pensworth spring 2013 issue

PensworthSpring '13

iii

Pensworth:A Journal

of Student Writing and Art

New Series No. 10Spring 2013

Edited byRebecca Branham, Student EditorEmily Hemphill, Student EditorMadison Wesley, Student EditorCory McClellan, Faculty Advisor

Jamey Temple, Faculty Advisor and Managing Editor

sponsored bySigma Tau Delta and the English Department

University of the Cumberlands

iv

Pensworth appears annually in the spring. Students of University of the Cumberlands may submit work for consideration for the next issue by the last Thursday before Christmas break. Submit original poetry, fic-tion, creative nonfiction, photography, and artwork online at www.ucumberlands.edu/pensworth. Visit the website for details on how to submit your work.

Since its first issue in 1985, its revival in a “New Series” in 2003, and now its current online format, Pensworth has provided an outlet for students’ creative work, and our thanks go to all students who have submitted work to the journal. We believe the current issue once again shows an impressive array of talents.

We are proud to publish in this issue the winning manuscript of the University of the Cumberlands annual Creative Writing Award, sponsored by the English Department. Submissions for the Creative Writing Award are accepted in late February and early March. Contact the English Department for submission guidelines.

We are also pleased to present the winning piece of University of the Cumberlands annual The Next Generation Creative Writing Award for local eighth grade and high school students. To learn more about this contest, visit www.ucumberlands.edu/pensworth/contests.php.

Front Cover: Jessica Meece, “Ever Changing”Back Cover: Jessica Meece, “City that Never Sleeps”

Editors’ Note

v

Contents

Photograph, Jasmine Minke .................................................................................1

Open Book, Rhyana Barker ................................................................................ 2

When momma’s at church, Rebecca Branham ................................................. 3

Paternalism, Mythcah Godsey ............................................................................. 4

Garlic Bread, Hayley Davis ................................................................................. 5

One to six on a Tuesday morning in June, Emily Hemphill ............................. 6

Salad Days, Thomas Sakowich ............................................................................ 7

Photograph, Emily Kays ...................................................................................... 8

Play-doh Heart, Madison Wesley ........................................................................ 9

Money’s Fool, Hayley Davis .............................................................................. 10

When Making Cotton Candy, Rebecca Branham ........................................... 11

Something Familiar, Mythcah Godsey ............................................................. 12

Photograph, Emily Kays .................................................................................... 13

That Time of the Month, Madison Wesley ....................................................... 14

Dining Out, Hannah Roehrborn ....................................................................... 17

When Hips Become Trips to the Vet, Emily Hemphill ................................... 19

Spring 2013

Poetry and Artwork

Creative Nonfiction and Artwork

vi

Photograph, Jessica Meece .............................................................................27

Egyptian Room, Tyler Collins .......................................................................28

Airport Music, Tyler Collins .........................................................................29

Photograph, Emily Kays ................................................................................30

The Yellow Heart, Elizabeth Smith .............................................................. 31

The 2012 Next Generation Creative Writing Award Winner with Artwork

from Cumberlands Student

The 2011 Creative Writing Award Winner with Artwork

1

poetry

Jasmine Minke, Balloon Eclipse

2

When momma’s at church

Rhyana Barker, Open Book

Flip my pagesMy dog-eared pagesMy tattered pagesMy ripped pagesMy missing pages—Read those tooHold me by my fraying spineWith the light touchThat makes me cringeIn sheer disbelieveThat someoneWould actually even ever considerPicking me off the shelfIn the first place

Open Book

Rhyana Barker

3

Her brother touches me.Fear floods me and I thinkof Noah and his ark.

When Momma comes homeshe tells me of Abe and howmuch he loved God.I tell momma what her brotherthe babysitter does.

“Oh sweetie, you must’ve had a nightmare.God would never allow that to happen to a little girl.”

When momma’s at church

Rebecca Branham, When momma’s at church

Rebecca Branham

4 Mythcah Godsey, Paternalism

I have your sneezeyour outbursts yourmiddle finger.Snarls are how we say hell—no, get out of my face.You’d think we would be each other’s side-kickbut we’re too busy kicking others in their sides.I flip a shoe off, you do the sameand we argue over whose feet reek the most.A girl after your own black hole.

Paternalism

Mythcah Godsey

5

Bread must have a low self-esteemclothing itself in garlic.

Garlic bread is likea girl with too much makeup, hair too big a Snookie with too much butter.

Slippery, soaked in excess fake flavorhoping to add onto the Plain Jane taste.

Well, well…Mission accomplished.

Garlic Bread

Hayley Davis

Hayley Davis, Garlic Bread

6

I want to exclaim aloud in Spanish

the patchwork-pattern of my school-girl quilt glareslike a bull at a red scarf

blowing branches create monsters who fear nothingbut the darker shade made by flashlight beams

I am a fish dry sand stuck to my slimy scalesand clogging my gasping gillswishing bottles of wine hung by their corkssuspended from bedsprings in water as icy as my navy sheets.

later the only sunrise I will see all summer and your voicemake salty pillowcases the pastand the book beside me in bed makes me laugh and thank Hemingway for irony.

One to six on a Tuesday morning in JuneEmily Hemphill

Emily Hemphill, One to six on a Tuesday morning in June

7

I want to exclaim aloud in Spanish

the patchwork-pattern of my school-girl quilt glareslike a bull at a red scarf

blowing branches create monsters who fear nothingbut the darker shade made by flashlight beams

I am a fish dry sand stuck to my slimy scalesand clogging my gasping gillswishing bottles of wine hung by their corkssuspended from bedsprings in water as icy as my navy sheets.

later the only sunrise I will see all summer and your voicemake salty pillowcases the pastand the book beside me in bed makes me laugh and thank Hemingway for irony.

Thomas Sakowich, Salad Days

Thomas Sakowich

Salad Days

I hunger to relocate my salad days to an age where emotion is no longer a part of an ecosystem.

My birthright is the cellular phone. I wink at her from two cities away.I send her one hundred and sixty character love letters.My playlist consists of her voicemail on loop.

I want to live in a more primitive era; where I could take comfort in the delusion she is not capable of response.

8 Emily Kays, Romance

9Madison Wesley, Play-doh Heart

To be kept soft,you have to be handled—yet you run the risk of being flattened, pulverized, eaten,molded,pulled apart by sticky fingers.Either that or you can bea look-but-don’t-touch,indignant in your solitude, unyielding in your dehydrating silhouette.

Congratulations—or I’m sorry—your canister is finally brimming with thick, crunchy dust,good for nothing buthiding in the backor filling in the cracks.

Play-doh heart

Madison Wesley

10 Hayley Davis, Money’s Fool

Hayley Davis

crisp, cleanthe scent of lust lingering in the nostrils.

Devil’s advocate burns through my pockets,seething with vile desiretrying to keep me sane

but I’m never Satisfied.

Money’s Fool

11Rebecca Branham, When Making Cotton Candy

Mermaid colors taste the best: swimming blues and purples.Spinning the motor faster…

suddenly, fluff.

Warm cobwebs grit glued to the roof of your mouth.

Keep it in a bagblood red clown, shining on the front.

Knot quick,let it cure.

A childhood lost.

When Making Cotton Candy

Rebecca Branham

12 Mythcah Godsey, Something Familiar

A grit waits to be a grit.

My mind is a moth, a suave exquisite material

a translucent ribbon. Suspending your arms can really wound it, or at least crush my time.

I long to be so affable that I become a god

and am misplaced and flouted, too

so I could compose a novel.

Who will embrace me,

who will receive me

and who will

choose me is not yet certain.

When I surrender, I’ll be even more vicious.

Stand up and remember: I adore those who truly see me.

For only they are lost who never

have been flung apart.

Something Familiar

Mythcah godsey

13

creative nonfiction

Emily Kays, Pray

14 Madison Wesley, That Time of the Month

It is a politely-unspoken rule in Williamsburg, Ken-tucky—and in many small towns across America—that one should not go to Wal-Mart during the first few days of the month, because this time is reserved for those who need the limited space the most. I say the space is limited because during this short span of time, Wal-Mart’s sprawling campus spills over with anxious customers stuffing the aisles to the point of explosion and clutching carts overflowing with precariously-perched goods. At the first of the month, available parking spaces are virtually non-existent, and usually-short check-out lines tangle around each other and extend the length of the foyer. The reason for these large crowds and chaotic conditions is one that is uncomfortable to articulate and often left unspoken in favor of political correct-ness, but it is a reason that is undeniable, especially amidst cur-rent economic conditions: the first of the month means crowded groceries stores because the first of the month means distribution of welfare checks. For the 77% of Americans living paycheck to paycheck, payday means the chance to refill the refrigerator, and for those relying on government funding to stay afloat, this day can be especially crucial. For many, the day this check lands in their hands is the first day in a month that they are able to buy grocer-ies for their families, hence the masses that flock to Wal-Mart like clockwork each time the calendar flips. Pouring through the doors floods a hodge podge of peo-ple, some darting, charged by batteries of desperation, and others

That Time of the Month

Madison Wesley

15Madison Wesley, That Time of the Month

ambling in house shoes, seemingly without a care in the world. Two frail men in ripped hunting jackets haul a bag of Ole Roy into the back of a pickup truck. An exasperated mother loses the sit-still-in-the-cart war with her child and starts laughing with him instead. Siblings walk hand-in-hand behind distracted parents who can’t seem to keep from losing them with every turn of a corner. A woman waiting in line passes time with those around her, remarking, “I’m just glad I finally got my paycheck so I can stock up on my goods. Of course, it ain’t nearly enough to get around to it all, ya know? I got my $450 monthly truck payment there ain’t no way in hell I’ll meet, but that’s a’ight, I reckon. I got my boyfriend’s truck to borrow—he’s older’n me, ya know—and he don’t mind it. I figure he likes takin’ care of me like that…gives him something to do…” As diverse as the men and women who buy their groceries at the first of the month are the responses of those who are observers rather than members of this group. Overwhelmingly negative social media rants abound, with people updating statuses to read, “Oh how I HATE working register at the first of the month…” and tweeting, “Note to self: never ever again shop on the first.” Others, instead, adopt a sympathetic rather than condescending perspective and avoid picking up gro-ceries during this time because it makes them “sad to see people like that and know that the small inconvenience of overcrowded stores is representative of a much greater and more pressing problem.” The majority of people, however, seem to possess the negative attitude regarding this genre of shoppers. While some

“The small

inconvenience of

overcrowded stores

is representative

of a much greater

and more pressing

problem.”

16 Madison Wesley, That Time of the Month

people passively avoid the stores at this time, others display their dislike more aggressively, rolling their eyes or making faces and comments in the store to illustrate their disapproval, or rant-ing about this monthly phenomenon to make their displeasure known. One fed-up resident of small-town Kentucky said, “I just can’t take it because it’s depressing. I mean, these are supposed to be my people? If that’s the case, I don’t like it at all. I have nothing in common with my people. I don’t respect my people. I hate my people.” Apparently, first-of-the-month outings don’t foster com-munity camaraderie. As the attitudes of these people and of the shoppers themselves express, crowded registers simply shed light on the larger issue at hand: the presence—and prominence—of poverty in this small southern town. According to the US Census, 27% of Whitley County residents live at or below the poverty line, and the line dividing general public perception of people above and below the line is arguably even more stark. Those who do not re-ceive government assistance tend to look down on those who do, but aside from expressing personal opinion, not much is being done to address the problem—and perhaps not much more can be done. If you take a moment to walk among the throngs of people in Wal-Mart on the first, you might adopt a new perspec-tive. You may see that people walk through the doors as if they are coming home again. They greet familiar faces, people they expect to see in the same places, while walls of community build up around them. You find yourself lost in the bustle, wondering how you arrived in the first place, wondering if you’ll ever find your way out again, wondering why you’d ever really want to do that anyway.

17Hannah Roehrborn, Dining Out

There are fourteen of us all together. I am second from the

top, with only one boy older. We fill several tables at Old

Country Buffet, where I can eat as much macaroni and

cheese as I want. It must be someone’s birthday. It’s always

someone’s birthday with fourteen of us, and the boys are

always sneaking back in the buffet line for lemon slices.

It’s my job to tell on the boys. They are always

spitting lemon juice all over the table and that table isn’t

even yours, you know, and I’m second from the top so you

have to listen to me. And when they don’t listen to me,

it’s the yelling uncles’ jobs to yell and make them listen to

someone. But one uncle

laughs and the other

uncle doesn’t listen to

me either. Instead, he

yells over the laughing to draw the attention back to the

television in the corner that is too far away to read. Dad

doesn’t yell or laugh, but looks at the television and holds

Dean because he doesn’t feel good. Dean is too little to be

one of the boys, so he just watches the spitting from Dad’s

lap.

“Pablo, will you quit with the game already?” says

Aunt Kelli, the one with the laugh.

“It’s almost over. Guy, did you see that pummel?

Bam.” He claps once, louder than he yells.

Dining OutHannah Roehrborn

“It’s my job to tell

on the boys.”

18 Hannah Roehrborn, Dining Out

“We’re about to sing.” Aunt Lori is lighting the sparkler

candles that always scare me.

“Do you want to help sing, Deanie?” Dad puts him on

Mom’s lap, right on top of the scarf she was knitting. Dean still

watches the boys.

“It’s time to sing!” I’m yelling at the boys, whose shirts are

wet down the fronts.

“Happy birthday, dear Brandon, happy birthday…”

I don’t feel good because I ate too much macaroni and

cheese, but Dad can’t hold me because I’m not little anymore.

We’re filing out into the parking lot, and someone is counting to

fourteen behind me. The boys are laughing and running in the

street, so I have to go tell on them. Dad opens the car door and

stops at thirteen. “Where’s Dean?”

The uncles and the aunts and the boys stop yelling and

laughing and look for my brother. He comes out the door of the

restaurant holding a lemon, but Dad can’t run to him and hold

him again before the crying starts.

19Emily Hemphill, When Hips Become Trips to the Vet

When Hips Become Trips to the Vet

You didn’t understand why I was crying, sitting with you

on your bed, knowing you wouldn’t sleep in the little den

you had in my room anymore because I was leaving you

behind for the sake of higher education. You were ten

years old, and I knew Labrador Retrievers didn’t last much

longer than that. Most of your days were spent sleeping,

lying in the sun – another favorite pastime. I was begging

you, pleading that if you knew it was time you would let

us know when I was home for a break. I wanted to be with

you, there for you, the

unfathomably faithful

friend you’ve always been

for me.

You were strong,

and you were always

there when I came home,

with a wag of your tail and big melty caramel eyes that said

“I’m so glad you’re home!” Eventually you couldn’t make

it to the door to greet me – you didn’t like to go down the

steps. Then you couldn’t hear that I was home at all – I’d

have to come and find you.

I never walk past lost dogs. Usually, I return them.

If there is no phone number on their tags, I look up the

address. If no one is home I put them in the yard and close

the open gate that let them out, or find some way to box

Emily Hemphill

“You were strong, and you were always there when I came

home...”

20 Emily Hemphill, When Hips Become Trips to the Vet

them in on the porch. If there are no tags, I pat them and tell

them to go home where it’s warm and they have food to eat and

someone who loves them. Then I get away from them as quick as

I can and plot out all of the terrible things that should happen to

irresponsible dog owners who do not care enough to give their

dogs tags. I do this because of you, because I can’t imagine losing

you, because anyone who brought you back to me would be my

hero.

I didn’t know you the first time I saw you; you were small

and dark, sniffing flowers in the yard contained by a 4x6 inch

photograph on our kitchen table. The boys and I had been in bed

already, but Dad called our names down the hall and the pitter-

patter of small feet on the hardwood revealed that we had been

eager for an excuse to stay up later.

“Whose dog is that?” Mom asked as they showed us your

photo. Her voice had the tone parents use when they think you

know the answer.

In the yellow light from Grandma’s fruity glass lamp,

sleepy eyes only noticed that you were dark, that you wore a

pretty pink collar, that you liked flowers.

Kimberly’s? I guessed my best friend.

“No,” they said, disappointed.

Aunt Beth and Uncle Greg’s?

“No,” again. “Those dogs are black.”

I looked closer and saw that you were brown, like fresh

mulch warm from the sun, a chocolate kiss, Christmas tree bark.

But you were a dog, and these were the people who I knew with

dogs. Dad cleared things up when I asked.


“Whose dog is it, then?”

“That’s our dog.”

We sat anxiously, expectantly in the car the day we drove

hours and hours to get you. The boys fell asleep, but I remember

Mom’s sister handing you off to us, your family. You whimpered

as we drove away from her, and cried off and on the whole way

home. Mom held you in her lap and rubbed your neck, scratching

your soft, loose ears while you studied the world that flew past

your window as we took you miles away to home.

The Naming went like this: I suggested 1. Cocoa, 2. Hershey, and

3. Nesquick; Matthew liked Wishbone; Timothy said “Dog!”

Mom won out, and we named you Nutmeg on your papers. You

probably don’t know that, thinking it has something to do with

squirrels, or food that you aren’t allowed to eat. When people

ask about you they call you Megan, but I always correct them,

because your name is Meg.

You grew from a puppy to a full size young dog on

Grandma’s porch. When we moved to the New House, you were

happier than any of us.

Items Received in the New House:

Dad: a garage, an office

Mom: a kitchen, a private bath

Me: a big room with lots of bookshelves

Matthew: a bigger room, a bunk bed, a playroom

Timothy: a bigger room, a bunk bed, a playroom, a bouncy horse

You: A YARD! WITH A FENCE!! A YARD A YARD A YARD!!!


Galloping around the yard was your

favorite; your tongue always hung out, your

ears flew behind you and legs propelled you

forward so fast that you couldn’t stop. You’d

race in circles around us and the shed, and

we’d get in your way to try and stop you. You

got so frustrated! You’d dart aside at the last

minute to avoid knocking us to the ground,

but growl enough to let us know you didn’t

think the joke was funny.

The yard had a swing set and a shed, picnic table and

trees, room for you to run and jump and chase ferocious squir-

rels. You caused a lot of trouble, usually. The mechanics of a

swing set are simple, but you were too busy sniffing the grass to

get out of our way.

“Meg!”

“Meg, MOVE!

“If you don’t move you’re gonna get hurt!”

“MEG! You’re a nut.”

We never hit you. We stopped, carefully, and moved to

the other swing.

You loved to play with our socks. If we left them lying

around, you would grab them when we weren’t looking and race

us down the hallway to the other end of the house. I had a pair

of blue fuzzy slippers you especially loved to steal. Matthew cried

once when you ate a LEGO, but I didn’t get upset when Barbie

shoes and bikini bottoms went missing. After you snuck in the

kitchen and ate an entire pound cake off the counter while we

were in the other room, Mom never trusted you around food.


You strove to get around that, leaning your head past the kitchen

door to gobble up an entire plate of Christmas cookies. The day

you found a half pound bag of cherry cordial chocolate kisses and

ate it all – chocolate, cherry, and foil wrappers – you paid for it

without any help from us. That was the only trip to the vet that

you didn’t enjoy. (So far.)

One day when we were playing, you grabbed my shirt

like you always did to keep me from getting away, but this time

it was my favorite shirt – bright blue with five versions of Queen

Amidalla on the front – and you ripped a hole in it. It took me

three days to forgive you for that one, but I don’t blame you now.

After we taught you to bark at door bells and the word

“cat,” we put you on the fast track to professional squirrel chasing.

The tree by the deck had grown tall enough for some branches

to hang over the landing, and you would sit at the glass door

and watch the gray squirrels frolicking in the green silver maple

leaves. If we noticed the peak of your ears, we would slowly open

the glass, whispering to you, egging you on. At first you would get

too excited and scare them away with your bark of a war cry, but

soon you learned. You waited. My finger was on the screen, you

were poised and ready. I pushed the lever and you leapt across the

deck, making that sucker scramble up his tree, driven by a mortal

fear for his life. After you got so good that you almost caught one,

Daddy bought you your very own Squirrel, who squeaked when

he was afraid, and we taught you to kill him so dead that eventu-

ally he could no longer make a sound. Raccoon tried to replace

Squirrel, but you just added him to your pack and kept both of

them in the basket by your bed.


You love our front door. You

used to spend hours sitting in front of

the front door, eyes darting back and

forth as you watched passing cars or

squirrels in the yard. Unfortunately,

your nose got in the way quite a bit.

Mom gave up cleaning your wet dog-

nose smudges off the door only to

have you replace them right away, so the front door was basically

a smudge. Eventually, someone would come to that door, and one

of us would go to them, and the two would stand there talking,

trying to ignore your ecstatic leaps. We would leave an inch too

much space between our legs and the edge of the door, and you

would dive through nose first, giving it everything you had, push-

ing through until you were free. You ran into the front yard and

across the street, smelling new smells and ignoring us.

“Meg! Come here girl!”

No response.

“Look! Beggin’? Don’t you want a treat?”

You stopped and looked at us for a moment, considering

the usually tantalizing strip of synthetic bacon, and continued on

your way.

Before long you weren’t interested in nearby smells. You

bolted out the door and trotted down the street, crossing the

moderately busy road that was the entrance to our neighborhood,

forcing me to drop everything I was doing and grab the nearest

leash – usually not even stopping for shoes or to change out of the

pajamas I wore all day. We must have been a sight, especially to

whatever neighbor happened to be in their yard that day. I found

you jumping on them, smelling and kissing, and they held you for


me and always pretended to love dogs. Really they were worried

you would trample their flower beds.

One time you left while Mom was taking a nap, and she refused

to chase you in the car. You got away from me and I called Dad,

but a friend recognized you and picked you up in their car from

the side of the main road. Another time you crossed that road

and ran through a shop before Dad could catch you. You must

have thought it was a game. I was afraid we’d never be able to let

you win tug-o’-war again.

Last summer I walked you outside every day, and “mail”

became your new favorite word because it meant you got to

smell new smells without having to escape. When I tried to play

I discovered that you’d lost most of your interest in Squirrel and

Squirrel (Raccoon). When you went outside you had to use the

stairs, but you stood at the bottom of them and begged us to

come get you and bring you inside. We coaxed you into using all

of your strength by calling you and holding out snacks. You gave

it all you had, and my heart leapt with victory every time you

reached the top step. Once you made it inside we told you how

good and brave and strong you were.

That was at Thanksgiving.

By Christmas you could hardly get up on your own – but

you still loved the candy cane shaped rawhide Daddy gave you

when we opened presents. It was longer than you are.

You finished it off a few days ago. You look as happy as ever, Dad

says, even though sometimes your legs fall right out from under

you and I wince at the sound of your hips hitting the floor. I can


imagine what happened when Dad called the vet for the ump-

teenth time.

“Is there anything more we can do for her?

“…Only making her comfortable.”

“She can’t get up the stairs at all anymore.”

“It was only a matter of time.”

“How do we know if she’s in pain? She doesn’t look sad.”

“Well, they can’t tell us what they’re thinking. I’m 95%

sure, based on her actions, that she’s in a lot of pain.”

So it’s up to us. It’s up to me. To go to class and work and

church and do well, when what I want to do is make you a pot

roast and let you have all the juice, buy McDonalds out of double

cheeseburgers, bake five dozen Christmas cookies with all the

trimmings and clean out the shelves in the checkout aisle to get

you as much chocolate as you can eat.

Next time I come home, you won’t be there to meet me,

and I won’t go looking for you. You won’t be lost in a neighbor’s

flower bed, making them worry about their plants while I franti-

cally search for you. You won’t be sleeping, you won’t be running

in circles outside. The socks and blue fuzzy slippers of the world

will be terribly safe. No one, friend or otherwise, will recognize

you wandering lost through the streets and bring you home.

It won’t be scary because Daddy will carry you. Matthew

will bring Squirrel and you’ll have treats, and even though she

wouldn’t get up to chase you down the street Mom will tell you

that you are a good dog. I’ll be sitting at a desk taking notes, and

throwing your tennis ball for the last time, wondering how I can

be such a horrible friend.

27

2011 Creative writing award winnertyler collins

two poems by

Jessica Meece, Light at the End of the Tunnel

28 Tyler Collins, The Egyptian Room

The Egyptian Room

A mummified Siamese catrests beneath fingerprint stained glasswhile hieroglyphic drag queenslook beyond their framesand damage their visionfrom the glareof eco-friendly light bulbs.

Cracked clay jars sit emptyseveral feet from a water fountainthat is being repairedbecause the water isn’t cold enough,

A woman begins reading a displaythat states the great pyramidtook 20 years to construct,but is interruptedby her childwho wants to see the dinosaursagain.

29Tyler Collins, Airport Music

Airport Music

In the terminaleveryone’s having staring contestswith cell phone clockswhile tapping toes against bleached tile.passengers clutch briefcasesor squirming babies–others imagine firework deathwhile sucking the juicesfrom nicotine gum.

A woman sits across from mein a black burqa.she tries to calm her wild childwho’s having obnoxious adventureswith a Spider-Man action figure.he screams sound effectsduring our silent wait.

She bends down,grabs the Spider-Manand softly sings the theme songwhile making it dance–

the child calms downand we do too.

30

2012 Next Generation Creative Writing Award Fiction by Winner Elizabeth Smith, Somerset Christian

Emily Kays, Overgrown

31Elizabeth Smith, The Yellow Heart

The roar of the cannon echoed loudly and without warning. The sudden start of the attack surprised me, causing me to noticeably jump in fright. I glanced around stiffly, pray-ing no one had seen my reaction. From the faces of stone around me, I doubted they had. All the men around me seemed focused on the ground before us, their faces betray-ing nothing of what they felt. The only emotion shining through the cold faces was the fierce look of determination.

I glanced further down the line, hoping to see someone else as afraid as I, and spotted a man bowing his head as he read the small New Testament in front of him. His lips moved as he quietly read the Word, and I wondered what passage he was reading that gave him such strength. For on his face, instead of the fear I hoped for, was a strange peaceful calm and resignation for what was to come.

Perhaps the men around me were scared, but if they were they hid it well. From what I could see, I was the only one shaking in fear. Another shell exploded above the lines, sending shrapnel crashing down to the earth. I could only watch, wide-eyed, as men collapsed to the ground, scream-ing as their life blood began to stain their uniforms.

I tore my eyes away, shutting them tightly. The screams--the unearthly screeches of pure agony--pierced my ears, and my grip on my musket tightened. My knuckles were white, the wood cutting into my palm. Though my eyes were closed, I could still see the men writhing on the ground, screams tearing from their throats as they clutched their bleeding wounds.

The Yellow Heart

32 Elizabeth Smith, The Yellow Heart

Slowly, the screams began to fade--whether the men passed or were moved, I don’t know. I opened my eyes and I loosened my grip. I stretched my fingers, flinching as little shards of pain hit me. I noticed the wetness of my hands and wiped them off on my wool pants. Licking my lips, I realized just how dry my mouth was. It felt as if I had been chewing on cotton, though I had done no such thing. Slowly, my hands shaking, I uncorked my canteen and lifted it to my lips.

A shell exploded up above and I jumped, my precious water falling from my canteen as it fell from my hand. I bit my lip, glancing out of the corner of my eye to see if my jump had been seen, and brought my canteen back to my lips. It was lighter now, though it hadn’t been to heavy to begin with, and as I held my head back, only a small trickle of warm water reached my lips. I took it and raised it higher, but only a few small drops fell out.

Reluctantly, I re-corked the canteen and let it rest uselessly at my side. I thought about asking the man beside me for a drink, but decided against it for I wasn’t sure my voice would not shake with fear. Sighing, I resigned myself to a day of thirst.

“Attention Company!” The order came suddenly, echoing its way down the lines. “Shoulder arms!”

The men around me snapped to attention, eyes forward. I snapped as best I could, but my movements were sloppy even in my eyes. I stared straight forward, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from nervously flickering left and right. A mounted messenger galloped across the field before us, dirt kicking up from under the horse’s hooves. No sooner had the rider disappeared then the orders echoed once more down the line.

“Forward, march!”

The drums began to beat and I stumbled forward with the men on either side of me. My heart pounded in my chest and my


breath quickened until it seemed as if I had marched for miles instead of just a few feet. My feet felt like lead as I lifted them, one after another. Left. Left. Left, right, left. One. One. One, two, one. With each step, each beat of the drum, I felt my heart quicken and my pulse race. Each step brought us closer to the enemy, closer to the fiery hail of lead, closer to the end.

I bit my lip nervously and looked across the field. Through the thick cloud of smoke I could see the movement of figures, though I could make no clear shapes or colors out. Whether they marched toward us or away I couldn’t say. All I knew was we were marching into the fire, into the ever-firing cannon’s mouth.

A shell lobbed itself above, falling until it crashed to the ground just yards from me. A blinding light flashed and the explosion all but deafened me. I stumbled sideways, only staying upright because of the man to my side. With a low growl, he pushed me away and I struggled to remain on my feet. I could hear the screams from off to the side where the shell had landed, but I forced my eyes to remain fixed ahead.

We marched on, leaving the screaming, the dead, and the dying behind. With each step, I felt my fear rise within. Never before had I felt this much fear. Fear of what lay before; fear of the deadly wall of fire that grew ever closer; fear of what would hap-pen when we reached that wall; fear that my time had come. The fear grew and spread within me, freezing my blood and sending panic coursing through me until I felt I fall dead of fear before any enemy bullet could find me.

A roar sounded from behind my right ear and I jumped, my eyes surely wide in fright. I turned my head and saw the man behind me pulling his musket down and reloading. Another roar sounded to my left and I looked that way and saw the man beside me pulling his musket down as well. With a start, I realized I had

“We marched on, leaving the screaming, the dead, and the

dying behind.”


missed a command. My musket suddenly felt heavy against my shoulder and the weight threatened to overtake me.

I blinked as the fresh smoke blinded my eyes, causing them to water. The sulfur burned my nostrils and I coughed, trying to expel the taste of black powder, but it remained. The noise of battle seemed to grow louder all of a sudden, sending my ears ringing with the roaring of muskets and cannons, the screams of the wounded, the shouts of battle-crazed men.

An explosion suddenly shook the earth, flashing of light and flame reaching from just feet away. A shout escaped my lips as I fell, my musket slipping from my grip. I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of me. I felt something hit the ground beside me, but I was too winded to turn and look.

I barely caught a glimpse of the men moving on, leaving me on the ground. It was as if I was paralyzed and I could do nothing but watch as my company marched further and further away. It was only when they were at least five hundred yards away that the moan reached my ears. It came from somewhere to my right and, though my brain yelled at me not to, I turned to look.

A man lay beside me, his head at my elbow. Tears fell from his eyes as another moan fell from his lips. My eyes strayed further down and I gasped as they came to rest on his mangled leg. I felt sick as I saw how his leg was barely still attached, the wool of his pants ripped apart and stained a bloody red. I felt myself begin to shake and, though I wished more then anything to turn away, my eyes seemed to be eternally fixed on his wound, his life’s blood leaking from his body and soaking into the earth’s soil.

He moaned once more and I finally managed to tear my eyes from the deadly wound. I looked back into his face and, with a start, realized that the man was no more then a boy not yet shaving. His eyes met mine and shame filled me. There I lay, no


wounds that I could speak of, and yet I did not move while this boy—this man---beside me lay dying.

Another shell exploded somewhere overhead and I reacted in-stantly, covering my head with my arms and burying my face into the dirt, eyes clenched shut. Dirt fell over me and I kept my face hidden until the dirt had ceased to fall. Slowly, I lifted my head and looked around.

The battle was far to the front, leaving me in the rear with noth-ing but the dead and dying. I felt the boy beside me shudder and one last moan escaped his lips. Nervous of what I would find, I turned and looked. His eyes had shut and there was a peaceful look on his face, no hint of the pain he had suffered remaining. With a start, I realized he was dead.

Hands shaking, I pushed up, struggling to my knees. My whole body shook and I feared I would lose my meager breakfast as I looked around and saw all the blood, and the death and destruc-tion that surrounded me. My musket lay to my left, still fully loaded. I reached for it, but jerked my hand back fearfully as I saw the dark stain on the stock. Without thought I knew what it was. Blood.

I looked forward once more and saw the flashes of the muskets and cannons. I saw men fall, some shaking violently in death’s throws and others simply lay still once they hit the ground. Oth-ers were trying to crawl away, some missing arms or legs, or drag-ging a broken and useless limb behind. I saw a man break ranks and run, throwing his musket to the side. I could only watch as an officer chased after him, pistol waving and mouth open, no doubt screaming obscenities and threats.

Still the man ran, not even throwing a glimpse over his shoulder. The runner’s hands fumbled as he undid his belt, tossing it to the side, ridding himself of the excess weight of the cap box and bayonet. He was reaching to throw of the rest of his gear when


smoke left the officer’s pistol and he fell to the ground, rolled once, and lay still.

My heart seemed to stop as I watched the runner, waiting for him to struggle to his feet. The form never moved, never even twitched, and I knew he was gone. With a start, I realized that could have been me. It could have been me lying up there, a bul-let in my chest, in my arm, or leg or back. It could be me, crawl-ing on the ground, crying, begging for mercy. It could have been me.

Fear began racing through me once more and my mind seemed to shut down. I staggered to my feet and took a step back, eyes locked on the battle before me. My hands fumbled for my belt and, eyes still locked forward, I undid and let it drop to the ground, quickly followed by my canteen, haversack, and cartridge box. The weight seemed to lift off me and suddenly I felt as light as feather.

Still my eyes could not tear themselves from the battle before me. I could only watch as they sounded the charge and the men charged, yelling for all they were worth. I watched as men fell and screams rang through the air. A cannon roared and a shell exploded in front of me. My eyes jerked away as the shell hit, sending dirt flying through the air. And then I did the only thing I could.

I turned and ran.

ContributorsRhyana BarkerRebecca BranhamTyler CollinsHayley DavisMythcah GodseyEmily HemphillEmily Kays

Jessica MeeceJasmine MinkeHannah RoehrbornThomas SakowichElizabeth SmithMadison Wesley

pensworth spring 2013 issue

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