to the earth and sky,
The sun now burns—a blister in the sky,
A golden hole for the dreamer in me
To let my thoughts plummet and land nowhere,
To lose myself within eternity,
But the moment is here. I do not dare
To challenge the laws of mortality,
To forget today, and just stare and stare,
Until like a star I collapse and die.
Exploded, I’m dust, but I do not care.
If I were alive, I’d tear up the sky.
Yes, time is a slave to eternity,
But here and now, in this moment, I am free.
Crash
by
Leah Peterson
Like phases of the moon, your curves change in the inconsistent light, and sometimes I can
see a scar or two like a small meteor has crashed there. I would love to land here every night;
one small step for me and one small step for you. Can a moon have its own moon? Because I
would revolve around you. But I would rather be the sun; the only star that lights you up. Can
I wish upon myself ? I’d ask for you, the celestial body that is lying here next to me, full and
bright with dimples where a smile has landed on your face. I burn up every time I enter your
atmosphere, and I breathe you in even though it’s so thick and heavy that my chest caves in.
Whatever scent it is, it’s deadly but smells so sweet. I take a deeper breath and realize it’s your
hair. Its strands tickle my skin as my gravity pulls you closer to my face. Your green-eyed
stars shining in the darkness, like a black hole, and like a black hole, I pull you in. It’s heavenly
here. Maybe this is beyond the stars and planets. It’s so hard to explain a love that’s
crashing into my soul.
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51
Howl
by
Devin Gene Martin
Like the moon we are
Our bodies created from the dusts of this
Earth.
Our light a reflection
From the radiant heart
Of our dying Sun.
Tidal, diurnal rhythms
Wane and wax, like waves
On the surface of a deep ocean.
Tied to the Earth,
We are enamored,
A love that cannot touch.
Sometimes the world comes between us,
Between us and our beloved
And we imagine our darkness.
That night at the beach,
We were like two cups
Discovering our fullness.
We became golden,
Spilling with light,
Coloring the face of the waters.
Aquatic Dreams (Ceramic)
by Erin Chauvin
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Not Tonight
by
Raymond John Legendre III
On most nights asking his wife Tiff for sex was about as fruitful as going to an ATM
with an expired bankcard. There was always some excuse. Some nights she was too tired.
Others she had a headache. Occasionally she went to sleep before he could even make an
advance.
Sy Hendley grew tired of trying to determine Tiff ’s motives when it came to why she
rejected his pleas for intimacy. Not that he ever acted out his frustration. His anger could always
be stifled by her smile. She first flashed that toothy grin to him in a bar on a cold December
night two years earlier, and he had been a sucker for it ever since. Her body gained his
attention, too–5-foot-7, curvy, long blonde hair, and expressive blue eyes that seemed to stare
right through him at times. Her voice was at turns loud and soft, chiseled by four years working
at a hair salon. But that smile, that smile was what won him from a distance even before she
came over to talk to him.
Truth be told it wasn’t like they had had sex more than twice a week while they were
dating. Some weeks they went without sex. But now that they were married, he expected more,
especially because Tiff talked about wanting a baby from time to time.
Although it started well, Sy’s thirty-fifth year hadn’t exactly been a banner one. After
two years of dating, he married Tiff in January. One month later the communications firm he
worked for filed for bankruptcy after allegations of insider trading became public. After the
company closed its doors, Sy and Tiff were forced to sell their four-bedroom house in one of
Washington D.C.’s better suburbs and move into a more practical two-bedroom apartment ten
miles from the nation’s capital. Tiff wasn’t pleased by the move, but there was nothing he could
do.
Sy’s new job as a telemarketer wasn’t nearly as lucrative–financially or socially–as his
prior job, but it paid the bills while he looked for something else. Companies weren’t racing to
interview him after his previous employer admitted wrongdoing and subsequently became the
whipping boy of every paper across the country. She would just have to accept this.
Now with their first anniversary approaching, her body held a recognizable shape yet
was a foreign object to him. With each passing day, his memories of passionate nights became
buried beneath layers of frustration. Three months without sex was unacceptable for a redblooded male like himself, much less a newly married man.
The temperature outside Washington D.C. hadn’t risen above 40 degrees the past few
weeks in December. Likewise the spark in the Hendley’s bedroom was frigid but not for a lack
of trying on Sy’s part. Finally two days before Christmas, the tension became more than he
could bear.
After getting home from a particularly stressful workday, Sy lounged around while Tiff
swept the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, and washed the dishes. She took a break at 11:30 to
watch The David Letterman Show. Meanwhile Sy took a shower and waited in bed, with only a
pair of dark red boxers on, for Tiff ’s favorite television show to end. When Letterman ended at
12:35, Tiff came to bed in an oversized Winnie the Pooh T-shirt and a pair of blue sweats. She
turned out the lamp on the table next to her side of the bed and said goodnight.
Sy returned the sentiment all the while determined to find a way to break out of his
sexual slump. The thought of sex with his wife had consumed him for the past week. She was
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his wife, for God’s sake. He nuzzled up close to her and attempted to kiss her on the back of her
neck.
“Sy what the hell are you doing?” Tiff asked angrily as she shoved him away.
“I thought we were going to try for a baby,” Sy responded with a hint of shame in his
voice.
“Not tonight.”
Sy had heard that line night after sexless night until three months passed. No night
was a good night for her. He had been afraid to press her for fear of what he might find out.
Tonight, for whatever reason, he didn’t care. He moved away from her and began peppering her
with questions.
“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” he asked while looking out the window
directly across from their bed.
“Sy, you know I have to work tomorrow morning. You remember? Work?”
“But what about all those times we talked about making a baby. Don’t you
remember…?”
“I already have you. I can’t handle two babies. I need to sleep.”
Upon hearing his wife’s insult, Sy sat up quickly. His plump cheeks exploded into a hot
red frenzy.
“How much sleep do you need to cut a person’s hair?”
“Fuck you, Sy! You sat on your fat ass while I cleaned the house tonight. Not once did
you offer to help. You never offer to do anything around the house.”
He smiled at the irony of the first three words of her declaration then exhaled.
“Whatever.”
Tiff rubbed her eyelids as she straightened her frame. “You want to know why we
haven’t had sex in three months?” she asked.
Sy’s stomach began to churn. He desperately wanted to know even if it meant
something bad. Was she cheating on him? He stared at the ceiling fan as it spun as rapidly as
his heart pulsed inside his chest.
“Look at me, you fat fuck!” Tiff screamed with a force that made Sy wince. “Answer me.
Do you want to know why?”
Sy nodded slowly.
She looked at him and coldly said: “I find your body disgusting. You sit on your ass all
day. Then you come home and expect me to cook your dinner and then sleep with you. I don’t
think so.”
Sy nervously ran his fingers through his graying hair unsure of how to respond. Tiff
identified this motion as a sign of weakness and continued: “I might as well finger myself. My
right index finger gets me off quicker than that thing.” She pointed at his penis.
Shock came over Sy. He sat silent and lonely for a period of time–could have been
five minutes, could have been an hour. Was he in the right bed? Was the woman uttering such
harsh words the same one who had vowed to love and cherish him forever only eleven months
ago? His weight hadn’t changed that much since they married. His 5-foot-11 frame weighed
220 pounds when they first began dating. The bathroom scale informed him yesterday that
his current weight was 282. His weight gain wasn’t as grotesque as she made it out to be, and
besides, he’d had a tumultuous year. When things went wrong, he usually comforted himself
with junk food.
Tiff didn’t care about the hurt she caused Sy. Unfazed by her husband’s silence, she
rolled over and went to sleep without saying another word.
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*******
The next morning Sy got up at 8:00 and heated up four leftover waffles. After polishing
off the waffles, he stepped on the scale in just his boxers. It read 283 pounds. “Shit,” he said as
he stepped off. He got dressed in his uniform (white button down shirt, black tie, black pants),
and one hour after waking, he left the house. He got in his white 1997 Ford Escort, pushed
the fast food wrapper out of the driver’s seat and lit a cigarette. He grabbed his CD booklet
and picked out Guns N’ Roses’ album Appetite for Destruction. He pressed the skip track button
until he got to track nine. The opening riff of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” blared and for a moment
he felt like he was back in high school. He pulled up to the stoplight less than a mile from his
house. While he was waiting for the light to turn green, the song’s chorus kicked in.
“Oooooooooooooooooooooooooo Ooooooooooooooooooooooooo Sweet Child O’ Miiiiiiii
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.” As Sy belted out his best Axl Rose impression, he noticed a man in a Lincoln
Navigator next to his car staring at him and shaking his head. They exchanged a glance, and
Sy continued singing. He cherished his 45-minute daily commute to work, and a stranger’s
disapproving stares weren’t going to ruin it for him.
Sy pulled into the parking lot across from work at 9:45, 15 minutes early as usual. After
exiting his car, he greeted his cubicle mate Calvin with a wave. Calvin caught up to his slightly
older co-worker as they were crossing the street to the building.
“How are you doing?” he said to Sy more as a pleasantry than a question.
“Not so good. Tiff called me disgusting last night.”
“Damn, dude.”
“Calvin, am I disgusting?”
His thirty-something cohort laughed before repeating the last word of the question. He
stalled by looking down at the pavement then whispered “No.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s missing, man,” Calvin added in a firm, reassuring tone.
Sy gave his co-worker a nervous grin. Maybe Calvin was right. Of course he was right.
Tiff ’s rejection of his advances was her loss. He took a seat at his cubicle and began making
phone calls to potential customers.
After ninety minutes of people hanging up on him, Sy called the one person he knew
wouldn’t hang up on him at 11:30 in the morning.
“Mom, you got a minute?”
“Sy, I am watching Maury Povich. Can you believe this woman is on his show for the
14th time? She still hasn’t found the father, either.”
Sy slumped down in his chair. “Wow, Mom, that sounds really fascinating.”
“It is,” she said mechanically with no hint of sarcasm.
“Mom, the reason why I called you is I haven’t had a bowel movement the last three
days. I strain and strain and nothing happens. I even ate prunes the last two mornings but
nothing changed.”
After hearing the words “bowel movement,” Calvin told his bookie he’d call him back
later. He faked like he was scrolling up and down his computer screen with his mouse then,
when Sy had his back turned, motioned for the co-workers in the adjacent cubicle to come listen
to Sy’s phone conversation.
“Sy, you might want to consider taking a laxative,” his mother said.
“Okay. I’ll try that. Thanks for the advice, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”
Calvin turned around in his chair and faced Sy. “What’s this I hear about you being
constipated?” he pried.
“I don’t know what causes it,” Sy answered while conveniently forgetting that he
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55
polished off a large pepperoni pizza for supper the night before.
“I hear you. Don’t strain too hard trying to shit, buddy. You could bust a blood vessel in
your ass, and then you definitely wouldn’t get laid.”
Sy pretended he didn’t hear the comment and went back to his work. He had called 86
numbers on the list offering a promise of a free cruise in exchange for the person on the other
end promising to change his cell phone service provider. It was 11:50, and he had not found a
single taker. He had, however, been on the receiving end of several fuck you’s. “Fuck them,” he
thought. “They don’t know me.”
Sy departed from work around 7:00 p.m. His final numbers for the day: 478 phone calls,
three takers. All three were women, all three were in their 60’s. The fact that senior citizens
were the only ones to fall for the scam didn’t make Sy feel good. “This is a temporary stop, not a
destination,” he told people who asked why he would work as a telemarketer.
After hopping into his car, he called Tiff to see if she wanted to eat out at Guerrero’s
Mexican Restaurant. At first she wasn’t sure, but after a minute of what bordered on begging
from him, she accepted the invitation. The truth was he felt bad about not offering to help clean
the house the previous night, and food was the quickest way to Tiff ’s heart. Sy learned that on
the first date and hadn’t forgotten since.
Tiff was ready when he drove up. She was wearing a white sweatshirt with a dolphin on
the front and a pair of torn jeans. After finishing their meals, they shared a few drinks as well
as a few laughs. There was no mention of the previous night’s argument. So far, so good, Sy
thought.
The couple left the restaurant at a quarter till nine. Sy hadn’t planned to get gas until
the next day but noticed upon leaving the restaurant’s parking lot that his car was running on
empty. He found a gas station one mile from the restaurant and assured Tiff he would hurry so
she could have time to watch the episode of American Idol she had taped from earlier that night.
He pumped $20 worth of gas then walked towards the convenience store to pay cash
for the fuel. Before paying, Sy went to use the restroom. It seemed that the Mexican food had
finally done what the laxatives couldn’t. When he left the restroom, he saw a man wearing a
blue hoodie pointing something at the manager of the store, a 40ish white female with brown
hair who had both hands in the air.
Sy immediately ducked down out of sight and slowly inched his way to the special $1
bottled beer promotion in the middle of the store. The robber pointed the manager towards the
cash register nearest the left entrance. Sy, as silently as a 282-pound man could, pulled one of
the bottles out of the iced-down container it sat in. Then with all the speed he could muster, he
ran behind the robber and cracked the bottle over his head.
Blood and beer gushed all over the floor as the robber dropped to his knees. The store’s
manager quickly grabbed the man’s pistol as Sy looked at what was left of the broken beer
bottle in disbelief. Nearby a man who had been pumping gas into his pickup truck called 911.
Less than five minutes after the 911 call, D.C. police arrived on the scene.
Tiff, who sat in the Escort throughout the whole ordeal, entered the store as Sy was
being interviewed by a police officer. The first thing she saw was the blood on the floor and she
feared the worst.
“What did he do, officer?” she cried out hysterically.
“Ma’am, relax,” the officer said. “Your husband is a hero.”
*******
On the ride back home Sy focused on the road ahead as Tiff persistently tried to get
him to relive the scene. It was no use. She repeatedly asked him what went through his mind
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when he saw the man pointing a gun. He just continued to shake his head.
What just happened? He had asked himself that many times over the past few months. It
seemed for once that the answer to this question was something positive.
He recalled the officer’s words to Tiff: “Your husband is a hero.”
Sy had never fashioned himself a heroic person. He was one of most non-aggressive
people he knew. Maybe the stress accumulated over the past year had caused him to forge a new
identity, and he didn’t even realize it.
He pondered his identity while Tiff asked what seemed like the 1,000th question since
they left the gas station. Finally he decided he was still the person he was yesterday. He was
still Sy. Hero or pacifist, he was still Sy.
“I can’t believe my baby is a hero,” Tiff said giddily. “You know what type of reward
heroes get?” This last sentence caught Sy’s attention. He had an idea what Tiff was alluding to,
but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Besides he had never been a hero before in his life. And
he was sure Tiff had never viewed him as a hero before tonight.
When they arrived home, it was time for Tiff ’s favorite show, but instead of sitting in
front of the television, she grabbed Sy’s hand and led him into the bedroom. She sat him on
their king-sized bed. “Sy, I’ve been thinking about last night,” she said. “You were right. I did
say I wanted a baby. I’m just scared.”
Sy rubbed his eyes and said, “I know.”
“I was thinking if you wanted to try tonight. . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, give me like ten minutes to freshen up.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Ten minutes later Tiff emerged from the bathroom in a slinky red nightgown.
“Syyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,” she called playfully.
No answer came.
She repeated herself, “Syyyyyyyyyyyyyy.”
Tiff entered the bedroom to find her husband lying on his stomach with the covers
pulled up.
“Sy Hendley, I thought we were going to . . . .you know,” she said indignantly.
“Not tonight, Tiff. I’m tired,” he said, going to sleep.
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Have u seen? (Photo) by Andrea Dupree-Cenac
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MOSAIC 2007
Disturbing the Universe
by
Adam Rouse
A beme placito. Ave Caesar! Morituri te salutamus
Deus commodo muto consisto quem meus can sentential existo
Delends est carthago
De Nihio et caelum videre iussit, et, erectos ad sidera tollere vultus1
Do I dare to eat a peach?
If I were offered one,
Would I accept,
If it were within my reach?
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Bob Ross and his ‘fro.2
And indeed there will be a time
To prepare a face for the faces that you meet;
To don a death mask or Groucho Marx glasses.3
Anything to hide the insecurities beneath.
Time for you, and time for me.
Now how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
If one were to turn to me and say,
Il y a un poisson dans mon pantaloon,
Et je ne sais pas quoide faire.4
Then how should I begin,
And how should I presume?
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Bob Ross and his ‘fro.
Interpreting poetry and art, but they don’t know.
I will turn and descend the stair,
For I do not dare
Disturb the universe.
Random phrases in a language you don’t understand. Just skip over it.
Host of the television program The Joy of Painting. He had an Afro.
3
Silly glasses with a large nose and moustache attached.
4
Nonesense in French. I’ll sound intellectuel5 if I include a sentence in French.
5
A foot-note within a foot-note. Because I can.
1
2
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59
I will comb over my hair,
So they will not know it is growing then.
Then I might presume,
Then I might begin.
Der wrote sind genug geewechselt,
Lasst mich auch endlich Taten sehn!
Indes ihr Komplimente drechselt,
Kann etwas Nützliches geschehn.
Was hilft es, viel von Stimmung redden? 6
6
By ending with something in German, I can safely conclude without actually explaining myself because the
reader, not knowing this language either (hopefully), will assume this quote ties the rest of the poem together. In
fact, I don’t know what it means. It might be from Faust, I think. I’ll look it up sometime.
Reoccurring Dream (Relief Print) by Barbara Barras
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MOSAIC 2007
Brainstorming
by
Benjamin Duthu
I’m feeling like a stranger in my own skin. . .
No.
That just makes me sound suicidal.
Let’s see. . .
No, that won’t work.
Um. . .
What about this. . .
I wish I could find my way through this. . .
Nine syllables. . .
How the hell can I—
Screw it.
Besides, I’m not on antidepressants.
No offense to anyone who is.
What about a love poem?
A glance into your cerulean eyes makes me. . .
Damn it!
I’m not Bill Shakespeare.
Who says cerulean? Sounds like
A character from Star Trek.
Captain Cerulean, we need you to boost the shields. . .
FOCUS!!!
Your love is like taffy. . .
Okay. If taffy is the best I have
I’m screwed.
Muse, please help me write
These lines so I might
Stop wanting to fight
Everything in sight!
Hey, that’s pretty good!
That’s already a few lines!
Sweet!
Nap time!
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Too Late Old Friend
Music Pirate
by by
Jonathan Lafleur
Adam Rouse
My heart is full
Give me back Napster
But words are few;
Kazaa, or Morpheus.
Fatigued are my own wits, I’m a music pirate
So come, old friend, Sailing the net,
And find my mind
Seeking sunken treasure
Cracked open where it sits. To burn to CD.
Do you conspire
With friends of fire I know it’s illegal
To bring a little heat?
But I don’t care.
Or would you now
The government can sue me.
Convince somehow
I’m not scared.
That I write something sweet?
When music is free,
Have you advice
I can’t say no.
For something nice
That we could both create?
When music is free,
Or do I waste
I can’t say no.
My futile haste
So set your sails–
On one that comes too late?
An MP3:
I’m still alone, LAND HO!
No thoughts have grown—
Emotions on the shelf.
If you won’t greet
My writing sheet,
I’ll work on it myself.
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An Open Life
by
Tori Louviere
I am too old now to be on display.
The years have been kind, but not without the fray.
The days went by like a fast-moving line.
With too much work, now a pain on my spine.
With tears and holes all over my jacket,
Some thought my job was merely a racket.
In my younger days, I enjoyed a good read,
Delighted to share what I know like wild seed.
But with age things get smudged and blurry.
Kids grow up and don’t care about my story.
There were times we laughed and times we cried,
But once you finished you threw me aside.
Sometimes I hope for one last look,
But what can I do—it’s the life of a book.
An Illustrator’s Dream (Ceramic) by Pam Boudreaux
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In Memoriam of Zachary James Camardelle
December 2, 1971-August 27, 2006
Nicholls Graduate and Instructor of English
Solicitation by a Non-Practicing Catholic
by
Zachary James Camardelle
I squinted in the pain-filled glare of an August sun
Reflected off the chalk tombs whitewashed last November.
Though three times I called your name, still you sat muttering
Prayers by the concrete house with the faux marble finish
And its dead garden of blue plastic chrysanthemums.
All I heard from you was ah-vay this and ah-vay that;
I guess there’s nothing better then pre-Vatican II
Invocations to assist a soul into heaven these days!
I hope you come to visit me when I move into
That small, white, stone, gable-roofed apartment of my own.
By the way: bring fresh flowers if at all possible.
The Awards Committee at Nicholls will offer an annual prize in Zachary
Camardelle’s name for the best Mosaic entry.
Zachary’s poetry and writings are being collected by the Archives of
Ellender Memorial Library. Anyone who has a copy of his work or who has
letters or memorabilia is encouraged to submit them to the archivist there, Clifton
Theriot.
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