2014 Issue
Click on the cover above to read a pdf version, or stop by an MCC Writing Center, Student Services Office, Learning and Tutoring Center, bookstore, or library to pick up a hard copy.
2014 Writing Awards and Selections for Print and Web
For her essay “Between a Kingdom and a Country: A Tale of Two Immigrants,” Sue Maresch is the winner of The Metropolitan 2014 Prize for Student Writing, a 13.5-credit-hour tuition remission. The first runner-up, Tina Piercy, is awarded 9 credit hours tuition remission for her story “Quiet.” The second runner-up, Elle Patocka, receives 4.5 credit hours tuition remission for her poem “If she wanted you to know her.”
Between a Kingdom and a Country: A Tale of Two Immigrants by Sue Maresch
Quiet by Tina Piercy
If she wanted you to know her by Elle Patocka
The Rook by William Sharp
A Green-eyed Girl by Janet Slottje
As I Recall by Luke Buller
Web Selections
A Step to Success by Angelica Juan-Lorenzo
An Excerpt from She Stopped Breathing by Elle Patocka
First Step of New Life by My Tran
If You Love a Flower by Molly Lieberman
My Spring Festival by Kang Tang
The Calling by Christopher Allan Loftus
The Day I Was Saved by Robert Rustan
Weeville by James Tuttle
Contributor's Notes
Luke Buller now attends UNO, studying English. He was born and raised in Omaha but wouldn’t mind eventually getting out to see the world. He is a huge fan of sports, football in particular, Notre Dame football to be exact. He loves to relax and listen to music. The Eagles, Led Zeppelin, and Tool are some of his favorites. He also loves sitting down and watching a good movie
Zagee Flores never got serious about her art until her sophomore year of high school, but art was the best decision she ever made. Photorealism is everything to her in any medium.
Kris Freeman graduated from Dana College in Blair, Nebraska in 1975. She received her Master of Science from UNO in 1981. She retired from the Omaha Public Schools in 2009 after 34 years of teaching. A strong proponent of lifelong learning, she has enjoyed returning to the classroom as a student. She loves interacting with fellow students of all ages. Kris has always loved the creative arts and is now taking the opportunity to develop new talents. She enjoys drawing and painting, gardening, reading, golfing, interior decorating, carpentry, and playing the piano.
Molly Lieberman, originally from Michigan, has always had a passion for written expression. In her free time, she enjoys horseback riding. She is currently pursuing a career in healthcare and hopes to attend Nebraska Methodist College’s Sonography program next fall.
Sue Maresch was born in the northern Kingdom of Jordan and immigrated to America as a child. She is dual-enrolled at Metropolitan Community College and the University of Illinois, Springfield, where she is pursuing a BA in English. She plans to pursue graduate study to earn an MFA in Creative Writing so she may one day return to MCC and teach. She was so fascinated by her Children’s and Young Adult Literature class at UIS that she is currently working on a picture book of children’s literature entitled The Cupcake King, which she plans to self-publish this summer. When she’s not writing, Sue enjoys a variety of interests including Renaissance art, travel, and philanthropy.
Elle Patocka is a Czech lady born and raised in South Omaha. She has attended both Metropolitan Community College and Bellevue University to finish her degree in Communication Arts. She stays active with changing career paths, stand-up comedy, playing for the Omaha Rollergirls, announcing and interviewing racecar drivers at Eagle Raceway, road tripping on a whim, learning the ukulele, acting, baking cupcakes, reading all genres of literature, and writing whilst enjoying a cup of tea in her hammock when the weather permits, which is where “If she wanted you to know her…” and “She Stopped Breathing” came to life.
Tina Piercy is an Iowa native who, after working twenty years in the financial industry, became a stay at home mom of “Irish twins,” now 10 and 11 years old. For the past five years, she has worked towards her associate’s degree in liberal arts and dream job of becoming a writer. In 2014, she became the first person in her family to earn a college degree. She lives in Omaha with her very supportive husband, son, and daughter. She likes to golf, crochet, sew, write, read, and be active in her kids’ school. To fulfill her passion, Tina would love a job writing for a local publication. A blog might be in her future as well.
Robert E. Rustan, Jr. says writing this paper brought a lot of feelings he never knew he would revisit. He is glad he did because healing is talking about the situations. He enjoyed the writing and the struggles of getting this work done. He is very pleased with the outcome and the process he has gained. He realized he is a winner.
William Sharp an Omaha native, is in his last last quarter of study at Metropolitan Community College. He will be transferring to UNO for his undergraduate degree. His eventual goal is to become a doctor.
Janet Slottje was born in Omaha and raised in Bellevue, Nebraska. She has lived in the same house her whole life with her mom and two older siblings. She was the first kid of three who went to college right after graduating from high school. She hopes to be accepted into the Dental Assisting Program at Metropolitan Community College in the fall of 2015. She loves reading, especially on her Kindle. Renting movies and watching TV shows on Netflix are her next two favorite things to do besides eating.
My Tran is earning an associate degree in Business and will transfer to UNO to finish her bachelor’s degree. English was one of her first difficult subjects to confront with when she first came to the USA three years ago. It took her for a good two years to be able to understand and get her schoolwork done. That first step was not easy, but she did it.
James Arthur Tuttle was born in Denver, CO, but grew up on a farm in the hills north of Blair, NE. He attended MCC, UNO and has a BSN degree from Methodist College of Nursing and is currently working as an RN at the Omaha VA Hospital on the psych ward. He is a self-proclaimed hobbyist and enjoys writing about them. His non-fiction work The Basic Blacksmith, Next in Blacksmithing, and Primitive Bread can be found currently on Amazon.com. He attended recent classes at MCC to hone his writing skills in fiction to propel his writing career forward. James says, “Make time everyday to write, even if it’s just a little and soon it will add up to a book.”
Between a Kingdom and a Country:
A Tale of Two Immigrants
Sue Maresch
My father, whom I call Baba, was named after the second
King of Iraq, Ghazi ibin Faisal, crowned in 1933. My grandfather
told me once that Baba was fascinated with airplanes as a child.
When he grew older, he had dreams of riding the same biplane
that King Ghazi rode over Iraq, a magical aviatic carpet that
would fly him straight to America. “I was crazy for America,”
Baba said. “Everything I read or saw on the television fascinated
me. I wanted an education from America and to start a life here.”
One of five children of a retired Army soldier, my father
was born in March of 1935, the year of the Great Uprising, and
grew up in a small house in the center of town with his three
sisters and only brother Ghassan. He never knew his brother
George or the other babies who had died in infancy from malaria
or yellow fever. Even trips to the holy city of Nazareth and the
very streams from which the Blessed Virgin Mary drew water
could not save them.
Being a shy boy, Baba was coddled and pampered by
his mother, from whom he learned his soft mannerisms and
generous nature, and from his father he developed a love for
knowledge and sketching. He was quick of mind and excelled at
his studies, but he was often scolded by his teachers for sketching
in class. Short and awkward, he walked along the dirt roads of
his hometown of Al Husn, Jordan, with his sketchbook under
his arm and stopped from time to time to sketch the short, broad
wings of the sparrow hawk nestled in a Valonia oak tree or the
long, straight horns and tufted tail of the Arabian oryx grazing in
a field of grass.
Baba sketched cityscapes of America from scenes he had
seen on his black and white television, the Jordan Press, or on
film. “The cinema was only ten cents back then,” he said. “I
walked several miles just to catch an American film.” He was
exhilarated by the prospect of living in America one day, where
a man could pursue an honest life and not be denied his chance,
where its citizens may move freely within her vast borders
without hindrance or fear, a land brimming with opportunity and
freedom of choice. He waited for ten years to come to America,
teaching English to elementary school children in our hometown
to help support his parents and siblings. Finally, in the spring of
1963 at the age of 28, he left for America to fulfill his dream.
With 33 Jordanian dinars (the equivalent of 64 US dollars
today) in his pocket and dress shirts in his suitcase ironed until
they crackled like parchment, Baba set off to the great land of
America, the first son to leave home. In his pocket, he carried
a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes and a black-and-white photo of
Sophia Loren with whom he was enamored after seeing her
perform on screen in the 1953 film Aida. He left his family, but
he carried with him their memory and the determination to
succeed.
He first arrived in Omaha after following the advice of
a family friend who lived here. He needed to work and save
money for school, so he sold tapestries and artwork door-todoor with his friend Nabil. He then moved to Tempe, Arizona,
and attended Arizona State University, where he declared a
major in business. He continued to sketch in his free time and
took up soccer as a sport. It was there at ASU that he developed
another love: Western literature. He read with a great appetite
the works of Chaucer, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Twain, Shakespeare,
Hemingway, Poe, and Faulkner and of the great philosophers
Descartes and Rousseau. I remember one day my father entered
my bedroom as I was reading a novel for literature class in high
school. “Kwais kteer,” he said. “Very good. One day my child will
grow up to teach fine literature like the book you are reading.”
He was referring to Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper.
Although Baba was exposed to the great paintings of Van
Gogh, Degas, Picasso, Caravaggio, and da Vinci, sketching came
more naturally to him. On weekends when weather permitted, he
visited one particular congenial outdoor café off campus where
he would sip strong coffee and smoke his Pall Mall cigarettes
while sketching the passersby and parade of pedestrians that
filled the café—the great-breasted American women with wasp
waists and the men who courted them with slicked back hair and
broad shoulders. In my mother, though, he found true beauty
that came from devotion to her family, loyalty, generosity, and
kindness. A sketch of my mother in her early twenties still hangs
in their sitting room today. “So beautiful your mother was, more
beautiful than Sophia,” my father said with a childish smile.
“That was a long time ago,” my mother added, laughing.
My parents reminded me of how they came to marry. On a
return visit home three years after my father arrived in America,
my grandmother cried that her oldest son was still unwed. She
feared the laxity of America, that Baba would be drawn to
women not well suited for him, and that if he were to take an
American wife, he would lose touch with his country and his
family. This happened to one of my grandmother’s neighbors,
a charming woman named Khalood who lived next door. Her
cousin settled in Texas, married a petite Hispanic woman named
Esther, and never returned home.
Baba chose his distant cousin for a wife, a young girl of
seventeen with shimmering black hair. My mother Amal, which
means “hope” in Arabic, was the daughter of a poor, hardworking
farming family of seven children. Mama told me the story once
of how her family was so poor, she had to share her only pair
of shoes with her mother. She walked to school every morning
wearing the same pair of shoes that her mother had worn to
work in the fields earlier that morning. When she returned
home in the afternoons, she wore the shoes to complete her
daily chores. She tended to the chickens that lived on the roof
of the house and gathered milk from the goats to make cheese.
On Fridays and Saturdays when school was not in session, her
mother wore the shoes when baking bread in the oven, as the
floor was so hot from the steam. On those days, my mother
completed her outside chores in bare feet. “The ground was so
hot in the summers, but what were we to do? We couldn’t afford
shoes for everyone,” my mother said with a look of melancholy.
Everyone slept on floor mats in the main room, as there were not
enough beds or bedrooms. At her young age, my mother learned
of hard work, how to keep a meticulous house, and how to make
do when you have very little. My father asked my mother’s family
for her hand, and they were married three days later in early
spring of 1966.
My father returned to America after their wedding, and five
months later, after her visa arrived, my mother was reunited with
him. “The airline lost my only piece of luggage,” she recalled.
“I came here with only the black coat on my back.” My father
met my mother in Chicago, and they settled in Omaha, as my
father had made friends with a gentleman who owned a motel in
downtown Omaha, in the area where Midtown Crossing stands
today. Because my father had to work even more to support his
new family, he did not finish his studies at ASU. My mother
became lonely here. She was very young, spoke no English, had
no friends nor family, and she missed home. She didn’t know
what to do with herself while Baba was gone very long hours
selling tapestries, sketches, and art pieces out of the trunk of his
old Chevy Impala.
They rented a room by the week at the Hamilton Motel
at 33rd and Farnam Streets. The motel was a neglected building
with hallways that carried the overwhelming stench of stale
cigarettes. The rented room housed a squeaky bed, a sofa and
wobbly end table, a small armoire, a corner desk with a feeble
lamp, and a kitchenette. When she was fatigued in the afternoons
but couldn’t sleep, Mama sat outside on the front step of the
motel with her rosary and recited prayers in Arabic, working
the beads with her fingers while looking down at the shoes she
missed sharing with her mother. She sucked on lemon slices to
curb her morning nausea, and to pass time, she spent afternoons
at the city park across from the motel, feeding the pigeons bits
of bread. In the late evenings while she waited for Baba to return
home for the day, she watched a black and white television set,
but she could not understand the words.
Baba could no longer bear to hear her crying at night and
decided to send her back home to be with family until he was
more financially established and could afford a home of their
own. At least then she would have an infant to care for, as she
was pregnant with me and could take her mind off her sadness.
He planned that my mother would stay with my paternal
grandparents and aunt until after my birth, at which time we
would return to America to be with my father. By then, he hoped
to have a house, and my mother would be needed to arrange the
house to make a suitable home for us.
My father was not present at my birth in the winter of
1967, as he was still in America. When I was nine months old,
my mother left for America while I remained in the care of my
aunt, who was unmarried and had no children of her own. I don’t
remember the day my mother left, but I have some memory of
how I passed the time while my parents were away. I helped my
grandfather feed the chickens on the roof in the early mornings,
just as my mother had as a child. I threw the gritty chicken feed,
and dozens of birds scurried to the middle of the yellow grains. I
loved how they flapped their wings and was amazed at how fast
they could run when I chased them. My grandfather scooped
me up into his arms, hoisted me onto his shoulders, and pointed
to the West, toward the horizon, past the rooftops of the stone
houses and the open woodlands of olive and pistachio trees,
past the orchards plump with grapes. Baba and Mama were out
there, beyond the horizon, somewhere beyond where the clouds
disappeared and left only a faint blue light. I was finally reunited
with my parents at the age of three, in the spring of 1970.
My father worked day hours at Western Electric, and
my mother found a job at the downtown Ambassador Café
serving the lunch and dinner crowd. She took the city bus to
work, and my father picked her up in the evenings, as she does
not drive to this day. Over the years, my parents struggled with
raising seven children. They also sent $100 each month, which
was a lot of money in those days, to my uncle Ghassan, who
was studying medicine in Italy, to help with his expenses. My
father picked up overtime whenever he could, and there were
times when my mother held two jobs. We lived a simple life
without many material possessions. Christmases were spent
enjoying a traditional meal, reading passages from the Bible,
and listening to stories our parents told of their childhood. Our
needs were always met: we had food, a roof over our heads, and
good schools to attend. Although my parents made trips back
home to see family, those trips were few and far between because
of the expense of travel. In a span of twenty years, for instance,
my mother returned to Jordan on two occasions to attend the
funerals for her two brothers. My father returned home to
baptize his only son and when his parents died.
According to the Census Bureau’s 2009 American
Community Survey, the US immigrant population was
38,517,234, or 12.5% of the total US population. The number
of foreign born living in the United States increased by 1.5%
(about 556,000 people) between 2008 and 2009. Upon hearing
these statistics, my mother replied, “I imagine the hardest part
for all of us is being away from family. You come here, and you
are probably alone and know hardly anyone. You miss special
occasions with your family; you miss your parents and brothers
and sisters and nieces and nephews growing up. You miss your
old life, but as hard as it was then, it is even harder now.”
My father always held a very high regard for education.
Although my mother did not finish high school, my father
completed his undergraduate studies at Bellevue University. He
did this while working full time, caring for seven children in
the evenings while my mother worked, and driving my mother
to the grocery store, doctor appointments, and other errands.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table typing college papers
for him on our Brother typewriter because he typed with only
one finger. “On good nights, I slept about four hours,” he said.
“When your mother was working two jobs, I had to pick her up
at midnight and be up at 4:00 a.m. to be to work by five. I am not
sure how we did it, but we managed.” My father taught me that
you do what you have to do to accomplish your goals in life.
I recall a time when I was eighteen. We were in the midst
of a snowstorm, and my car wouldn’t start. As my father was
helping me jump the battery, we sat in the warmth of my car, and
I listened intently to him as he spoke to me. I had finished high
school earlier that spring and had not declared a major at the
university. I felt rather lost then, not knowing what direction my
life should take or what course of study would be best for me. “I
chose between my kingdom, where my family was, where my life
was, and this country,” he said with a somber look. “I came here
to make a better life for all of us, and a better life for you means
education.” He placed his forefinger against his temple and said,
“No one can ever take away what’s in here. When you figure out
what you want to do in this life, I will be standing right beside
you.”
Over the years, my father’s health has greatly declined. He
retired in August, 2001, and suffered a stroke a month later, two
days before 9/11. He suffered two heart attacks, bleeding in the
brain from a serious fall, and worsening dementia. His memory
remains strong for past events, but he does not recall recent
events. The day following my interview with him about his life,
he did not remember having been interviewed. He does not
remember that I have returned to college and that I wish to be
an English professor so I may instill in my future students a love
for the English language and literature just like he did. When
I remind him, he claps and says, “Good job, good job. I love to
hear that,” and then holds my hand tightly. This always makes me
weep.
As I sit here writing, I imagine what it would have been
like for my father had he not immigrated to this country. He
could not have publicly denounced his King without fear of
imprisonment. He could not have walked publicly with the
woman who would become my mother had they not been
betrothed or engaged. And I wonder what life would have been
like for me.
In the 49 years that my parents have lived in this country,
my father obtained a fine education and retired from a company
that provided an honest living with wages that helped to support
seven children, now all grown and successful. My parents are
free to worship, vote, speak and assemble along with the other
liberties they are afforded as citizens of the United States under
its Constitution. They are free to simply be happy. These are
liberties to which we are all entitled as citizens.
I am looking at a particular photograph now of me and
my parents taken shortly after we were reunited in America. Set
behind a grey backdrop, my mother is carrying me in her arms
with my father to her right. She is wearing a black coat with
black faux fur at the ends of the sleeves. Her hair is jet black and
shiny and curled just at the ends. She has large brown eyes, a
slight smile and a porcelain face with a beautiful cleft in her chin.
My father has black hair on the sides of his head and wisps of
hair at the top that are combed to the right. He has dark features
with brown eyes, small and kind, and is wearing a black suit and
tie. I am in the middle wearing a brown sweater, the ends of a
white undershirt peeking through. I have short black curly hair,
neatly combed and parted to the side, and I am wearing gold post
earrings. I am not smiling; rather, I have a look of curiosity.
We had no idea then what was likely or what was possible.
Quiet
Tina Piercy
Warren strolled home on a brightly sunlit morning with
his coffee in his wrinkled left hand and a newspaper tucked up
under his arm. The hot coffee cup in his hand reminded him how
he and his late wife of 48 years, Bennie, had walked this same
brownstone-lined block almost every morning together, admiring
the vibrant flower boxes and planters of each building.
As he reached the worn, familiar steps of his apartment
building, quick foot falls came up from behind him. As Warren
reached the first step of his apartment building, a young lady
stumbled into him as she clumsily changed direction from the
sidewalk to the apartment building steps. His right shoulder
jetted forward as she pushed past him, and his white, wavy
hair flipped over his forehead. Warren clenched his coffee cup,
worried steaming coffee would scald him, and grabbed the
concrete ledge with his free hand. He recognized her from
behind as his upstairs neighbor. He didn’t know her name, only
that she lived in apartment E7, directly above his D7. From
behind, her blond, shoulder-length hair tried to stay styled,
gathered together high on her head, but some of the hair didn’t
want to cooperate and seemed almost pulled out from the
restraint. Her extremely short dress was wrinkled and showed
her long tan legs. She grasped the penny-colored door knob, lost
her grip, and stumbled backwards. She caught herself with her
backside and hand on the rough concrete ledge railing of the
stairs.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” Warren seethed in her
direction.
Gathering herself, she balanced on her four-inch lucite
heels, clutched the knob with a firmer grip, and wobbled through
the big red doors to the apartment building without a look back.
“Damn kids,” Warren sputtered to no one.
He took his ritual steps back through the two large doors
and one step at a time the five floors of stairs to his apartment.
As he had gotten older, these fifty-eight stairs up and fiftyeight stairs down consistently put him in a foul, old-man mood.
Since his Bennie had died, he snapped nasty replies to innocent
questions and got frustrated easily. His cantankerous disposition
pushed friends and family away. He spent most of his time in the
apartment where his only son grew up before leaving for college,
never to return but for visits every five years, where Bennie died,
and where he would probably die as well.
He held tight to the wood railing up each step to his
apartment, stopping on the third floor landing between flights
to catch his breath. Out of breath, he didn’t rush to pull his keys
out of his tan, pleated pants pocket to finally open his apartment
door. He set his coffee on the doily-covered end table between
two arm chairs and the newspaper on the stained footstool
in front of the unused chair next to him. He sat in his once
overstuffed chair, the fabric on the arms worn thin, watching his
favorite TV show, Wheel of Fortune. The box-tubed TV with the
three channels crackled. He and Bennie used to watch the show
together, holding hands between their two stuffed arm chairs.
Warren admired Bennie for how quickly she could always get the
answers to the puzzles before each contestant could.
Midway through the show, Warren heard angry voices
from the other side of his old, worn apartment door. His chest
tightened in frustration at the interruption of the show. He
pushed up from his sunken impression in his arm chair and
squinted through the peephole but saw no one. He cautiously
opened the door to investigate as if a ghost might float by him.
At the end of the hallway, right before the start of the stairs that
led to the fifth floor, was the blond-haired girl from apartment
E7 from that morning. But now, her blond hair had escaped the
tie and lay ratted over her shoulders. Warren was about to give
the young lady another scolding, but he stutter-stepped exiting
his doorway. Almost involuntarily, he stopped. A man stood
next to the young lady with his hand grasped around her upper
arm, his knuckles white, her skin red and swollen between his
white knuckles. Black streaks ran down her cheeks, curving past
her chin, down her neck. Her eyes looked at the floor. The man
moved in closer to her, his teeth clenched, jaw muscles flexing,
saying something through his gritted teeth that Warren couldn’t
hear.
Warren hadn’t seen this man around his neighborhood
before. This guy had an Italian Mafia look about him. Slicked
back black hair, expensive-looking pinstriped blue suit, white
button-down dress shirt, and dress shoes that Warren thought he
could see his reflection in if he were closer.
“Hey!” Warren blurted out with urgency in his voice,
shocked these words had come from his mouth. “You two need
to take your lovers’ quarrel somewhere else. My hallway is no
place to be doing…this…whatever it is you two are doing here.”
The man jerked and turned. His eyes squinted at Warren,
and his white knuckles pinked up as his hand relaxed from
around her arm. The young lady exhaled, sniffled, and wiped the
black vertical stripes to horizontal smears. Her eyes in a trance
towards the ground, she wrenched from his weakened grip and
ran up the stairs.
“Hey ol’ man, we got no beef with you,” the Mafia type said.
“Just a lil’ disagreement with me an’ my girl is all.”
“Well, keep it out of my hallway,” Warren said as he gave a
get lost motion with a hand flick.
“Take it easy ol’ man,” he said with an eerie smile, taking
one step towards Warren in his apartment threshold.
Warren felt goose bumps over his wrinkly, gray-haired
arms. “Umph!” And he retreated to his apartment, where he felt
secure behind his two dead bolt locks, door knob lock, and the
bar lock across the worn door. He had known men like that in
his younger days. Men who were rough with their girlfriends.
But his Bennie was treated with the respect he felt all women
should be treated with. Doors opened and chairs pulled out.
Warren grumbled his way back to his old overstuffed chair
to finish the Wheel of Fortune show. One spin into the next
contestants’ turn, there were lumbering foot steps above his head.
He feared his ceiling tiles were about to crash down around him.
What were they doing up there? More shuffles and thuds, angry
muffled voices.
Warren angrily lurched from his chair, his heart beating
faster. His breath labored as he marched to the kitchen. Swiftly,
he grabbed his broom by the wooden handle and marched back
to the noisy intrusion that came from above his head.
“Damnit! Cut out the racket up there!” he yelled with a
quiver in his voice, thrusting the end of the wooden broomstick
at the ceiling three times. “Damnit!” he said breathlessly. He
tried to catch his breath, closed his eyes, took in a deep breath,
then let it out. The broomstick, still in his hand, shook. He
opened his eyes, looked around as if he could hear better with
his eyes searching for the noise, but heard none. He scowled at
the ceiling. His short temper had given his ceiling a couple of
round, white, chalked indentations, with the help of the wooden
broomstick.
“That’s right,” he proudly mumbled as he repositioned
himself in his chair with the broom dropped on the floor next
to him. He squinted at the ceiling, waiting for a response to his
parental thumps of the broomstick. He heard nothing. “That’s
right,” he said.
He cautiously settled back in his chair to catch the end of
Wheel of Fortune. He wished Bennie were in the chair next to
him, holding his hand and guessing all the right answers as he
beamed at her wide-eyed with pride. But the chair next to him
was empty, and he couldn’t figure out the answer to the ‘place’
puzzle with only two empty letters left.
Warren didn’t care about furniture updates. His old, faded
chair had character. Or new paint to brighten up the coffee colored walls. He didn’t care that his plates, bowls, and glasses
were all chipped, that his frayed bedspread was thinned and pilly,
or that the drapes were stained and thin.
Warren startled awake, confused. He wasn’t aware of when
or how long he had been asleep in his chair. The sun washed gold
and red over his thin curtains. A brunette robotic news reporter
on TV reported about another murder being investigated in the
city. He slowly raised his hands to his face, wiped crusty sleep
from his eyes, and yawned.
Clank. Bang.
Warren scowled at the apartment door.“Not again,” he
gruffed as he pushed himself out of his chair where his arthritic
old bones had sat still for hours. Teeth clenched and lips pursed,
Warren was ready for round two with the young lady and her
slick Mafia boyfriend. The locked door slowed him down. His
hand shook as his frustration built. Two dead bolts, locked door
knob, and locked bar. Out of breath with anger, he snatched the
door knob and flung open the door, ready to deliver a second
scolding.
Warren stood motionless in his apartment doorway as the
EMT workers rolled a gurney past his groggy eyes. The telltale
sign of death shown bright white just as he’d seen on TV shows
like Matlock and NCIS.
“What happened?” Warren gasped at a clean-cut man
dressed in a dark blue uniform with a red canvas bag with a white
medic symbol over his shoulder.
“The young lady upstairs was killed, sir.”
“Oh,” was all Warren could manage to eek out of his tightly
constricted voice box.
He had just seen the young blond with her greasy Mafia
boyfriend in the hallway. Now, her slender form under the crisp,
white sheet created a lump in his throat he hadn’t felt since
Bennie had died eight years earlier.
He stood frozen in his darkened apartment doorway.
Police officers and more EMT workers gathered in the hallway,
crisp dark blue uniforms blurring together in Warren’s narrowed
vision. A flash of red snapped him out of his tunnel vision trance
when the slimy Mafia-type boyfriend that the now-dead young
lady had been arguing with just outside his apartment door was
pushed past Warren. Glistening red liquid splotched down the
front of the once-crisp, blue pinstriped suit and white dress shirt.
Warren locked eyes with the man, trapped in the blood-soaked
man’s arrogant stare. A vacant sensation washed over Warren
from his throat to his stomach. His knees shook under his tan
pleated pants.
“Hey ol’ man, she’s quiet now,” he boasted, nodding his
head towards Warren. “She won’t be botherin’ you no more.”
If she wanted you to know her
Elle Patocka
When I die,
I want you to go through my belongings.
All of them.
Which should take you longer than you’d enjoy.
You won’t find much for yourself.
I am beyond sure you will bypass the most joy I lived through.
The small tokens of my life that can’t be found in boxes
or under the heaps of unfolded clothing.
Neither under the springs where I used to lay.
The go-to top closet shelf,
you won’t find anything there.
Nothing of my life in the frames upon the shelves.
Even the bookmarks of letters within the pages of the grandest
chapters I read.
Not even on the pages I dog eared.
You want to find my joy?
Don’t forget the pockets.
The jackets, coats and sweaters that hold the stitches of my youth
and adulthood,
leftover dinner mints, half pieces of gum, from moments of
enjoying fresh breath,
for my own liking or perhaps awaiting another’s lips.
Pins for hair, ticket stubs from films seen recently and years
before, or half-filled Chapsticks.
A poker chip, Hallmark cards ripped to pieces with vulgar spew,
soda-pop tabs and brew lids,
Fish hooks, dried out cherry and olive pits, napkins—with
writing and some with bodily sickness.
Pen caps and threads, used-up bandages, notes that brought us
away from the edge.
The jackets that jingle with loose change.
When worn, one can feel that there are objects within the back.
Insert your hand and find that I took no mind of ripped seams or
lost mementos.
Almonds once covered in chocolate, delicately sucked clean.
Werther’s of the original kind, paper clips, cough drops, flasks
and numbers to be dialed,
Chamomile tea ready to be brewed.
To the death within pockets
is what some might say.
A place which stowed away my moments.
To keep something for an unclouded day. You see,
it’s the pockets that kept me sane all those years.
They always gave me a small place to hide.
The Rook
William Sharp
Mason closed File #5 and moved it to the top of the stack
in the upper left-hand corner of his desk. He reached down to
his right, opened a drawer, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of
Macallan 12 Single Malt. Over his left shoulder sat a trash can
filled with brown-stained Dixie cups. Mason plucked one from
the top and with his finger quickly swirled the inside, removing
any old residue. He grabbed the bottle, inverted it, and filled the
cup to the rim. He grabbed the cup and shot the scotch down his
throat while he collapsed in his chair with his arms relaxed over
his head. His office was in the northwest corner on the second
floor of a five-story building in downtown Chicago at the cross
streets of Birkens Avenue and Armour Street. The flip dial clock
that sat atop a filing cabinet in the right corner read 11:47 p.m.
Storms had just begun to roll in, and the rain punished the halfcracked window behind him. The calendar that lay in the center
of his desk under a glass force field read June 27, 1979. It had
now been 23 days since the first murder. He could still remember
walking up the stairs of the abandoned building with the stench
of rotting pig carcasses and seeing the remnants of a woman
suspended in midair, strung up like a puppet over a blood-stained
mattress lying flat on the floor. This had been the worst murder
case he had ever seen, and a little over three weeks later, there
were eight more to follow.
There was a knock at the door. Mason quickly scurried to
hide the liquor at his feet.
“Come in.”
The door slowly opened with a screeching noise, revealing a
large, overweight man who stood in the corridor. It was Captain
Abrams. He had been the one who’d hired Mason right out of
school after he’d received his criminal psychology degree at the
University of Chicago. Abrams stood about 6’4” and weighed
well over 250 pounds. Once a former football star, he’d turned
cop after a bilateral knee fracture ended his career prematurely.
“How are the case studies going?” Abrams asked, moving
his body a few feet inside the doorway.
“Better, sir, if the bureau would quit stamping their fingers
all over my crime scenes before I have a chance to catalog
evidence.”
After the fourth victim, the FBI had decided to step in and
help out. Their young agents, however intelligent and motivated,
were inexperienced in chronological order of crime scene
manipulation.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do and follow up with you
tomorrow morning,” Abrams said while he turned for the door.
“Oh, by the way,” he added, sticking his head halfway back inside,
“Forensic says they have a match on one of the prints, and it will
be ready in the morning.” Abrams closed the door, and the sound
of his footsteps echoed in the distance and out of the hallway.
After a few moments, Mason retrieved the bottle, poured
another shot, and consumed it in the same manner as the first.
Mason laid files numbered one through eight out over the top
of his desk. He reached to the inside of his black overcoat and
pulled out a pack of Checker smokes. He packed them against
the inside of his left palm, ripped the plastic wrap, and tore off
the silver metallic paper. He pulled out a single cigarette, lit it
simultaneously while he pressed it to his lips, and then tucked
the pack back in place. He pushed against the arms of his chair
and stood into position overlooking all cases while smoke
smothered his head and rose slowly to the ceiling, lingering
at the top, just like the woman lingered in the photos before
him. The room became humid with the warm rain that blew in
through the window, which was now half fogged. Sweat beads
began to form atop his head, traced down the side of his cheeks,
and accumulated below his chin before dripping on the victims
below. In each crime scene, there was one similar identifiable
piece. A rook. In file one, it rested at the base of the bed. In file
two, it laid in her mouth. Three, on her foot. Four, in her hand.
Five, six, seven, and eight, it was stuck in the victims’ eyes and
ears. But why? In his undergrad studies, Mason once wrote a
paper on the ideology of the rook and the significance it played
with the psychological aspects of the human mind. It represented
a term of power or total greatness. This clue of trademark was
much more than the outlining of a killer, but instead it was used
as a legacy. Mason believed this to be a self-obsession.
Before moving to Chicago, Mason had attended a
community college in Missouri. During his final semester there, a
similar event took place. A young woman was brutally murdered
in her dorm room. The investigation lasted for months, and there
was never any arrest made in the case. This event eventually
sparked his departure from Missouri and to Chicago, where he
used it as inspiration for further pursuing his career.
The telephone in the upper right-hand desk corner began
to ring. Mason gazed up at the clock, 12:05 a.m. He was puzzled,
not only about the fact that it was after midnight but that
someone might know he was still there.
“Detective Mason,” he answered.
“Mason, it’s Abrams.”
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Go to sleep, Mason. You’re too tired,” replied Abrams.
“Come again, sir.”
“Go to sleep, Mason. You’re too tired. You know the truth.”
“What, sir? What truth? Who is this?” Mason said, coming
off very hostile now.
“Do you not want to see the truth?”
Click.
The line went dead, and the dial tone now echoed in
Mason’s ear. He replaced the phone back on the holder and
grabbed the bottle of scotch. He pressed the bottle right to his
lips and took three slugs before he returned it to the table. His
vision started to double as the room became hazed from the dim
light. He folded both arms on the front of his desk and dropped
his forehead down into the center of them. I’m going crazy, he
thought. What the hell was that?
Mason lifted his head and gathered all of the files into a
single stack. On the floor to his right was a worn, black briefcase
with a gold four-digit number combination. He reached down
and grabbed it, placing the case next to the files on the desk.
Entering the numbers five-three-seven-eight, Mason popped the
lock and raised the top until it became vertical. One by one, he
carefully placed each individual file on top of another. He closed
the lid and snapped both locks into place. He grabbed the bottle
of scotch and pressed one more swig to his mouth and down
his throat before he returned it to the bottom right drawer. He
stepped out from his chair and tucked it under his desk. Mason
grabbed his case and started to make his way from around his
desk and to the office door. It had been a long night, and he was
getting very tired and a little drunk. Whatever his captain had to
say to him would have to wait until morning for an explanation.
He cupped the doorknob and started turning it counterclockwise.
Ring, ring, ring came from the phone for the second time.
Mason, determined to find out who was calling, executed
an about-face, picked up the line, and held it to his ear. He did
not say anything this time. He just waited.
“Hello, dear,” a female voice came over the phone.
“Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth was Mason’s former wife who had left him two
years prior. Mason, after a series of very difficult psychological
diagnoses, had fallen into a depression where he developed a
mood disorder and an extreme alcohol addiction that led to the
collapse of his marriage. His addictive personality just couldn’t
let go, so there was a restraining order placed on him, and he had
not seen her nor heard her voice since.
“Yes, Mason.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“The truth, they want the truth, Mason.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Who is this?”
Just like the call before it, the phone went dead, and a
dial tone echoed in his ears. As he moved it back to its spot, he
noticed the cord coming from the jack on the side of the phone.
He reached down and pulled on the line. His fingers followed
it down the side of his desk and behind a small side cabinet. He
grabbed the cabinet at the top and with his foot at the bottom,
nudged it back a few inches. The end of the line lay on the floor
with no connection to power at all. That’s impossible. Mason’s
heart was racing as he started to pace back and forth in front of
his own door. He reached down and grabbed the phone, lifting it
above his head and smashing it to the ground. Particles of plastic
and wire dispersed across the floor. He walked back around his
desk, pulled his chair back out, and sat down. He placed his black
case back on the center of his desk. Mason reached down to his
left to pull out his bottle of Macallan 12 for yet another drink.
He opened the drawer, his eyes widened, and his mouth slowly
cocked to the side.
The bottle of liquor was in the bottom right drawer. He
had always put it in the right drawer. He never went in the left
drawer. Mason reached in and pulled out a clear plastic bag and
set it next to the case on his desk. He entered his combination,
opened it, and removed all eight files. He moved the files into the
trash and out of his inner coat pocket removed his lighter. Mason
lit the corner of the files and sat back in his chair looking at the
bag. He reached inside and pulled out a single rook and set it on
top of his worn, black case. The smoke filled the room and carried
out of the window behind him. Flames rose to about three feet
before slowly dwindling down into small embers and ash. Mason
grabbed a Thermos full of day-old cold coffee that resided in
the back corner of the room by the window and poured it over
the top of what was left of the once raging inferno. Ashes rose
like fireworks lighting up a gray sky, sending a smell of plastic,
carbine, and vanilla into the already polluted room. Mason pulled
a pen, along with a single sheet of official, documented manila
paper out of the center drawer of his desk. He laid the paper flat
on the desk and began to write….
The weaker presence that resides in me is named Mason Kane,
but my true identity is Vladimir Kosovo. The first time I killed was
while I was attending college. Mason was always the brain, but he let
me out every now and again. I loved it so much. I can still remember
the feeling I had, stringing the wire through her body, in her mouth,
and out her eyes. I managed to take special care not to damage any
of her natural beauty. It had taken hours to correctly assemble my
creation. Once I had finished laying her new metallic veins, I raised
her to the ceiling, like a puppet master pulling her strings. I licked the
blood that rolled down the cords and rubbed it all over my face and
hands. Mason never trusted me again after that. He locked me up,
and then, over the years, he forgot where he put the key. I became a
bad dream, a dream that never really existed. He thought he could
silence me? Through his alcoholic tendencies and self-induced comas,
I had managed to find a way out. While Mason would be asleep, his
body would be awake. I had returned. Picking up were I left off, I
found my first victim walking alone outside his apartment. It was like
riding a bike. The taste returned like it never left, but technique took
time. That was okay. I had several more attempts to perfect it. I was
very careful to lay fraudulent prints all over each woman, but it was
only by chance that Mason ended up with the case. How perfect. So I
concealed my actions even from him but made sure I left a clue, a piece
to the puzzle that would allow me to finish my work and lead him to
my overall existence once more. I will not make the same mistake he
did. The key to his tomb in which I locked him no longer exists. I am
Vladimir Kosovo. I am the Rook.
Vladimir left the note on the desk and exited the office.
Turning one last time, looking back, a faint smile rose upon his
face as he disappeared into the darkness like a broom to his very
footsteps.
A Green-eyed Girl
Janet Slottje
It was an average day in the fall of 2002. My seven-year-old
daughter, Abby, was just getting let out of school at 3:10, and I
was waiting to pick her up in a green, two-door, beat-up Toyota.
It was still nice enough outside to have the windows rolled down.
Kids piled out of the school, so I knew she would be out soon. I
wondered what my other two kids were doing. She saw me and
smiled and waved as she got closer to my car.
“Hey, sweetheart, how was your day?” I asked her when she
got buckled up in the passenger seat next to me.
“It was good, Daddy. We played kickball at recess today, and
my team won!” Abby replied.
“Wow! Way to go, sweetheart! That’s three times this week
you’ve been on the winning team,” I said as we started to leave
the school.
Abby looked up at me with big green eyes like a dog
begging for a treat and asked as nicely as possible, “So, do you
think we can go to Walmart and get those shoes we saw the
other day? These shoes are really starting to get worn out and
dirty.”
“Well, I don’t see why not! You can’t be the best kickball
player if you don’t have the right shoes, so to Wally World we
go,” I said. I could see the grass and dirt stains on her blue jeans
as I leaned over to grab the Budweiser by her feet. I put it there
because it was too big to put in the cup holder, and I didn’t want
people to see it when they drove by. I twisted the forty open and
took a few gulps, sighed, burped, then placed the beer between
my legs, so I wouldn’t have to keep reaching down by Abby’s feet.
It was my first beer of the day, but it certainly wouldn’t be my
last.
I took my time getting to Wally World, so I could smoke
another cigarette. Drinking beer always made me want one.
Smoking Marlboro Lights 100’s was like smoking air, so I
smoked them often. Abby enjoyed looking out the window as
we drove. Every time I glanced over her way, all I would see is
the back of her blond little head. Her skinny little legs were just
as skinny as mine. She was a spitting image of me besides the
freckles that masked her face. When I would think about Abby
and who she was going to be, I couldn’t help but reach for the
bottle and take a few more gulps. I didn’t want her to see me
like this all the time. I didn’t want to fail as a dad to Abby. Abby
deserved better than me. So saying no to her was very difficult
because I only wanted to see her happy.
We pulled into the parking lot of Wally World, and I
parked by the auto entrance on the north side of the building,
away from the main traffic in the front of the store. Abby looked
up at me again and smiled while she waited for my cue to get
out, and I could see the excitement on her beautiful little face.
“You ready, sweetheart?” I asked her with a yellow smile.
“Oh yeah, Daddy. I am!” she replied. She almost sprinted
to the door from the car, but she always kept me in eyesight.
My long legs didn’t have trouble keeping up, but damn that girl
was fast. I had finished about half of that forty on the way there,
so I was feeling a bit buzzed and really good. The cigarette I
smoked covered up my beer breath pretty well, so I didn’t feel
paranoid walking into the busy store. We made our way to the
shoe department, and Abby walked down the aisle with her hand
running across the other shoe boxes until she started hopping up
and down when she spotted the pair of Champions she wanted.
“Try them on, sweetheart. You need to make sure they fit,” I
instructed her.
“All right, Daddy,” she said.
I watched her skip to the bench, and she threw her old
shoes on the ground like they were trash and tore into the new
shoe box. I couldn’t help but smile because I knew she was happy,
and seeing her happy made me happy.
“They fit perfectly!” she exclaimed.
“All right then, let me see.” I knelt down in front of her and
pressed my thumb on the top of the shoe where her big toe was
supposed to be, and there was about an inch gap between her toe
and the front end of the shoe. “You’re right, sweetheart.There’s
enough room for your feet to grow, so let’s get these.”
She smiled really big at me, then at the shoes, then back at
me. I could feel the love bursting out of her pores like the beer
bursting out of my own. She packed the shoes back in the box
nice and neat, and we made our way to the checkout. I couldn’t
buy her anything else because I had to be cautious about how
I spent my money. It wasn’t mine after all. It was my mom’s
because I didn’t have a real job. I had been living in my mom’s
basement since after I got divorced in ’93. Abby was conceived
right before the divorce. She didn’t have to witness the abuse and
mayhem I caused my other two children and my ex-wife during
the fourteen years I lived in that house. I was too worried about
getting hammered to pay attention to who was most important,
my kids. Abby was lucky enough that she didn’t have to witness
an abusive father. She was my last chance to prove that I wasn’t a
complete failure. Abby skipped to the cashier.
“Is that it for ya, honey?” said the overweight, plain lady
behind the counter.
“Yep, that’s it!” Abby said. “Blue is my favorite color!” she
exclaimed while the lady checked the size of each shoe to make
sure they were the same.
“These shoes look awesome! I bet you can run faster than
anyone else at school with these! Now just remember to take care
of them, and did you thank your father?” The lady smiled at me. I
chuckled.
“Oh yes, thank you so much, Daddy!” she yelped. I felt like
a good dad. I felt like I was finally doing something good for my
kid.
I needed another drink, so as soon as we got back in the
car I chugged the rest of the forty. I lit up another cigarette and
got the little black comb from my pocket and combed back my
balding blond hair like John Travolta in Grease. We started to
make our way back on Highway 75 south towards my mom’s
house. I threw the empty Budweiser out the window so there
wouldn’t be any evidence. I saw that Abby was clinging onto
the shoe box like her life depended on it. I looked at her for a
minute and took in all of her beauty. She was so beautiful for a
little seven-year-old tomboy. I knew she would grow up to be
something really amazing for the world. My head started to spin,
and my buzz had turned into something more, and I knew I
couldn’t go back to my mom’s house drunk, especially with Abby.
Instead of getting off at the Bellevue exit, I continued south
towards Plattsmouth because I figured I would just drive until I
felt sober enough to go home. Abby seemed a little confused and
glanced at me with a concerned look on her face. I smiled and
winked at her, and she just turned back to the window.
I turned up the radio and started to jam out to a rock song
that was playing. I was too drunk to remember the words, but it
felt great grooving along. Abby got a kick out of it and started
to giggle at me. I was feeling really good. I loved feeling good
and wondered why I couldn’t feel like this all the time. After the
song ended, it went to commercials, so I turned the volume back
down. My buzz started to fade while we arrived in Plattsmouth.
I started to feel very drowsy, so I lit up another cigarette to wake
myself up a bit. I followed the main road for a bit then turned
slightly right up a hill because I knew I was getting drowsier.
Things went black….
“Dad! Dad, stop!” Abby kept repeating.
“Oh shit!” I said as I slammed on the breaks. We sat there
out of breath for several minutes. I was confused. “What the hell
just happened? Are you okay?”
“We almost hit that dumpster. I’m fine, Dad. Let’s just go
home,” Abby responded in a calm voice.
“Yeah, good idea. Let’s go home. What do you want for
dinner?” I asked her as I lit another cigarette.
As I Recall
Luke Buller
I sat and I waited
On our two front steps.
Concrete chipping away from the salt,
But why fix it?
On this cold, Friday evening,
The second weekend of the month.
The sun was still shining, however. I
Stayed out of the shade for warmth.
Beautiful colors of leaves flutter around me.
They remind me of butterflies,
Such beauty and grace.
I run up to the sidewalk and look down both ways.
The dead trees hang and bow down to the street.
They, too, are waiting,
To welcome him, I’m sure.
I run back down the stairs and fall in the grass.
The wind is a like an ocean.
Its current controls me.
Such innocence now, as I recall.
Jeans torn on both knees,
To be young again. Just for a day.
Before scars were found deeper than the skin.
A phone rings inside.
I walk slowly towards the screen.
My mother hangs up, looks at me,
And mirrors my face.
There is no happiness here.
A Step to Success
by Angelica Juan-Lorenzo
I wondered how my life would have turned out if I wasn’t a US citizen but an immigrant that is migrating to the United States from their hometown to what some may call a “successful life” or the “American dream.” I have heard many people say “immigrants come to the United States to take our jobs away,” or “they should go back to where there from, they don’t belong here.” We must think before we speak, and put ourselves in other people’s shoes to understand the situation their in, not judging by their appearances right away. Many immigrants that I have spoken to say because they’re tired of the situation their living at their hometown and most parents don’t want their children to suffer in the terrible conditions they did when they were growing up. “Hmmm, that’s what my father told me,” I said to them.
As we gathered around the couch in an afternoon, getting comfortable and ready to watch our favorite news channel, Alarma TV had started, and we were all ready to hear what was going on out in the world. As we turned up the volume, a story came up about the poverty in Guatemala. People were getting murdered and kidnapped, and men in black were breaking into houses. “Ay dios mio” said my mother, scared because it keeps getting worse in Guatemala, and she was also worried about her mom.“Ma, don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to grandma” I said to her, trying to calm her down.
I asked my dad how life was back in Guatemala. My father began to have flashbacks and remembered. “Let me tell you a story,” he started. “When I was about 13 years old, I had no decision but to not go to school anymore. I had to drop out. I had to help my family earn money because we they no longer could afford my education nor that of my siblings. In Guatemala, children are being forced to work and have no other obligation but to follow the rules and do what they are told to do. The children work so that their families can survive” my father told me as he stopped to sip a glass of water, ready to tell me what happened next. “For example my cousin and I, we worked looking for things in the garbage so he could buy beans. His family has a piece of land that they built out of metal sheets, plastic, cardboard and many other materials that they found in the garbage or with the little they can afford. In the afternoons, we worked making fireworks, nine hours a day the whole week. We struggled to survive from the income we earned, and we were exposed to explosive chemicals.” He stopped to think. “That’s why I want you guys to put your education first, and not follow our steps,” he said, while mother walked into the room agreeing to what he said.
My father decided it was time to leave Guatemala and everything behind in 1994 because he was scared of dying and he wanted to do something better than working in places where it could cost him his life. My parents made plans to head to the USA to find opportunities for their children, and to escape poverty and child labor. They were ready for a change.
I couldn’t believe that they were forced to work by their parents in order to have food on the table and not starve. It was something I learned about my parents that day. Later that day, I asked my mother that if she had to go through the same thing as father or how life was for the girls. “No mija, its different. The men work at a really young age and stop going to school. And well, the women are a different story. When I was little…” she started, “your grandma tried to sell me to someone that liked me for his wife and to have kids with. But I didn’t like that man, the man your grandma was trying to sell me to. He was a stranger to me. We needed food and we were really poor. My mom forced me to go with that man that day. I tried to escape because I didn’t want to be sold. When your grandma found out that I disappeared, she hated me for not marrying the man that she chose for me. That man was around his 40’S and I was only a nine-years-old,” she said. We sat there for a moment, silent because mother started remembering those moments and why her mother rejected her for so long. I couldn’t say anything, I had nothing to say. My mind was blank like a piece of paper. It was wrong what my grandma did to my mom. There was just so much that I learned that day and it was about my parents’ life.
Taking the decision to cross the border is risk taking; I bet it was a hard thing to do for my parents and others that have gone through the same or even worse conditions. It is inherently dangerous. They could be deported back to their country, being caught by the border patrols, excessive heat, no water, death, dehydration, etc. Migrants face higher risk of death in the desert than any other place. Border patrols have found in the dessert bodies of 93% of migrants crossing for a dream as an American. My parents went through what many migrants did when they crossed the border to their dreams. My mother, Angelina, walked in the desert with her youngest son wrapped in a cloth on her back. Her biggest fear was that she would not make it and that the baby would get sick because of his wet dirty clothes and die. Most immigrants have that fear that they would die crossing the desert because of no water and that they wouldn’t be able to see their family again. They knew it wasn’t a good idea to take a one-year-old through the dessert, but it was too late to go back. They had already made up their minds. Crossing the border was one of the many steps to America. My father, Francisco, held up my mother because she grew weary and tired. He had to carry her because she was too weak to walk.
Baby Miguel cried constantly. They had no more food to feed the little one. “How did Miguel eat if there was no more food?” I asked. “Es que a nice lady had a little bit of food and water. She heard the baby crying. So she got up and gave it to me in my hands,” she said with a smile on her face, feeling so blessed that that lady offered to give up her only food to the baby. I could only imagine how hurtful it would have been for my parents if they had lost their baby.
“We’re almost there, call your families to pick you up. We are stopping at Los Angeles, California,” the coyotes said. When they received the news from the coyote, everyone laughed and cried with joy. Some were to be united with their families for the first time. Others were here for a better future. When they arrived at Los Angeles, California everyone was to leave the truck and from there they were on their own. My dad had family in California, so they stayed at their place for a while till my father got a job.” When we arrived at the house, there were about fifteen people in a two bedroom apartment,” she said. I was shocked, well not as much because we rented a house of two bedrooms and there were about thirteen people in the house.
For my father to get a job in the United States was very difficult because he didn’t have papers. He was afraid that if he was to be hired, that immigration would come in and take him back to Guatemala. “It was difficult. They all asked for legal papers,” my father said with a sincere look in his face. His life turned around. “I was so stressed out because they were asking me for the rent. I had no job or money. I drank with the little money that I earned helping out a friend,” he said. My mother walked into the room and she said “He wanted to go back to Guatemala. He couldn’t help me out with the babies’ food and diapers.” But after few weeks they looked for help from a friend.
They contacted a friend and spoke to them about their situation and how they had just moved to the US from Guatemala, and that they were looking for a job and a place to live. They decided to travel to Omaha, NE. Here in Omaha, their friends helped them put in an application to apply for a work permission in the US. They applied in 2000. Six years later, we heard the news that they were legal in the US. “Gracias a dios,” said my mother with a huge smile while tears rolled down her face. Father found a job working at a baking company. “It’s been eoght years with my residence,” my father said with pride. One thing that I admired more and more about my parents was that they have that mentality of a conqueror. They will not stop just as residents. They have been taking English classes to prepare themselves to apply to be citizens. “Wow, dad that’s awesome!” I said.
Immigrants come seeking opportunities that you and I have as citizens. They come to seek help, and to give their children the best: an education and everything else they couldn’t receive when they were younger and to have a bright future full of opportunities that will take them to a new level of learning. Everything takes a process, but it all leads to success and a better living situation. Migrants risk their own lives because they believe that there’s something beyond if they go and fight for what is theirs. Passing to the border, poverty, and child labor is a part of someone’s life. Coming for a better life means steps. Steps is a life of an immigrant. They believe everyone deserves a chance to experience the “the American dream,” the land of “success,” the land of opportunities.
An excerpt from “She Stopped Breathing”
by Elle Patocka
I woke up realizing I had left my contacts in and I went to the restroom to take them out and put on my glasses. I saw the TV first. It was on some morning bible program. I scanned the room and saw my mom’s sister with her head down on the hospital bed, and then I saw my mom’s face. Her eyes were open, something that hadn’t been for the past days since she was on morphine. Then I noticed her breathing. Short, short, shallow, short, short, gasp.
“Go get help now!” I yelled to my aunt. She quickly rose and left the room.
“Mom, wake up! Hey, I’m here. It’s Elle, let’s talk, Mom.” I had no idea what I was doing; I wasn’t a comforter. I just saw her eyes glued to the screen.
It had to have been only six or so in the morning, and I remember leaving the room and dialing my brother, sister, and best friend.
“Get here now!” was all I had to say. I noticed my aunt walking the halls and saw no nurses en route.
“I need help! Now! Someone! She’s dying!” I yelped hoarsely.
As I re-entered the room, frantic, I went to the restroom. Having just put my glasses to rest and my contact lenses to good use so, god forbid someone should see me look like the unbridled death of a woman in the a.m. Two nurses were there now with me, and they shut the door behind them.
“What are you doing? My family is on their way. Please keep the TV on. It was turned here when I woke up. I think she’s watching it,” I said. I stood at the side of the bed looking at them, placing my hands from my stomach to my head in wild motion. One nurse was checking Mom’s pulse and had a stethoscope on her chest.
“Please, come here and talk to her. She would want that,” A nurse said to me.
“I can’t.”
“Please, she’s your mother.”
Those words etched their way to my core, and I stumbled over and wiped my face and took my mom’s hand.
I could feel her twitching and see her eyes trying to search for something. I tried to not look at her face because I could see her mouth opening, gasping for any ounce of air. I focused on her chest and the sound of silence aside from the stethoscopes scratching on the fabric. I looked down and saw my mom’s hand, so I grabbed it. It was still warm, so that told me she was still alive.
“What do I say?” I asked
“Just help her feel comfortable and let her know you’re here,” a nurse replied.
“Mom? I’m here. It’s Elle. I’m so sorry. Please don’t be afraid. I love you. We all love you.” Word vomit spilled from my dry mouth. I couldn’t break at this moment because I had to be strong. I had to prove to my mom that I was like her, a fighter and a survivor.
I remember caressing her arm and finally looking up at her face. I think I said something to her about finding her mom and our dad up there and to not be afraid, at least I think this is along the lines of what I said or what I wanted to say. The words next made my stomach drop.
“Please. Wait for us one day, Mom.”
It was a few seconds and I felt the warmth start to leave her hand. I started to say “oh God” a bunch of times and kept asking if my mom could still hear me, and then things just went blank. The nurses left, and I was alone in the room with my mom’s body, until everyone starting showing up.
I look back now and wonder why I had to tell my mom it was me there with her, repeating my name like a fool. Why was it me? I had to let her know it was me. The one who couldn’t be there before, but I was there now, like it mattered, but it did. It did.
“What’s today’s date?” I asked the nurse outside of the room.
As she taped a rose to the door and answered me, I just half smiled and said, “It’s weird, she was born and died one day after Elvis. I sure hope he’s wooing her right now.”
You know how they say it seems like a one second moment before it all ends? That’s the truth. I don’t know how I managed to wake up, take out contacts, scurry for help, make three phone calls, put contacts back in, and watch my mother’s life end in my hands in the matter of a second. But I did.
“What are we going to tell everyone?” we asked one another as we waited for more family to arrive to view my mom’s body lying lifeless on the hospital bed peacefully.
“No one deserves to know shit!” I said.
Even though we all knew this day would come–it could have happened months earlier–none of us were prepared for this morning, and anger filled us. All three of us kids, under the age of 30, were losing our last person who brought us into this world. Indeed, we had been through this before. Nearly six years earlier, our father had died. Talk about how effed up life is. It’s unimaginable how to react to hundreds of people with the same-I don’t know how you kids can cope-look.
“Everyone will want to know every goddamn thing, so I’m blocking everyone out.”
August 17, 2011 via mobile to facebook
“Into paradise may the angels lead you”. TEOM
…
A week before mom passed, a home nurse came by to talk to her. These visits always made me uneasy because I felt I couldn’t assist my mom the way everyone else could. I’d listen in on her conversations. She said to the nurse this day:
‘‘I don’t want to die. It scares me. It’s not fair. Why me? I’m not ready…’’
I stepped in and said, “Hey, none of us do. Now you’re not going to, so stop fretting, lady!’’
I was crass, trying to be funny, but as I said that to my mom, she had the deepest sadness in her eyes, and I finally saw that she was afraid. It must have been the look I gave her when I was afraid of the monsters under my bed and being a small child looking for my mom to scare them away so they couldn’t harm me. But the monster my mom had inside her was one I couldn’t help scare away. No amount of night lights or hiding our heads together under a blanket were going to kill this monster or send it back to its other land. Jesus, the more I recall this instance, the more I regret not being honest with her that day. I might have said something like, “Yes, you are going to die. We don’t know when because such is life. It is okay, though, because you will forever live on, Mom. You are ‘one tough bitch’. You brought three children into this world, and no matter where we each end up within our lives, we will forever defend your honor and keep hope alive. Don’t be fearful of that.”
F***ing cancer!
First Step of New Life
by My Tran
As my alarm went off, my feet hit the floor, my stomach lurched, and I felt as scared as a child on her first day of school. Although I was frightened, I also felt very excited at the same time about my new school since I came from halfway across the globe to attend. My biggest worry was the language. I had been anticipating this day for a good while. I imagined in my mind how this day would go, the people I would meet, and I always ended up with worrying thoughts. “Would they understand me?” I pondered, “Would I understand them?” or “Will there people who don’t know English like me?” With these thoughts swirling in my head, I went to sleep the night before anxious and anticipating the events of the first day of school.
When the heat of the summer dissipates and the leaves start changing colors, fall is a time of changes. Fall is not only a time of changes for the weather and trees, but also a time where many young adults start the first step on the path of entering a university to build a career and a life. America is known as the land of opportunities where, with hard work and determination, one can achieve anything one can dream of. It is these ideals that have brought me halfway around the world from my birth country of Vietnam. I knew the journey would be difficult and filled with challenges that would test my resolve and my will.
One major hurdle for immigrants to America is learning the language and adjusting to the culture. Oh, let’s not forget the weather. Coming from a tropical country, I was rudely introduced to the harshness of a Nebraska winter. I never knew people could live in a place as cold as or even colder than a freezer. In Vietnam, every day the weather is in the 90’s and that is year round, so any temperature remotely close to being cold is unheard of. Like the weather, I knew it would take time for me to adjust to life and school in America. I had hoped it would go smoothly but knew that because of my limited English, it would have to take time and patience.
I woke up on the day of Orientation feeling nervous and uneasy. I went into the bathroom to get ready. This might be unusual, but the bathroom is usually where I am thinking and contemplating about things and events in my life. Standing in front of the mirror brushing my teeth, I rehearsed and practiced English sentences that I knew I would need, sort of like a singer letting out a few high notes before the curtain goes up. Although nervous, I wanted to look my very best on the first day of school, so I wore clothes I just bought the day before at the mall. It is my belief that when you start on a good note and feeling good about yourself, luck will be on your side.
As I walked down the stairs, my uncle was already in the car waiting for me. I stopped at the end of the stairs to make sure I had my trusted electronic dictionary. In 2010, for some reason, I did not know of the Google Translate application yet, so the electronic dictionary was the next best thing. Walking out to the driveway, it was raining and cold, but since I was wearing high heels, I could not run. I did not want to start my first day of school drenched from a puddle of rainwater on my uncle’s driveway. On the way to the school, my uncle reassured me to relax and not be so tense. “I’m sure there will be many students in a similar situation as yours,” he said. “Also your English isn’t bad. I can understand three out of ten words that you say.” “Come on uncle, only 30 percent?” I playfully asked him. We both laughed and that took a little bit of the pressure off of me.
In less than twenty minutes, we arrived at UNO. He dropped me off in the front of a very tall and large building. At that time, I only thought about wanting to go home! My uncle could see that I was so nervous because I was fidgeting but very quiet. He looked at me, but I tried to ignore him while taking my belongings for school out of the car. He hugged me and handed me the school campus map.
“No worries! You’ll be okay! Love you! Call me if you need anything,” he said.
I said, “Thanks, Uncle. Love you, too.”
“Just remember to relax and everything will be okay! Don’t forget to raise your percentage from 30% to around 70%, and you’ll do fine,” he playfully reassured me.
I felt a little stronger. His assurance gave me a little momentary of surge of confidence. I stepped out of the car and walked straight to the tall building in front of me, but, in fact, I had no idea where to start. Everything was new and unfamiliar to me. I did glance up and saw the clock tower. I thought it was a beautiful structure and reminded me of the Washington Monument in Washington D.C. that I have seen in many pictures. I have never seen a clock tower before, and then I heard the chimes. I thought to myself, How cool! Not only does it tell time, but it also plays music. After a few moments of admiring the clock tower, I refocused on the task at hand. This was my first orientation program outside my country and with many people from different parts of the world. Since everything was new to me, I did not understand anything. Where was the international office? Where should I check my documents? Where was the orientation program taking place? Those questions were running in my head as I was working my way with the map. I felt like I was getting lost and started to panic, but I knew there was no way for me to turn around, even if I wanted to.
I took a deep breath, and tried to figure out which way should I go on the map, but it was really confusing as I was not sure where I was on the map. I stood there alone for a few minutes studying the map, and then I looked at the clock. It was almost orientation time. I knew very well from learning about American culture while I was still in Vietnam that American people are very punctual. I had to find help as I was getting nowhere with the map. I started to walk around and saw a male student. I walked over and tried asking him to show me the way to get to the international office where the Orientation was taking place, but I was so afraid and nervous that nothing sensible came out of my mouth. He could not understand me and said something about he too was running late to his class, and he walked away. Can you imagine how horrible it could be at that time? Everything seemed to stop moving to me while he walked away. I could not think of anything. My mind was empty.
Then I got really angry at myself and at that person. I thought that he should have understood that I was new here and helped me. I thought to myself “This is so awful”. I was so mad that tears streaming down my face. I stood there and thought I should have asked my uncle to take me to the international office. The feeling of helplessness at that moment was unbearable. Tired of walking around, I sat myself down and tried to collect and compose myself. Thinking to myself “Surely it cannot be this hard. You made it this far, you have to be strong as you do not want to start your college experience in America this way”. With this positive thought, I started feeling a little better and at that point, I saw group of people from different countries passing by me, and they were talking amongst themselves, but I could not tell what they were talking about. Seeing that they are of diverse ethnicities, I figure that they were probably going to orientation program, so I started to follow them. While I was following them down the main walkway, I was very amazed at the size of the UNO campus. Grass and trees surrounded it. People were studying on the grass with their books. I felt like I was at a park, not a college. In Vietnam, there is hardly any space, so college does not have the open space, trees, and grass like universities in America. After a few moments of following the group, I reach the orientation office. I was relieved and felt like a huge weight has been taken off my shoulders. I was finally able to breathe and think normally. This must have been how Christopher Columbus felt when he saw land after months at sea. When I walked into the room, I saw people come from all corners of the world. There were no familiar faces, so it made me feel very strange and somewhat apprehensive. In Vietnam, on the first day of every grade, I recognized almost all of the students. As I stood there, there were about five students in line behind me, and I figured out that they came here for the orientation just like me. Knowing that there were others who are in the same situation as me gave me a sense of comfort. I continued to the information desk to check if I was in the right place.
“Hello, my name is Lori,” she said. “How can I help you, today?”
“Hello, Lori. My name is My. I’m from Vietnam. Today is my first day at school, and I’m here for the orientation,” I said.
“Well, you are in the right place,” she smiled.
I was so happy when the receptionist said that I was in the right place as it had not been an easy journey for me at all. At that time, I thought nothing could come out of my mouth, but I was wrong. Somehow, I summoned enough courage, confidence and spoke with the receptionist without worrying about my English. For the first time, I spoke English like it was my native language. That was how I felt, but now looking back, I’m sure the receptionist could detect my accent.
“What are we supposed to do today, and how long will it take?” I asked.
“Today you will meet with the academic advisor, faculty members, and professional staff in order to gain a better understanding of the academic culture on campus and to create your first semester schedule.”
“You also will learn about campus technology, student organization, meet and get to know other new students, receive your student ID, and finally register for your classes,” she said.
She continued, “Is there anything else that I can help you with today?”
“No, thank you very much,” I said.
She handed me a schedule and told me have a seat. While I sat there, I realized that I was not afraid any more. The stress was less because I could understand all the information that Lori told me, and she could also understand me, which made me very happy. I realized that although it took me for a while to get to the right place, I had done it. As I made it through the day, I felt like a runner who had completed a marathon. Being literate in a new language and figuring out things that I had to do on the first day school outside my country helped me feel more confident. My stomach no longer felt funny, and the feeling of a being a scared child on the first day of school was gone. That first step was not easy, but I did it. I felt a sense of accomplishment and from that moment, I knew that I could handle any future challenges that I know I will surely face. One important lesson, I learned is that life is filled with many challenges, some are big and some are more. How we respond to those challenges will define us as a person. I chose to embrace the challenge and remembered the most important advice my father had given me, which is perseverance. His favorite line was “failure is the mother of success.” That line was true that fall day at Orientation, and it is still true to this day.
If You Love a Flower
by Molly Lieberman
Just as the grass parts, the rustling becomes louder, like a chip bag being disturbingly opened. I quickly spot the head, and the beady black eyes fixate on me. I know at this point I have no choice but to make my move. I pounce, grabbing the top of its head first, and then its scaly body, careful to clamp its jaw in case its fangs decide to sink into my skin. Finally, I had caught my first snake. At seven years old, this was a big feat for me, and a moment I wouldn’t forget. However, snakes weren’t my only interest and definitely not the only animal I was capable of getting my hands on. Growing up, I was given the opportunity to be exposed to all different types of animals. I often question whether simply the exposure fostered a fascination with both domesticated and exotic animals, or whether it was simply an inclination I was born with. Perhaps both play a part or one allowed for the growth of the other. It is difficult to pinpoint when it all started or what particularly sparked my interest because for as long as I can remember I have had this unexplainable draw towards all sorts of animals.
Looking back at old photo albums, I am always shocked by the few of me standing all alone next to these massive cows on my grandfather’s farm, just towering over me. With just one slight movement, I could be severely injured. My initial reaction questions my own logical reasoning, but I have to remember that I was only three years old. However the thought process that I usually end up falling on and sticking with is that I was fearless. Not the text book definition of fearless, stereotyped as a reckless daredevil. I had created my own definition of fearless. Overall I was a timid, shy girl, but when you put an animal, any kind of animal, in the mix, I was completely changed. I have no problem holding rats, catching snakes, scavenging opossum nests, petting stingrays, or even swimming with sharks, all of which I have done. I consider myself a Steve Erwin of sorts (only the stingrays no longer had their barbs). But what was this draw? Often it seems humans are able to forge relationships and bonds with animals that are unexplainable. This, however, does offer some explanation for why we choose to place animals in our lives.
Not until recently did I look back and realize that my love for animals has been a poisonous relationship. Growing up in Michigan I was exposed to all different types of wildlife. We lived on a few acres of land hidden behind a barricade of trees. In order to even see our house, you had to drive down a winding, poorly paved gravel road. The house backed up to a thickly wooded forest that ultimately provided me the best playground a kid could ask for. In the front of the house, there was a pond that was home to all sorts of wild animals from frogs to turtles to fish to snakes and much more. This is where I spent all my free time in the spring and summer. I would count down the days until the pond melted, and from that day on I would sit out there after I got off the bus from school, until it became dusk and the mosquitos started filling with my blood.
It was the frog catching that attracted me to the pond, and if I got really lucky I would occasionally find a turtle. My intentions for catching these frogs was to find a new pet. Of course I didn’t expect to keep all the frogs I caught, but if I found the most beautiful frog (yes there are many variations!), maybe, just maybe Mom would let me keep it. Usually it was a battle, and I had to beg, but eventually she’d give in and let me keep a frog or two in the 20-gallon tank we kept in our garage. The problem with this? Let’s just say most of them didn’t live to tell the story to their friends back home. And if they did, it was likely they ended up mating and my Mom didn’t want to deal with hundreds of tadpoles, too.
When it came to the tadpoles, my sister was their worst enemy. If she got her hands on them she’d treat them like her best buddy. This sounds cute and all, but this also entails throwing them down our little toy slides and sitting them on her lap while they watched TV together. Eventually, they all ended up getting stepped on somehow or “lost,” but of course they were likely dead for hours before this happened as they aren’t meant to be exposed to air to begin with. My point? Surprisingly the intended moral of the story isn’t “Don’t give frogs to children,” but rather leave wildlife simply as it is intended to be–wild.
I am undeniably guilty of attempting to remove everything wild from nature. I have taken numerous numbers of bugs, frogs, snakes, birds, bunnies, turtles, and virtually anything I could get my hands on, out of their natural habitat. The worst part is it was for my own selfish wants. What makes me think that these animals wanted to be locked in a cage? If they wanted to be captured they’d come knocking on my door. Unfortunately, I am not the only one who is guilty of this practice. Large corporations such as zoos, parks, and entertainment locale such as SeaWorld along with private owners all believe in the capturing of exotic, undomesticated animals.
Zoos, in general, claim to provide education to average citizens and allow for preservation of species. However, in reality they allow for unnatural, unclean living conditions. There is a reason why the expression “being stared at like a monkey in a zoo” came to be. If I were an animal, I would prefer to be extinct than be preserved in a tiny cage that only allows for eating, sleeping, and pooping. Zoos are the largest interferers of wildlife, and in a way they try to alter the natural balance of Mother Nature by slowly domesticating captured wild animals, and preserving species that nature would have dictated as extinct. Nature has a way of working itself out. If dinosaurs hadn’t become extinct, we humans probably wouldn’t be alive. Zoos also often have animals that were once injured and claim to have been “rehabilitated.” However, it is possible to rehabilitate an animal without permanently making them reliant on humans. Rehab groups around the country have successfully healed injured wild animals, and released them back into the wild through limited human contact. Instead, zoos take advantage of this opportunity to permanently cage these ill or injured animals. A local example of unnecessary animal control and capture can be found at the Henry Doorly Zoo.
I remember when I first moved to Omaha about nine years ago and despite it being the middle of January, one of the first places we went was to the zoo. I can still picture my ten-year-old self bundling up, waiting at the door fifteen minutes before everyone else was ready. Coming from a small town in Michigan, I couldn’t hold in my excitement to see all the different animals that I’d only seen in books or on TV. As soon as we arrived, I rushed between exhibits gawking at each caged specimen thinking to myself, “Those would make an excellent pet!” Now, nine years later, as I saunter down the rows and rows of animals in tiny prison cells I just feel sad. And embarrassed for my former self, but mostly sad. These creatures would and should not have to spend their lives behind bars for a crime they did not commit. People complain and protest over wrongly-imprisoned citizens, but for whatever reason our society sees nothing wrong with throwing thousands of animals that are meant to be free in their natural habitats, into prison-like conditions. Just because they aren’t human doesn’t mean they lack personal rights.
Any zoo-goer has the power to ask themselves “Is this really ethical?” The evidence is in the animals. Just observe them with a different eye, one that doesn’t gawk at them and exploit their daily lives. Is it really right to cram a tiger into cage that’s only twice its size? And is it right to give a natural-born hunter ground beef, laced with supplements to make up for its insufficient diet, for every meal? Although the zoo has not had elephants for a few years now, they do plan on making a return. This is unfortunate as these 12,000 pound elephants, not to mention all the other animals in the zoo, are not suited for a caged life. In their natural habitat, elephants are migratory animals. They travel year round in search for water, food and a different climate. With their natural inclination to migrate thousands of miles every year, elephants belong far away from any kind of bars or restrictions. These animals are not being given the ability to use the tools that they were put on this earth to use. They don’t have to survive because someone is doing it for them.
Issues also arise when private owners attempt to contain wild animals. Many exotic animal owners go in unexperienced with no idea how to care for a wild animal. Sure, a lion cub is cute and cuddly at a few months of age, but can they really contain it once it has reached full maturity? Most exotic animals obtained by a private owner either die, are voluntarily relinquished, or are confiscated for violating state or local laws within the first year. From there, they are either euthanized, put into a sanctuary, or given to a zoo. Either way they are being mistreated, and transferred from one cage to the next. If these animals were simply left where they were meant to be, all of this would be prevented.
But what really is this unexplainable fascination with having these exotic animals controlled enough to the point that they are contained for our own personal enjoyment? All the sights, sounds, and smells offered at a location such as the Henry Doorly Zoo is something that people would never get to experience otherwise. How often do you to stumble across an orangutan or a zebra? When a person does get a chance, it is usually a special experience. It is one thing to see a cheetah on TV, but it’s another to get two feet away from one (behind glass of course). Perhaps another explanation to the attraction is chemical. Interaction with animals is known to increase levels of endorphins and oxytocin, both being feel good hormones. It is understood that engaging in activities that release these potent chemicals in the brain can become addicting. This could lead a person to potentially obtain one of these unique animals, and certainly support companies that display these animals by visiting regularly without giving it much thought.
The violations of morality that come along with keeping wild animals as pets, or in the zoo’s case, as objects of public fascination and critique, is something that most humans do not consider. Animals have been captured and kept as pets for thousands of years, which exposes the natural fascination with other living things. However, just because humans have the upper hand, it does not mean they should use their power to control other beings, which ultimately leads to their demise as we cannot properly care for them the way Mother Nature can. Osho, an Indian philosopher and activist once said, “If you love a flower, don’t pick it up. Because if you pick it up it dies and it ceases to be what you love. So if you love a flower, let it be. Love is not about possession. Love is about appreciation.” Nature is not for the taking; it is best left for being observed and respected outside the caged walls of a zoo.
My Spring Festival
by Kang Tang
Christmas was approaching. One night, we started to decorate the Christmas tree. My five-year-old son Julian could not miss this chance to help. It suddenly occurred to him that the origami flowers my wife made with him the other day could be used. These flowers folded in different colors turned out even prettier among the flashing lights. Julian was excited and wanted to show them to his grandparents.
“Ok, it’s the right time to call them.” I started to set up the iPad. I knew, to my parents in China, any calls from Julian were more than welcome at any time.
The Christmas tree aroused my parents’ interest as expected. “Oh, Julian, make some flowers for me when you visit us,” Mom spoke in an exaggerated tone.
Julian smiled proudly, but did not show intention to accept his grandma’s invitation. Mom hesitated a bit and asked me: “Will you come back this year for Spring Festival?” She meant the Spring Festival of the year of the Horse, which is on January 31, 2014.
“Well, Mom,” I tried not to disappoint her, “you know we are busy.”
“You haven’t celebrated the Spring Festival with us at home for ten years!” Mom calmed a second, then added: “Your father saved his two best liquors for you this year.” While I was still searching for words, Dad came to divert the subject.
That night I found it hard to fall asleep.
Going back was not only an occasional topic that my parents like to pick up every year; it was also becoming a constant discussion between my wife and me in the recent years. We had been back for two times these years, but neither one was at Spring Festival time.
“It has been ten years!” I sighed silently. My home town, the quiet flowingYangtse River, Grandma’s house close to the dock, the big family, all came to my mind. The Spring Festival in 2003 was the last Spring Festival I celebrated with my family before I left for the U.S. but it seems just like yesterday.
Spring Festival, also known as Chinese New Year, is the most important festival in China. According to legend, Spring Festival started from chasing off an evil spirit by using red color and firecrackers. Now it’s a celebration of the beginning of the New Year according to the Chinese lunar calendar. Actually, the celebration starts from the night before the Chinese New Year’s Day, somewhat like New Year’s Eve in the West. Traditionally, this evening is an occasion for Chinese families to gather for the annual reunion dinner. This dinner means so much to Chinese people that usually no matter how far they are away from their families, they will go back home before the dinner time.
The annual reunion dinner is a big event for our family as well. As usual, uncles and aunts were back with their own families to Grandma’s place that year. For adults, Spring Festival was a time to pay honor to the senior members of the family, to enjoy the harvest of the year’s diligence, and to relax the body and mind. Everyone knew that I would depart soon after the Spring Festival. So this dinner was also a farewell party for me.
It was a tradition of my family to hold a short memorial ceremony for the ancestors. As the eldest of the grandchildren, I was always the first one to kowtow to the memorial tablet of ancestors. Since the rite of bending the knee was becoming less usual among the younger generations in China, we cousins always wanted to skip this part; and Grandma was once angry with us for our perfunctory manner. So, as before, chuckling behind their grave faces, my cousins followed me with the same awkwardness for this annual practice.
It had been years since Grandma prepared this dinner by herself. But she was still the one who planned the menu and gave instructions to my youngest uncle, who learned culinary skills from her. Grandma prepared my favorite food for me, a soup of fresh river clam stewed with cured pork. Uncle cooked his specialty, meatballs with crab roe, covered in cabbage leaves.
We sat at a big round table, a bit crowded, but nice and warm. In the center of the table was a dish of steamed mandarin fish. Since the word “fish” was homophonic with the word “sufficient” in Chinese, this dish served to symbolize abundance. Except for Grandma, everyone drank for the occasion. I toasted to everyone. My father even drank some liquor that night.
Grandma only tasted some of the dishes. Picking some fried shredded finless eel for me, she said: “I still remember the first time you came to this house with your mom. You looked around and then cried that you wanted to go back to ‘our house.’ But now you are grown up and will travel far from home.”
“I did not remember that at all. It seems that Spring Festivals are all that in my childhood memories,” I said. For children, Spring Festival is not only a treat of sumptuous food and hilarious amusements, it is also a good chance to get generous extra pocket money in red envelopes from seniors.
“Me too,” My brother smiled. “Do you remember that one year you spent all the money on firecrackers?”
All laughed. One year, acting on impulse, I spent all the money I got in red envelopes on firecrackers. Instead of lighting the firecrackers all at a time to make a tremendous din, I invented various ways of playing my heap of collections bit by bit over the whole holiday. Although the envious and admiring looks from my playmates satisfied me for a while, the occasional and constant noise I had made eventually resulted in the interruption by my dad. And he suggested I invest the red envelope money for books since then.
“Then you changed,” Aunt commented. “Read more, but played and spoke less.”
“You should blame my dad for letting me buy too many books.” Starting with the books bought from the red envelope money, I had been falling in love with books. And the more I read, the more I wanted.
“If you want any books abroad, I can mail them to you.” Cousin Su was the president of the student union in his college, always able to find the books I wanted through some avenues. We used to spend the school breaks at Grandma’s place together when we were kids. If my parents did not want to pick me up after work, we were happy to huddle together in a small bed. The ship’s whistles from the dock sounded like a part of the night. “But your root is here; come back if you become homesick.”
After the dinner, Dad unexpectedly asked me to light some fireworks. “I know you haven’t done that for a long time,” Dad said, handing me a firework. “This will bring you good luck.” Looking at the colored stars flashing through the sky, I thought my future would be brilliant.
“Come back as often as possible,” Grandma said to me when she saw me off. I spoke with such a certainty as if I could foresee the future…
I got up softly. The origami flowers were still flashing on the Christmas tree, just like a firework. Ten years ago, I hadn’t thought I would have stayed at the U.S. for so long when I was looking at the radiating showers.
Grandma is already ninety-five years old. When I sent my auspicious words to her last New Year Eve, “When can you come back?” was still her question.
Dad told me that the number of passenger trips hit a record of 3.2 billion during the Spring Festival holiday season in China. So it’s not surprising that the Spring Festival travel rush is considered to be the world’s largest annual migration. Hundreds of millions of people working or studying outside their hometowns are hurrying to reunite with their families. I was once one of them. One year when I was in the graduate school, I arrived at home just before the New Year’s Eve because of the difficulty to get a railway ticket. But I never hesitated to hurry home and would not consider missing the annual reunion dinner.
One Chinese poet said nostalgia is a stamp; you are on the one side of the stamp and your home is on the other side. Now the internet makes the communications quite convenient for us. Although I can chat with the family in China online, the aroma of the dishes in Grandma’s house, the joy of the whole big family spent together that night is but a sweet memory accompanying me all these years and telling me I should go back for a reunion dinner.
The Calling
by Christopher Allan Loftus
I was once considered admirable, but I was now seen as a loser. I was 20 years old and had not graduated from high school. I knew there was more to life than where I was headed, and I needed to change my path. I decided to return to high school and complete what I had started six years prior. During my years in high school, I was never a model student, but I was very active in extracurricular activities. My name and picture are located on many displays throughout the school for multiple accomplishments and achievements.
It didn’t make any sense that I had not graduated. I was merely a few credits shy of completion, and I just decided to give up. I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life and almost had a fear of success that I have come to realize later in life. When I returned to high school, I needed to fill my day with classes to be a fulltime student. What better way to fill this day than with an Emergency Medical Technician Basic class. I had always wondered what it would be like to work in the back of an ambulance.
The course was five months long. During this time, we were trained how to transport the sick and injured, how to evaluate their condition, and specific life-saving skills we could perform. We were required to spend time in fire departments, emergency rooms, and assisted-living centers to gain real world experience in the profession. I was described as “unlucky” with not having anything major happen during my clinical time. The description made me entirely uncomfortable seeing as for me to be “unlucky” meant that no one was seriously ill or injured during my time on their shifts.
I completed the EMT-Basic course and successfully passed the required examinations to work as a Basic. Becoming a Basic, combined with graduating from high school, gave me a newfound purpose in life that I was proud of. Once I had completed the testing process I immediately applied to a local volunteer fire department. I could not see any greater way to use my new skills than volunteering in my community.
The process of becoming a volunteer EMT/Firefighter was quite lengthy. I was required to go to multiple trainings for many months before I was allowed to go on emergency response calls with the department. Once I had completed my firefighter training and EMT protocol tests I was allowed to actively participate. I had all the required trainings and certifications needed to be on the department and could now ride in emergency response vehicles to 911 calls.
It was the first day of my probationary period. Everyone on the department had gathered in the dayroom for an instructional class in emergency response. It was the beginning of August and the record heat had kept us from training outside for safety reasons. “Don’t worry! Nothing will happen while Chris is here!” the EMS Captain said with his obvious sarcasm. Everyone continuously joked with me about being “unlucky” in not having any major calls during my clinical time as a student, but that was about to change.
Tones sounded in the fire station. The single tone that started as an inaudible buzz was quick to crescendo into a boisterous blare until abruptly halted and replaced by the voice of a dispatcher. This quickly identified the nature of the emergency: a vehicle accident. The adrenaline flowed as I raced from the day room to the engine bay. Perfectly laid before me at the rear entrance of the cab were boots with trousers strategically bloused over them. I stumbled, kicking my shoes off to don my gear and rushed to the rear facing seat behind the driver.
Sirens wailed and the air horns erupted through the hot and humid August air. The cacophony warned of the truck’s presence as we exited the bay doors and out into the busy traffic. The obnoxious buzz ringing in my headphones was only quieted once the lap-belt was secured across my lap. As I looked through the window, the rapid passing of concrete beneath us was my only indication of how fast we were going. Sitting backwards in the cab was very disorientating, and it was hard to follow exactly where we were. Landmarks gave clues to our current location, and I could estimate how long until we arrived to our destination.
This was my first ride in the truck on the department. Overwhelming nervousness began to settle as I attempted to play through every scenario I could come up with in my head. I imagined what the cars looked like, what needed to be done to ensure everyone’s safety, and what precautions we would have to take while getting everyone out of the vehicles. The potential problems swirled in my thought process like debris caught in the most violent hurricane.
It is amazing how much I thought about in just five minutes. The recollection of class and how it was so calm and instructional came to mind. I began to wonder if sitting inside of an air-conditioned classroom viewing PowerPoints on car accidents had prepared me enough for what was to come. Images on a projection screen showed in graphic detail what could be expected when vehicles became involved in high-speed accidents. There was a sickening feeling in my stomach seeing gruesome images on screen, and I couldn’t imagine what the feeling would be like in person.
The truck rolled to a stop diagonally across the highway. Opening the door felt as if I had stepped directly in front of a blast furnace. Stepping out onto the pavement, I made sure to become hyperaware of my surroundings to ensure I didn’t become a victim myself. The long ascending hill held a mirage on the horizon that made the sun seem fuzzy and distorted. Adrenaline flowed, making the normally heavy trauma bag seem to float from the cab as I lifted it from the compartment and hoisted the strap onto my shoulder. Quickly turning the corner around the rear of the fire truck lead me to an image I had not prepared for.
Shards of glass were strewn across the blistering pavement like confetti fired from a blast cannon. The driver’s side of the vehicle in front of me seemed unremarkable, but tire marks that marred the concrete behind it revealed the reason. Being struck sideways at 55 miles per hour, the vehicle had been spun violently into the ditch. Indentation of the metal frame resembled crumpled aluminum foil after being used and discarded. On the opposite side of the vehicle, the driver stood at the edge of the ditch watching in awe as the crew began to hastily work to free the passenger. The expression on his face is one that I will never forget.
Organized chaos is the best way to describe the scene. People moving very quickly from place to place may seem confusing to a person who does not know what they are watching. Sounds of glass breaking and crumpling metal were the sounds of progress. It took only a matter of minutes for the top of the car to be removed. The sounds of reciprocating saws chewing through the support posts of the vehicle were deafening. “It’s clear! Pull it forward!” The captain demanded in a voice loud enough to be heard over the commotion. At this point, hydraulic pistons, almost medieval in appearance, jarred the door from its hinges as metal jaws cut through those hinges like a hot knife through soft butter.
Paramedics worked furiously inside through this entire process. The vehicle, once considered luxurious and comfortable, was now open in the same manner as a sardine can, making it easier for the emergency crew to work. Once the overwhelming mechanical sounds were silenced, they were quickly replaced with the unforgettable shrill of agonizing pain. The intrusion of the door has left the passenger seat moved almost entirely into the center console. EMTs and firefighters ensured that the patient was immobile while the medic worked diligently to stabilize their condition.
This was nothing like class. Comfortable air-conditioning was replaced by record-setting and unbearable heat; calm and slow practice was replaced with fast-paced and ordered actions. Classroom instruction can only begin to scratch the surface of real-life application. Not once in class had there been the sting of perspiration in my eye when holding someone’s neck in-line to avoid them from being injured further or even paralyzed. It could not prepare for the sounds of screaming and the sights that come with these horrible events.
The sound of helicopter rotors replaced everything else. Whooshing in the distance became more of a chopping sound once they prepared to land. Wash created by the downdraft from the rotors spun the grass and debris on the ground in spectacular fashion. The helicopter seemed to float gracefully to the surface as if it was light as a feather. The rear doors opened and two men in jumpsuits emerged from the fuselage. They carried with them the bare minimum of the equipment they needed to perform their duties. The crew had no room or time for excess on the helicopter.
My role of holding the patient’s head in position was taken over by the personnel removing them from the car. I remember wanting to do more and the feeling of inability as I watched them remove the patient from the vehicle. Empathy can be a strong emotion and is only exacerbated with not being able to help more. Watching the paramedics and flight nurse gave me this overwhelming realization of my vocation: to become a paramedic.
Many years have passed since that hot August afternoon, but that calling remains ingrained in my core until this day. Life has taken me many different places since then, but ultimately it has brought me back here to fulfill my dream. The road to becoming a paramedic through Metropolitan Community College was a long and arduous one filled with loss and sacrifice, but I am glad to have chosen this path. There is no greater feeling in the world than helping someone in need.
Weeville
by James Tuttle
Morning broke over the distant hills, casting long tree shadows across the floor. A constant rhythm rocked and lulled its lone passenger to sleep. The steel wheels clicked and clacked in time as the iron and wood boxcar rolled over the staggered rail joints. In the corner, an old man slept hard on the floor in a bit of straw he scraped up in the night. The smell of musty straw and pigeon dung had blown out in the fresh morning air. The ways of the rail were well known and an excepted practice. If the door is open it’s a free ride for anyone willing to jump a train. It was a poor time for many. No jobs and no money meant you live where you can and find alternate ways to travel for migrant work.
Small noises went unnoticed in the rumbling train. Two more travelers caught the door latch and flung themselves into the rolling cars doorway.
“Is he dead?” questioned Larry when the two discovered the older rail bum.
Hank was the older brother and more experienced in these matters. He smiled and took a deep breath. “Sleep’n, I think… Looky there, those shoes are my size. I can see it.”
Hank stood up, gaining his balance on the rocking ride. He walked slowly over to get a closer look at his soon-to-be new shoes. He pondered pulling the shoes and jumping out the door, or better yet, he thought he would steal the shoes and throw the old bum out the door. Either way he would win his prize. Hank knelt down and directed his brother with a nod and a point of his finger to grab the knapsack at the same time. Then, with a jerk, they grabbed the only possessions the man had.
Startled awake, the old man kicked Hank in the face, knocking him and his shoes out into the middle of the car. He rolled over and jumped up. He focused for a second, then took a fighting stance, “What the hell’s holding yah, fear? I don’t see any hooks in your ass!” Larry looked to his brother to see what to do next. Hank stood up.
“Why, we thought you were dead,” he said smiling and sizing up the old man. Hank decided on the plan to toss him off the train.
“You drop my things and get off! I’ve been riding these rails for 30 years. This isn’t the first time young pups tried to take me.”
Hank lowered his head in shame. He started apologizing and stepping forward towards the old bum. “It just ain’t right what we done, sir” He lifted the shoes as if to hand them to him, then tossed them into his face. “Get him,” Hank commanded.
The old bum had grown up on the streets and enjoyed fighting for prize money in his younger years. He was feeling the rush like he once had back then. The old bum dropped to his knee and caught Hank in the groin and his shirt. With a little pull, he had Hank flipped onto his head. He then turned to the younger brother and took a direct fist to his nose.
“I got’m on the nose, Hank just like you showed me!” Larry was rejoicing and expecting the old bum to go down like the kids back home would and then give up the fight.
With a back fist to the jaw, the old timer was able to put down Larry, knocking him out of the way. He then turned back to the more experienced fighter who by this time was on his feet. Hank delivered a solid upper cut to the old bum’s ribs. He could felt the power as his fist landed. But he didn’t expect the trick. The opportunity that the rib punch gave the old bum was to get in close and hook his leg behind Hank’s. With a little twist, he dropped him to the ground. Hank looked up trying to get oriented. One last blow ended the fight. The he delivered a hammer fist to his throat. Hank rolled over grasping his throat, choking and coughing for air. The old bum caught his breath then yelled, “Is that it? Is that all you’re worth?”
“I…I’m Rail Man,” he said catching his breath, “Bob.”
“Rail Man Bob?” Larry said with excitement. “I heard of you, you a prize fighter ain’t cha?”
Hank was partly recovered and sat up, gesturing that he was done. He heard what Larry had said, lowered his head and shook it a bit.
“I’m Rail Man Bob. I’m the toughest man on these rails, any day! I’ll tell you what to do and you will do it because that’s the way it is. He pointed his finger and yelled at the new guys. He looked from one guy to the other mustering up as much dramatic flair as he could. “You bums are nothing to me, not going to be anything less I let you.” A taste of blood was in his mouth from seeing Larry’s bloody lip. He turned away and rubbed over his own nose checking to see if it was broke again or bleeding. “If you ever try to steal my stuff again, I’ll hang you up and bleed you out like a stuck hog,” Bob yelled as he pointed up to some rope hanging on the wall.
Bob had been the king of the rails for many years. He had a natural build that many younger men would envy. He took work whereever he could find it. Sometimes picking apples other times he branded caves for ranchers, but his favorite way to make quick money was to box bare fisted after the work was done. He had a little friend, a dwarf man named Burton who always worked up a crowd and held his money for a piece of the take.
Bob looked around at the box car he was in. He knew order had to be up held by force or lose his place on top of the pecking order. Searching for weapons that he might use or get used against him. He spotted a piece of steel bar and buried it in the straw. There was a few boards but not much else. He decided the car he had jumped into last night was a meat hauler or for fruit due to all the left over ice at the ends. “Well boys we have got a cool ride, for now.” He said pointing at the melting ice in the corner. “Best get some for your face boy.”
“We get’n off, as soon as can be.” Hank snarled at Rail Man Bob then turned away to watch the trees go by. He looked down at the shadows of the train car dance over the rock, grass, and brush along the railway ditch.
“Won’t be rid’n with the likes of you,” added Larry. He copied his brother and turned his shoulder away from their common enemy. He looked out the open door with Hank. But Larry was still giddy from meeting the famous one and looked back to admire him. “Rail man Bob, can’t believe it.” Then he saw Hank’s face light up at something out there. “What? What you see’n Hank?”
“Shut it, shut your trap! Hank repositioned himself so Bob couldn’t see his lips moving. “Throw something out to mark the spot for later. Anything! Look for a mile marker if there is one.”
Hank was an opportunist, a taker in a time when there wasn’t much to be had. Larry looked around, found a short board, and tossed it out on the ballast. He returned to looking out the door like he was told, then turned to Hank, “I see’s a marker, don’t cha know.”
Hank smiled and walked around a bit then leaned over and whispered in Larry’s ear. “I saw a little people!”
“Yu’s see’n leprechauns like Pa did?”
“No, they ain’t a liv’n here, they back in Ireland. He look different, bigger, then what Pa said. These short but maybe up to here.” Hank gestured a height up to the waist on him. “But a little people it was. We could clean’m out of everything they got, and what they goin’a do?”
Larry thought for a moment, “Oh brother, he walloped you a good one didn’t he? To your head.”
Rail Man Bob watched the two as they carried on like a couple of school kids telling secrets about kissing in the play yard. He wondered what they were up to. Now they were excited and talking soft. Bob looked over their heads and out the door. He recognized the very familiar landscape. He gasped, “Weeville! With a swoop he bent down and picked up a board and yelled, “You two planning something? Want another go at me, do you now?”
“No, ha, we had enough, we’s be getting off in the next clearing.” Larry replied trying to keep all tempers down.
Rail Man Bob thought for a bit. They must have seen something back in the woods, they know about them. He needed to keep them on the train while he figured out how to fix this. “Well, you guys would have been okay if you didn’t jump me when I was sleeping.”
“We thought you dead. Larry piped up. Them shoes be fair game, you know dat true.”
“Yes, that’s the way it is out here, but I’m not dead yet! Say, what you got in that knapsack. Let’s boil us up some fine dinner and forget all this. I got two potatoes, a big onion and a pot for cooking. What do you have? We can, kind of, break bread like they did in the good book, eat and start over.”
Hank replied quickly, “Oh that’s mighty fine gesture, but we…got ta.”
“I got jerked beef.” Larry jumped in, “I’m mighty hungry, and dar is salt over yonder corner, they puts it on the ice to make it colder in here.
“Why Larry, that’s right, I’m surprised you knew that,” Bob smiled as he tried offered a compliment. He was hoping to ride the rail some time longer and put distance between these two bums and Weeville. “Sounds like beef stew! I’ll get my pot.”
Hank’s face turned red, his eyebrows dropped down low, his face in a snarl, “Let’s get some of that salt from the corner pile, brother!” he said with clenched teeth.
“It’s okay, I dropped a stick, an’I see’s the marker too. It’s 28, mile marker 28.” Larry hoped that was good enough to appease his brother’s ill temper. He remembered all too well getting a thrashing for less or nothing at all. Hank’s temper was just like their father’s who would lash out at the family whenever he had a bad day at work.
A feeling of calm came over Hank on hearing this. Little brother did what he had asked and he knew his plan was still in play. “Good work kid, we can count our way back. We be quiet now, get off at the next stop, get us a ride, and come back.” Hank picked up a handful of rock salt and grabbed Larry’s hand, filling it. “Get the fire going, Pup, you mak’n me stay. You do the cook’n.”
Bob smirked at the comment. He knew no one would make a man like Hank stay where he didn’t want to. He saw something or someone from Weeville, he thought. “Got to keep my promise, keep them safe.” Bob remembered Burton and how he worked the crowd up and took the bets. We made a month’s wages in one night. Those were good times, I beat those bums,…plucked them clean we did! He looked over at Hank. He wants to rob them. Bob gathered a few boards and broke some into kindling. Like a war, there are losses and sacrifices. I not in uniform anymore. He recalled his little friends Jenny and Mike and their tiny babies. Then he thought of the moment he made the promise. Hell, I didn’t ask them to save me, they did it on their own. He ran it over and over in his mind. Cold, in the dead of winter, no wood, stranded away from town, no food and coughing up so hard and painful. But, a man’s only as good as his word, and I gave it. He scooped up some small chunks of ice and handed it to Larry. He looked at his face, it was a boy’s face. It didn’t matter when he was in a fight, a fight was honorable, but these thoughts were like the cloven animal he heard about from the bible, they were un-clean. I’d have to kill them, they’d just keep coming back. Both have got to go. No one will find their bodies out here in the ditch. Bob looked over to see if his steel rod was where he left it. He could see one end sticking out from the straw. He thought of the speed and distance they had gone since they passed Weeville. All of 15 minute at say 10 miles in an hour there should be a river coming up soon.
Bob reflected on another encounter at a river. He was a young lad living at home when a horse kicked the ribs in on his good hunting dog, Max. His father made him take his dog down to the river to put him out of his misery. “It was the best thing to do, son. Drown him dead,” His father told him. Rail Man Bob the murderer, no one would know but me, but it would eat me from the inside out. I would know, just like killing Max 30 some years ago, it’s still with me, I know about it. He sighed, and thought of fights he was in during the war. I killed with honor then. Bob toiled with his thoughts. He knew the right thing is to let the lawmen do their work, but these two would be long gone. Weeville would be discovered and that is not what he promised.
Hank stepped back from the fire, looking out the door again. He plotted on how to get rich from his discovery. He mumbled under his breath, “A zoo, no, maybe one a doe’s traveling circus shows. That’s it, they’d pay top dollar for dem little people. Bet they’s got money in the camp, too.”
Bob’s ears perked up to the sound of the train’s wheels. The tone changed as the engine moved onto the bridge. “We are here!” He announced. “This is where you get baptized.”
“Whoa, hey!” Larry smiled as he looked up at Rail Man Bob. “You a preacher man, too?”
“He’s no damn preacher, he Satan if I ever saw him.” Hank got up to confront him. “What y’got on your mind there Rail Man?”
Bob felt a sickness in his gut as he squinted his eyes and yelled at the men. “I’m Not Rail Man Bob today, boys, no preacher man, neither, I’m the devil!” He raised his voice with each element of his message. “I’m Satan himself come to collect your souls.” He stepped forward towards Hank with his hands clenched at his sides, screaming at him, wanting to feel the energy of the fight. Wanting to justify his actions in a fair fight and give himself honor for what he knew he had to be done.
“Yah crazy o’fool! Stepping forward Hank landed his fist on Bob’s jaw. “Rail man nothing, u’sa poor excuse for man!” Bob stumbled with purpose backwards to where he’d hid the steel bar. He felt his fingers touch his palm as they wrapped around it.
“You worthless thieving bums, this is your reckoning!” Jumping to his feet, Bob stood with his bar in hand and a gleam in his eye. “You two are evil, and I’m sending you home!”
“Now just hold on there, Rail Man. We quit fight yah a while ago, going break bread an all what happened with dat?” Hank stepped back out of range and in front of the doorway. In three large steps, Bob ran up to him to deliver his crushing blow. Hank jerked to the side, then punched the already sore ribs as Larry pushed from the side. Bob went out the door and into the river.
“Go fish’n, Rail Man Bob,” Larry yelled.
“Yea, maybe a snapper will eat yah stink’n flesh.” Hank patted his little brother on the back and smiled with approval.
Down into the darkness and comfort of the warm water he sank with the steel bar still in his hand. The conflict was over and a sense of freedom flashed in his mind. One deep breath of Mother Earth’s water could end the pains and anguish for him. The water was clear with glimmering lights cascading down to the bottom. He felt calm and accepting of this end. The sounds of his life struggles were gone, the colors were beautiful. Slowly he touched the bottom, first with his butt, then his back. Mud stirred up around him in a cloud as thoughts rushed through his mind. I got to fight them, they’re still up there, I’m not going out like this!
The bar descended quickly into the muck as he let loose and found a foot hold at the bottom. With a strong thrust he pushed off and swam to the surface. Feeling the desperate need to take in a breath, he broke the surface water with a splash and gasped for air. “I’m coming, Burt! I’ll be there for yah!” he yelled as he climbed onto the bank. Slowly, he then worked his way to the top of the tracks. His legs were weak from the fight and swim. A quick look up and down the tracks, and he had his bearings and headed back to Weeville. “I’ll beat them down, and if not, I’ll die with honor! Not like this.”
The heat of the day bearing down as Bob walked the track. He hopped up on the rail and walked one foot in front of the other and sang a little song he was taught by the children who came to his side when he last there. “A little mint to add some scent, a hand full of Mulberry…” He smiled and laughed to himself. “That was a god awful drink they made me, those little beggars.”
The tree line covering Weeville was in sight. A quick look over the area gave Bob a comfort feeling that he was here first. He didn’t want to disturb the village at all if he could help it. He wanted to stop Hank and Larry on the rails. He chose a few good throwing rock and placed them on a tie. Found a strong piece of Elm tree limb, “Oh this will due nicely” and rubbed off the loose bark against the rail. “Now for me, I want to be there.” He said to himself. The ideal hiding spot presented itself, a big old Maple tree on the side of the railway. It had a low set crotch and each of the three trunks were big enough to hide a man behind. Bob found a bucket and perched himself on it behind one of the tree trunks and leaned back against another. He knew from what direction they had to come from and peeked out every now and then. “Nothing yet, I know their kind, they’ll be coming by dark, they’re like the good book says, like a thief in the night, that’s what they are.”
The time went slow and the heat was more tolerable in the shade with a cool breeze coming over the raised tracks. The activities of the day were catching up with old Bob. Leaning back on the tree trunk, he batted his eyes, fighting to stay alert. Birds singing their songs came and went. A dust devil kicked up in a distant field. Even the children of Weeville were quiet in the summer’s day heat. His eyes grew heavy to a close.
Startled awake, he gasped. Bob gathered his thoughts as he looked around wondering if he’d had another nightmare. Something was new. A hand pump track cart sat on the rail in front of him. Trackman’s tools laid across the top of it, ready for a day’s work. “Them bastards are here, damn!” Bob mumbled.
With his elm branch in hand, he ran to pick up his chosen throwing rocks and slid them into his pockets. He had hoped to stop the two on the tracks, but that chance was lost. Crouching behind the cart, he could see nothing around the tracks. His ears perked up, and Bob looked in the direction of the village. He could he could hear the screams coming from Weeville. “Oh no. I’m too late.” Running through the grass and brush, Bob flashed back to his younger life in the military. He had run through grass and brush before fighting for his life in a battle that lost many of his friends. “Not now, not this time,” came his low voice through his gritted teeth.
His terrified friends ran past him into the trees. They were coming from their village of little tents where two giant demons were terrorizing and knocking them around like throwing fire wood in a wagon. It was as expected, Hank and Larry had ransacked their camp, turning over baskets and emptying boxes, searching for the treasure of the day. Larry swung a little chair like a club, snapping the clothes lines and breaking down tents. Bob watched for the right moment, then ran into the village just as Hank crawled into a tent. Larry saw out of the corner of his eye someone swinging a stick and bring down the tent on his brother. He paused and smiled, “Oh, Rail M…” The sentence was cut short with a stout smack up the side of Larry’s jaw. An infuriated Hank tussled with the collapsed tent.
“Larry what the hell you doing? I’m in this one, damn it!” Hank crawled out. As the last piece of the tent flipped from his head, his eyes locked on to his brother lying face down in the dirt, then up to the tall man in a batting stance.
“Hello, Hank!” A crack from the wood could be heard as his elm wood branch made a solid hit to Hank’s head. “You bastards are done.” Larry laid motionless and now Hank. The sounds of the woods suddenly became apparent again: rustling of the grass, leaves in the breeze, and distant whispers of the villagers as they poked their heads up to see if it was safe.
“It’s you, Bob. Hey everybody, its Rail Man Bob! He came! You came back like you said.” Burton was out of breath from exclaiming his excitement over the return of an old friend and the end of a horrific event. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
Indeed it is grand to see you. It’s like olden days again, just not making any money… but we won the day,” Bob said as he smiled back at him.
Burton’s wife Helen ran to the gunny sacks their two children were in. She cut the ropes and gave the children reassuring hugs. She looked up at Bob. “Thank you, thank you, sir.” Helen was never comfortable around Bob. When Bob stayed with them, she complained to Burton every day right in front of him. She stood up and slowly walked over. Helen wiped her tears. “We… I owe you now. I owe you for everything. I don’t have anything to offer as payment, but thank you, and you are welcome to come stay anytime.”
“No Ma’am, we’re friends. I don’t have any family. You are as close as I got.” The two kids walked over and hugged his legs. “I couldn’t let these bums rob you, and it looks like they were planning to do worse.”
Helen looked up at Bob, “Oh, you will always be more than a friend to us, Bob.”
“Yea, you big grandpa!” came a little voice from below. “Can we make you a Mulberry drink?”
Bob’s eyes welted up with tears. “Oh,…no, I got to go now and take these bad guys away.”
“What you going to do with them?” asked one of the children.
“They’re bad men and need to be punished. Now you all help your ma clean up here.”
Bob grabbed Larry by the collar and drug him out to the rail line. When he came back, Burton was rolling Hank onto a piece of tent canvas. “This one is bigger. I think this will help slide him down the trail.” The two pulled Hank out on the canvas.
“Ho shit, he’s dead weight,” Bob grunted as the two loaded Hank on the rail cart.
“Want me to go with yah? I’m a witness, I mean for the courts and all.” Burton lifted his lamp up to see Bob’s face.
“No, Burton. Judgment day is upon them. They’ll get theirs.” Bob climbed up and started to pump the hand cart. “Take care!” The wheels zinged and screeched as they rolled out of the light. Burton watched him leave and sighed with sorrow. The sounds of the little cart wheels faded in the distance. Burton had lived all his life in these parts and knew the train schedule as well as anyone. The night train was coming. His heart dropped as he heard the whistle blow. Then from the dark came the familiar voice, “I’m Rail Man Bob. I’m the toughest man on these rails, any day!