Alpha Chi Tau Chapter Presents:

Bird and Dog

Creative Literary Journal
Vol. II Issue. 1 (2021)

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 Table of Contents:
Acknowledgements..........................................................................3
From the President........................................................................4
Poetry....................................................................................................5
“20/20 Vision” by Becky Vandenberg........................................................6
“Escape” by Nichola K. Jeffrie............................................................7
“Fate of the Rose” by Rachael Rayburn.....................................................8
“Foreigner” by Mark Adams.................................................................9
“Guardian” by Eric McEllen...............................................................10
“He Hates Hemingway” by Jason Brooks.....................................................11
“Huddled Masses” by Jason Brooks.........................................................12
“It Frightens Me” by Rachael Rayburn.....................................................13
“Love is Forged” by Timothy K. Johnson...................................................14
“My Peaceful Demise” by Timothy K. Johnson...............................................15
“Quietus” by Mary Sims...................................................................16
“Resilience” by Mark Adams...............................................................17
“Sleepless” by Marie Gilkeson............................................................18
“Sleepless Nights” by Ronny Benincase....................................................19
“the pledge of a divided kingdom” by Megan V. Jenkins....................................20
“To a Woman, In the Future” by Cesar Musitani............................................21
“Tomorrow I’ll Fix Things” by Rachael Rayburn............................................22
Response to Christopher Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”
"Das Fraulein” by Mary Sims.........................................................23
"The Pragmatic Lover to the Dreamy Shepherd" By Mark Adams..........................24

Fiction & Short Story.........................................................................25

“Illiyani’s Discoloration” by Andrew Franklin.........................................26-28
“The Novel I Never Wrote” by Cesar Musitani...........................................29-30
“The Folktales Collector” by Cesar Musitani..............................................31

Creative Nonfiction...........................................................................32
“About mi Mamá and the Guy That Left for War” by Cesar Musitani.......................33-35
“How I Won the Superbowl” by Becky Vandenberg.........................................36-39
“Rolling Through Life” by John McKenna................................................40-43
Featured Faculty................................................................................44
“Hello Lucy” by Jackie Fowler.........................................................45-46
“Night Watch” by Penny Freeland..........................................................47
“The Nest” by Batya Weinbaum..........................................................48-50

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Acknowledgements:
The Bird & Dog Journal is comprised of the creative contributions of students,
faculty, and alumni of American Public University and American Military University.
The Alpha Chi Tau officer board would like to extend our deep gratitude to all who have

contributed to this volume's success. Authors, editors, advisers, and designers worked
together to bring this journal to life, each having a crucial role to play in its
completion.
We extend a special "Thanks" to last year's officers, President Victoria Hershman and
Vice President Megan Jenkins, who worked diligently to revive this journal from a lost
(figurative) treasure map found deep in the landscape of West Virginia's academic
histories.
Thank you to this year's team:
Becky Vandenberg - President & Designer / Editor
Megan Jenkins - Media / Web Master & Designer / Editor
Editors:
Lourena Greening - Vice President
Zane Hughes - Secretary
Penny Freeland - Faculty Advisor

Disclaimer:
No monetary compensation was exchanged for the use of individuals' work published in
this journal. We, Alpha Chi Tau, retain no rights to authors' work printed on our pages.
All Intellectual Property Rights and Copyrights remain in the names of the published
authors. We offer this platform only as a showcase where authors can gain recognition for
their works and authorial identities.
Furthermore, the use of images and/or graphics were obtained through CANVA following
their "One Design Use License Agreement" permitting personal and commercial use of images.
No compensation and/or claiming credit of images were claimed.

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From the President:
2021 is proving to be year of continued difficulty and uncertainty for many of us. This
journal offers a space where personal literary expressions can bring people together and
celebrate our common love of words. It is an honor to bring this publication to our readers
and to show that although we may struggle to adjust to an ever-changing world, we find the
same comfort and joys in reading.
The authors featured upon these pages are the foundation of our beloved journal,
without whom we might only have a pamphlet. The ability to publish one's work within
academia is a wonderful means to gather experience and gain exposure for one's work.
Literature holds a special place in our hearts and souls. It brings us together in a
wonderful and special way. We are proud to give back by creating this passion-project as a
homage to our shared love of language and its powerful reaches.
I wish to thank everyone who submitted their work and for all who aided in building
this new volume. The journal must be seen as a collaborative project in which everyone's
contribution deserves credit. We hope this volume brings as much joy to our readers as it
has brought to Alpha Chi Tau.

Becky Vandenberg
President Alpha Chi Tau

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 Poetry
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of
powerful feelings: it takes its origin from
emotion recollected in tranquillity.
~William Wordsworth~

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20/20 Vision
By Becky Vandenberg

They say, “Blame China!”

Thousands are dead!
Wash your hands! Do not touch!
Cover your head!

Who knows what it is?

We guess. We presume.
What if Mothers infect
The child in the womb?

“Conspiracy!” some cry.

Population control!
Racial statistics measured
In the day by day toll.

Darwin proclaims,
The Strong will survive.
A race to the end. Us?
Or bees and their hives?

Millions are dead.

“I can’t breathe!” All lives matter!
The voice of our planet,
Sad, and then, sadder.

The cure for the flu

Is nuclear war?
Humans kill humans,
Like before, and before.

Are we nearing the end?

Corona de espinas!
The waters, thick, poisoned.
Tomorrow’s necropolis.

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Escape
By Nichola K. Jeffrie

The Sun bows as pain vibrates

As the rays immensely radiate
My eyes burn with no tears
But no one will ever care

Alone in this cold and dark world

I walk around with my head in a twirl
Wondering, how I can escape
With my heart out of shape

With my back against the wall

Awaiting your phone call
The night grew weary and hungry
Now set my spirit free

My heart no longer trusts

Was this love or lust
Your voice was sweet as heaven
But now pierces like venom

I have nothing more to give

Sweet memories will forever live
One day I’ll take them to the sky
Oh, Sweet glory bye and bye.

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 Fate of the Rose
By Rachael Rayburn

Empty and cold

A wind-blown rose,
Fallen on an autumn day.

The wind picks up,

Cold and abrupt,
Sweeping the dead rose away.

I watch as it tumbles,
And my hand starts to fumble,
For the phone that I keep in my purse.

I should say, sorry now,

Forget that I’m proud.
The fate of the rose is truly the worst.

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Foreigner
By Mark Adams

You were not born here

But you call this your humble abode
Far from your heritage, but to this domicile you feel near
Dominated by the desert sun, this coastline has always glowed
Growing up, you and friends have played on the pier
Pleasant climate year-round, never once has it snowed
Time to vacate the nest, go up, and away you fly
Now is the era for new things you must try

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Guardian
By Eric McEllen

In the deepest, darkest, dwelling,

The fire-lizard waited,
For the western warrior winning,
The Gods had already fated,
Many a treasure sat under foot,
Crowns and chalices gleaming,
Contemplating, lost in thought,
The dragon laid there dreaming,
Centuries passed, and there she sat, often left in ponder,
For whom this warrior was to be, and marks they dared to bare,
How many armies they planned to bring?
Into her dragon’s lair,
“Be them brave?” she lowly snarled,
Contempt rolled off her tongue,
“Bring them brand, or spear, or maul?”
Her imagination not quite done,
“Where off, do you set to leave?”
A hiss left her scaley lips,
“Do you march? Or ride by horse?
Or perhaps you come by ships?”
Queries delved, into each night,
Pestering the ageless elder,
For she waited, all this time,
To find out who would try to tell her,
“Take the gold, or take each gem,”
She breathed out ever slightly,
“For whoever you are, you’ll never take,
My legacy I hold tightly.”
Deep down, beneath her throat,
Where her fire churned and quelled,
An ancient egg, the last to be,
She, so gingerly held,
“So, hurry now, from where you come,
For eagerly, I’ve been waiting,
For the coming of heroes, or villains that be,
That these gods, they have been fating.”
A loathing sigh, sad bitterness,
Set forth a great plume of sooty smoke,
Through the cave that she guarded,
Started the greatest legend, of those that were ever spoke.

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He Hates Hemingway
By Jason Brooks

The door rams home on the rails.

He didn’t hear me, she says.
Not grey, but white, save for the nicotine stains.
Wreathed in long hair, a trimmed beard his only
Evidence of self-care.
He rattles on the porch, forbidden from smoking indoors,
He looks over his lawn at nothing,
Hacks and spits,
Shoulders racked.
He probably heard her.
The mixer thumps against cold butter,
Her spoon cracks against the bowl, she talks whether he’s in the room or not.
And not for me, though sometimes
He refuses to sleep with the mask, you know, but
Again, the door.
A vest-full of pockets, with nothing in them save for his smokes.
Just in case, he says, and a hidden surprise,
Pistol pocket, wrenching Velcro.
Real satisfaction over a smile of fake teeth.
I wore this in the desert. Did I ever tell you?
He stoops, and stares. And sits.
Hands like hammers, now a wrong color, soft with hard memories.
We talk about tools and guns, the idiocy of the building inspector.
He’s young, but a good kid.
You should ‘a bought a Chevy. Goddamn, I love that truck.
He says it every time. He doesn’t drive.
No pretense at being subdued, the pan clangs into the oven, the door slams shut.
She takes advantage of my presence, to remind him of
Things he should have done, needs to do.
I am conscripted.
Was I ever not?
He threw so hard it hurt my hand; he told me he wanted me to overcome
My fear.
Burgers are done.
And hers are better, but he sure does love his grill.
All he did was the best he knew how
And I know this
But I will leave after coffee tomorrow.

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Huddled Masses
By Jason Brooks

Tired eyes looking up from a sea of huddled black and brown,

Tumors under thin surplus wool in the salted moonlight.
I speak enough Spanish to know
That she wants milk with sugar for her baby.
She’s small: the baby, a toy.
It makes no noise.
Everyone else is asleep, save for we armed guards,
Annoyed at pulling extra duties to guard this wretched lot
Pulled heroically from the sea at such great expense:
Fuel, bullets, batons, the excess of port calls,
Practice dummies and boxes of toothbrushes.
More lost sleep, the insult of leftover coffee and midnight rations,
Future accolades on an obligatory award citation.
A pretty thing for the shelf in my home
In America.
The roiling exhaust barely clears the flight deck at this speed.
The churn in our wake visible from space, a scar on the ocean.
The tiny raft set ablaze, a hazard upon the sea,
A slick of carbon wiped clean by the waves.
The radio chirps and stirs a tuft of black hair near my boot.
“210 migrants on deck, all is well.”
Tomorrow they go back.

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 It Frightens Me
By Rachael Rayburn

I will never understand

Why I don’t understand
What I want to understand
About myself.

Or maybe I do understand
Too clearly, and it blinds me,
The very sight of me
Frightens me,

And my understanding
Simply cannot handle,
And cannot fight,
My following disgust.

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 Love is Forged
By Timothy K. Johnson

Is it so easy to love?
No soul should so easily love another
For effortless love will soon be mourned
Love is like fire and what makes fire but friction?

Is love so easy to let go?

When the road our love trods is fraught with despair
It is then and there that we fight for its true meaning
In the fire is where steel is forged and hearts learn to endure

Is love so easy to forget?

Excitement and peace cannot occupy the same place in our hearts
Thus, an easy life robs the soul of growth and the heart of passion
Lovers care not to recall the facile path they roved

Will you walk with me through the fire? Profess!

The time has come to beat the drum and forge ahead
Walk with me or I shall walk alone towards destiny
I promise you the bastion of love, not glittering prattle

Is it not the hardships that we endure that adorn us?

We will falter and rise and rise again
Our love is the worthy cause for which we toil
Failed love is surely more sweet than timidity.

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 My Peaceful Demise
By Timothy K. Johnson

Oh Demise, you inspire me to endure,

I admire how you hover and compel,
You find me, though I seek to be obscure,
Ever obliging me to trudge through hell

Shall I name you as a friend or a foe?

You are avowed, menacing, and ever-present
Your haze cloaks my ability to know
Yet your silence makes clear your discontent

How can I fear my end? Tis not worthy of fear

I bear your stench, your presence, your mis’ry
My days are passion-filled because you are near
Thoughts of you remain—afoot, harsh, and eerie

We must cast aside the trivial chase,

While we await our pacific embrace.

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Quietus
By Mary Sims

The blade is sharp and cold,

It runs smooth against my skin.
I am falling.
Mother, can you catch me?
I hear them coming for me,
Will they make it, Mother?

The lights from the ambulance grow near.

Can you see them, Mother?
Darkness is coming,
Mother? Mother, are you there?
Mother, I am cold.
Please, just let me go.

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Resilience
By Mark Adams

Came creeping into the world by late winter

With the covertness of a spirit’s whisper
Had crawled its way from animal to mankind
No soul did expect the new normal to which we resigned

Will never let the absurd change our way

Come and go these ailments, seldom do they stay
Those who must work must strive
The new dawn is just the dawn of human drive

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 Sleepless
By Marie Gilkeson

Nights like these it’s hard to sleep

Tossing and turning
My mind restless as can be
Tossing and turning on repeat
Was today not a good day?
Shhhhh, it’s just thoughts
My mind wanders further than it may
Deeper into my darkness
All things shall pass
Tossing and turning slowly stops
After one pill, my mind will ease
Sleepless nights are a tease

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 Sleepless Nights
By Ronny Benincase

When the last star says goodbye

To the early morning sky,
And the streetlights shine,
To spite the rising sun.
I’m staring at the wall.
The smoke, I watch it fall.
And I remind myself,
There’s nothing to be done.

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the pledge of a divided kingdom
By Megan V. Jenkins

I pledge allegiance
to the Flag
of my side of the Divided States of America,
and to the Government for which I stand by,
a Divided Nation
under whatever Truth I swear by,
divisible,
with liberty and justice for those who agree with me.

A country cannot be united in being divided

for a country divided against itself is headed for destruction-
no city or house divided against itself will stand.

Being united in being divided is the same semblance

as being separate but equal,
The 21st-century civil rights sequel,
only in reverse, rewind, and repeat.

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To a Woman, in the Future
By Cesar Musitani

Yesterday you were just a hope in my mind.

Today you are here, a miracle fluttering to live hopes of life.
Today you are here enlightening me, reading books with me.
Today you are here filling every one of my empty spaces with joy.
With the joy of an immense embrace, you, and me,
Wrapped under the magic of an eclipse.
The joy when you are playing
Making from every imaginary world a song.
The joy when you are singing
Letting the melodies capture the smiles.
The joy when you are laughing
Intertwining with overflowing joy your dreams.
The joy when you are dreaming
Creating tons of games, songs, and smiles.
Play, sing, laugh, dream.
Yes, my little girl.
Dream, laugh, sing, play.
Little girl of my most beloved emotions.
Sacred being of my days.
Please, always play, sing, laugh, dream.
Today you are the princess of my dreams.
Tomorrow you will be a woman.
The woman of the dreams of another man
I hope he will love you until the moon
Forth and back five hundred million times,
And takes care of you, always like a little girl,
The same as me,
When I am not here anymore....
But reading the same pages that you read,
And illuminating your hopes of life.

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 Tomorrow I’ll Fix Things
Rachael Rayburn

Though tomorrow I may be human,

Tonight, I’m really not.
I’m a creature made of shaking,
Whimpers, tears, and snot.

A creature bruised and broken

By my ego and my fears
A creature fallen into illness
And given into tears.

I cry alone and tortured

Wanting to beat my fists and wail
But that would be true madness
To fight would be to fail.

So, I accept this aching

And the sadness that it brings
Tonight, I am a creature
But tomorrow I’ll fix things.

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Response to Christopher Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”

Das Fraulein
By Mary Sims

Thou art most earnest to be my love.

You proclaim it in such lyrical prose.
Be it more sorrow than the gallows.
Sitting by listening to the song of the swallows

I seek not to sit with thee.

Upon the rocks or near the trees
Lay me down in a bed of roses!
Or fill my pockets full of posies.

I sooner die a thousand deaths.

Then dream of spools of finery.
Cashmere, Shetland, Taewit, Mohair
I don’t know how much I could bear.

Tis not the clothes that make the man

But how he treats his flock
That will earn him my hand.

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Response to Christopher Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”

The Pragmatic Lover to the Dreamy Shepherd

By Mark Adams

If I leave all and come to you

Will the joys of life forever be true?
Who keeps the pastures you see green?
The workers work, but we do not, is that what you mean?

We shall sit on the rocks, and look down

While the shepherds work, we revel in our crown
The rivers flow, but so does sorrow
Of those who work like there is no tomorrow

A bed of roses and tulips bring me no joy

I would want to know that our bond is not coy
The flowers will die, and someday you and I
No different than the dry leaves, your promises are a lie

I do not wish to harm the poor lamb

I dress for comfort and not for glam
All that glitters is not gold, keep me warm
That is all I ask, money is not my charm

How do we live without giving back?

I live, I work, and I do not slack
The pleasures you promise seem hollow
I may be your love, but never shall I follow

Living like gods is not what I pray

A life without work, is that your way?
Feed you, feed me, what about those in the field?
Their labor bears us fruit, without them there is no yield

In spite of all, I shall join you in dance

Youth and money will not last, what will last is romance
Your dreams are but dreams and I must grow
All I want is asceticism and an old chateau

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 Fiction &
Short Story
“Some day you will be old enough to start
reading fairy tales again.”
-C.S. Lewis-

page 25
 Illiyani’s Discoloration
by: Andrew Franklin
"Quick everyone, hurry!"
"What is it?" cried the elderly Ahamha sitting outside the cave.
"It's Illiyani, He is sick. Crumpled over and clawing at the discoloration." The Ahamha scrambled

in their elderly way. Bandy-legged folks scuffling into the colorful cave
opening.
"He has had that discoloration for a while now. It always starts off small, then as it grows, it
creates that stink and draws one of them in," the eldest said.
"You think it's a worm?" An Ahamha elder asked as he entered the opening.
"Almost certainly! Lead him in here and we will give him the check-over," commanded Ahmo, one
of the recognized leaders. Illiyani's tail slowly slid him into the room as he clutched his belly and
garbled some nonsensical sounds.
"Look, brightest volcano red!" cried another elder.

"Lay down flat boy. And be still," said Ahmo as she placed her left hand above the evil red spot and
her right pressed on the boy's belly.
"Feel anything Ahmo ?" asked another
"Oh yeah. Yes certainly. It's time. Let’s get gusty, geezers." Ahmo raised her hands in the air
guiding the forthcoming chant. The elders stood in a perfect circle around the ailing youth.
"Il-Li-Ya-Ni, Il-Li-Ya-Ni,"; they slowly sang with harmonized voices. A form began writhing
under the scales of Iliyani's stomach. Ahmo pressed on the boy's belly as hard as she could, then slid

the same hand up to Ili's opened mouth and with her left removed the iridescent striped worm
which had emerged.
“Quick, kill it!” shouted an elder. Ahmo stood there carefully analyzing the evil squirmer. It was
trying to bite her but her experience landed her grip in just the right place. She was safe from any of
the worm’s harm.
“Are you going to kill it or invite it to your place for tea?” The elders who were gathered had seen
many of these parasites before and they were all nervous. Once a worm has focused on you, it will
relentlessly attack. They are hopelessly fast and have four telescoping mouths filled with sharp
serrated teeth. Each of the mouths provides an opportunity to grasp onto a host while the other

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mouths attach and feed. As soon as you pull one mouth off, the others will attack to regain a hold.
A voice rang out through the cave. “Biggest blood belly I have seen in a long time!”
“Udareg!” The elders cried as they turned around to see the other recognized leader of the Ahama

entering the large inner room of the cave.

“This one is fat with evil,” Udareg said.
“This one is fat with the energy and nourishment it has stolen from Illiyani,” Ahmo replied.
“Very true, Mo-mo,” Udareg said to his wife. “Put it down and let’s see where it wants to go.”
Ahmo looked at her husband and then slowly leaned forward with her arm out straight and placed
the worm on the ground. Udareg did not have his weapon drawn, but Ahmo trusted him with all of
their safety.
“Are you crazy!? Those things are too fast and we are too old. I don’t want to get bitten,” one elder
said as some others agreed. Udareg paid them no attention.
“Let it go Mo-mo.”
Ahmo cautiously released her grip and hopped backward creating some distance between her and
the worm. The worm’s head lurched from side to side as it coiled itself. It briefly came to rest and

then shot like a flash towards Illiyani who was still laying on the cave floor. As the worm reached one
of its vile mouths towards Illiyani to reattach itself, Udareg’s blade came crashing to the rocky floor
with a loud clang. The worm had been cut in two. The separated portions of the worm writhed and
wriggled leaking ink-like blood in pools as its menacing death dance continued. The worm was
injured, but they quickly regenerate. Soon there would be two hungry parasites. Udareg took a wall
hanging and threw it over the pieces. He then took one of the torches from the far side of the cave
and lit the wall hanging. It did not take long for the brightly colored tapestry to burst into flames.
The Ahama gathered around the fire and they could hear the worm pieces pop and sizzle, filling the
room with a putrid smell. The parasite was dead.
“That bit of unpleasantness is behind us,” Udareg said with a smile.
“Now we must help Illiyani,” said Ahmo as she held out her arms to reform the singing circle
around Illiyani. They combined their voices into soothing harmonized syllables, “Aum – Ah – Ohh,”
repeating the chant over and over. Ahmo left her place in the circle to go to Illiyani. She sang a
prayer for the boy’s health. Illiyani was laying on his side in a sickened heap. Ahmo rolled him to his

page 27
back and straightened out his arms and tail. She looked down on the sleeping boy and admired how

big he had become. The sides of his head, his shoulders, and hips were all adorned in the naturally
occurring spikey armor of the male Ahama. The scales of his reptilian skin were thick and strong,
but he still had his tail. The other boys his age had completed metamorphosis and grown their legs.
No wonder Illi was sick. Ahmo repeated the song-like prayer in her beautiful voice as she placed her

open hands over the red spot on Illiyani’s stomach. Udareg came to the center and knelt down over
Illiyani and placed his open hands over Illi’s forehead and chest. The other elders continued the
soothing chants.
Their joined voices reverberated off of the ceiling and walls of the cave providing a sound bath of
positive energy and hopeful intention to cleanse Illi’s spirit. The soft red light from the torches
moved in rhythmic waves across the interior of the cave. This was a good place to begin Illiyani’s
healing.

page 28
 The Novel I Never Wrote
By Cesar Musitani
When one looks back over the years lived there is nothing more humiliating than a dream not
fulfilled. It is a difficult burden to bear from which it is impossible to break free. It is there, always
present, cruel, and implacable as a murderer demon not exorcised, stabbing every thought or
emotion, and thus preventing the enjoyment of life in its total fullness. Unfortunately, this is the
status in which has derived my lifelong dream of being a novelist. Only a latent dream. Only wishes
of what would ever be possible and who knows when? Although I have always dreamed of being a
novelist, I have never taken a step forward to make that dream come true. Thus, the first novel that I
never wrote is still waiting to see the light. It is as an unborn child that screams from the imaginary
land of the things not created.

This dream has its roots since my mother told me and read tales. I was fascinated to hear more
and more stories from her lips. That led me to learn to read at an early age, at four years old. Then,

the fact of learning to write made me see that I could also write beautiful things. My mother still has
a poem that I wrote to her when I was six years old. Yes, I wanted to be a writer and create stories.
That was my dream since those days. I always stood out in the compositions in the elementary
years. In high school, I won a regional contest with an essay about a hero of the independence. I won
a prize in poetry at the age of 17. In my younger years, I created many pieces of poetry and short
stories. I also had novel projects. I knew that to be a consecrated writer it was almost necessary to
write novels. If by then I wanted to glimpse my future, I did not see anything about me other than
being a novelist.

page 29
 For one reason or another, my creative potential in adulthood was dedicated to my jobs, and my

work in creating fiction was not beyond a few youthful endeavors. Always (I confess), I tried to
justify myself either because of the lack of time or because I was tired, or because of this thing or
because of the other thing. Excuses. The truth, I must admit, a mea culpa, is that procrastination
invaded my dream of being a novelist like a malignant cancer.

Procrastination is very harmful. For me, it has been an enemy that I carry within me that becomes
that murderer demon not exorcised, that puts a brake on my most precious dream, that makes me
feel bad about myself. It does not let me be as happy as it should. And it pushes me always to say

"tomorrow." But I know very well that if I do not do something radical about it, tomorrow will never
come.
In short, this unfulfilled dream can be summarized as a chronic frustration that does not make
sense or is unhealthy to continue feeding. Enough is enough! This unfortunate situation of my life's
dream of being a novelist must change in a reinvention of myself. Not tomorrow, but right now.
Now!
My fervent desire must become a fact. It must be a feasible reality right now. I must overcome all
the procrastination and take that step forward to make the dream come true. Now, I hear the voice
of that first novel that screams from the underworld of non-created things telling me "do it now."
Yes, I will do so. I will draw a plan. I will write every day. I will put in all the effort that my dream
deserves. I will have my first manuscript soon. I will leave humiliation behind and the novel that
never was written will be born. I will be able to live the experience of nothing more gratifying than a
dream fulfilled.

page 30
 The Folktales Collector
By Cesar Musitani
A long, long time ago, in the Pampas of South America, on a day the South Atlantic wind blew

very strong, was born one who would later become a collector of folktales. His was a mania learned
very early from the lips of his mother and his grandmother, who told him a thousand and one stories
of Argentine gauchos, wild Indians, Italian and Spanish immigrants, all mixed with tales of the
Brothers Grimm, Andersen, and Perrault. The fear of being kidnapped by the Sack Man, a kind of
Argentine bogeyman, was perhaps the most influential factor in his instruction to always finish his
soup, never say bad words, and be a good boy. Over time, he began to collect folktales in the form of
an eternal love for literature, reading everything within reach.

Later, with visions of adventures, experiencing other places and new tales in his mind, the wind
took him north to Peru, the legendary cradle of the Incas. There, he was able to travel around the
country working as a journalist, advertising copywriter, and creator of tourist documentaries. Peru
was a fantastic place to continue collecting myths and folkloric stories, such as the birth of the Inca
culture in the highest lake in the world, the Titicaca, tales about the Amazon, about golden mythical

cities lost in the jungle, about the Andean peoples, about the mixture of blood and the syncretism of
the clash between the Hispanic and the Inca cultures.
The wind continued blowing and a third gust took him even farther, across the Equator to the
great country of the North. There he walked the same paths as natives of rich cultures and pioneers
who thrived in a land of opportunities, a paradise to continue collecting folktales of dreamcatchers,
gold fevers and Sasquatch. In this place, he now dedicates himself to telling stories to his children,
just as his mother and grandmother told him. He is an English-Spanish translator for a large school
system in Northern Virginia, and until the wind blows again, he is studying more and more
Literature here and there. He continues to accumulate more folkloric tales for his collection, for
when the wind blows again — everything is possible in the world in which we live — it will be time
for the folktale collector to become a writer, transforming his entire collection into an endless range
of new stories, as a small contribution to the world of literature and a way to thank the numerous
rich cultures and peoples that, over time, gave life to his life.

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 Nonfiction
"'Do not worry. You have always written
before and you will write now. All you have
to do is write one true sentence. Write the
truest sentence that you know.' So finally I
would write one true sentence, and then go on
from there.”
-Ernest Hemingway-

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 About mi Mamá and the Guy that Left for the War
By Cesar Musitani

I have not seen her for twenty years. Self-exile sometimes feels like a dagger stuck in my
memory. It kills some things slowly, but what never dies are all the images that I have of her. They
are memento slices that may be different from the current reality, but in my mind, they are alive

forever, and she is alive in each of them. Sometimes I would like to kiss her, but how can a memory
be kissed? I need her hug, it is true, but I tell myself that it does not matter because I have many
other treasures of sensations to relive and recreate that flood my soul with happiness. My mother is
always present in those sensations.
To think of mi mamá means to breathe again that fragrant breeze of jasmine in spring that
penetrated through my bedroom window and that it was the same as a motherly kiss of good
morning. The jasmines were something like the extension of my mother. They were her vegetal
children, the ones she helped by giving life and love along with the rain, the sun, and all nature. That
aroma was sometimes mixed with another coming from the kitchen. She was making a cake, de
caramelo y chocolate, my favorite one. The flavor of mamá's cake was unrepeatable as if she had the
magic recipe. I enjoyed it, savoring, and licking my lips and even the plate until it was "clean” to
avoid losing any crumb of that delight.
I also liked to caress her face, that was smooth like that of a niña, and then touch the roughness of
her hands, battered by washing clothes and doing household chores. So, I was heartened by
perceiving that contrast that fused everything that she meant: All her softness of love and all her
hard struggle to have a familia feliz.
Perhaps the most alive of these sensations is her voice. She, telling me "te amo hasta recontra
pasando el cielo," —that is, loving me beyond and beyond the sky and all the stars, with a love that is
insurmountable for any other human force. She narrated fantastic tales, singing soo that her voice,
from the distance of time, arrived with an angelic tone. I was captivated when she sang old
children's folk songs when it was bedtime. And I think I kept listening to those melodies and lyrics
in my best dreams. Even now.

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 “Mambrú se fue a la guerra” was the one I liked most of all. It is a Spanish version of one of the
most famous French children's songs, “Marlbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,” and dates to the times of

the War of the Spanish Succession in the early eighteenth century. The song was translated into

English as “Marlborough Has Left for the War” and as "Marlbrook, the Prince of Commanders." That
song made me sad because the protagonist had "gone to war," and it was a mystery when he would
return.
My mother sang to me: "Mambrú se fue a la guerra, no sé cuándo vendrá." Mambrú had gone to
war, and she did not know when he would return. The days went by, and he did not come home.
And my mother sang to me: "Vendrá para la Pascua o para Navidad.” She asked if Mambrú would
come for Easter, or maybe for Christmas. And there was that huge fear that he would not come

back, anymore.
Sometimes my mother sang, “Mambrú no vuelve más.” The bad news: He will never come home.
Mambrú would never return because he had died in the war, and there was a funeral, and three
birds sang while flying over his grave. But my mom, as she knew that made me sad, cheated and
changed the ending and so Mambrú came home finally, and everyone in town was overflowing with
joy. And me too.
I had decided to leave my native country, Argentina, when I was 21, just beginning to be a man. It
was a decision that conditioned my whole life. It was something like going to war, but it was not
more than my own personal war for being something in life and far from my hometown. Far from
mi mamá. But no matter how far I have gone, that did not stop me from keeping those feelings that
keep my mother always with me.
In the same way that everyone expected the return of Mambrú, I know that she is always waiting
for me. Maybe she whispers singing herself that her son went to his own war and wondering when
he will ever come home. At this very moment, I hear her singing that, and I answer from here that
perhaps at Easter, or perhaps he may come at Christmas... Will the destiny be the same as the song,
being a self-fulfilling prophecy, and the “soldier” may never come home? Or will the end of the story
be changed by cheating and making it a happy ending? Nobody knows.

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 I have not seen her for years now. It is true, but I try to imagine that it does not matter because it
is enough to close my eyes and have her close to me. That is how I see her, always radiant, with her

long hair floating in a breeze of jasmines. She is looking at me, behind those oval glasses that reflect

all her wisdom of mamá, telling me with her eyes that she will always love me and protect me, and
she approaches me, like a princess, like a fairy, as my personal goddess, and embraces me as only a
mother can do. And I hear her saying in my ear divinely, "te amo hasta recontra pasando el cielo,"
and I know that love is more than going to the moon and back, much more than beyond the stars,
much more than everything possible. And in the meantime, that is enough for me to be happy.

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 How I Won the Superbowl
By Becky Vandenberg

I like to think that I had something to do with the Green Bay Packers' success throughout the
2010-11 season. I am a fan of my home team but, at the time, was not a full-fledged Cheesehead. My
eldest son, Anthony, is the cheese-and-cracker-snacking, Packer-backing, stats-tracking die-hard

fan. He was across the planet in Afghanistan, on a combat tour for the United States Army. I made it
my mission to bring 'his' team to the Big Show, Superbowl XLV. I did not miss a game and cheered
louder and wilder than anyone. I draped myself in head-to-toe Packer-fan gear and bled green and
gold. It was a good season.
It was a great season! I watched the games at a little dive bar in Green Bay's old industrial area. I
worked there on and off for almost twenty years. All the patrons were friends and family; it was
home. It is where my son and his friends lined up behind the bar during my shift so I could tie their
ties for prom. The customers threw down tips for the boys, along with advice about girls and
drinking and condoms. It was common to have kids running around during Sunday football games.

For 'my' season, as Anthony-proxy, the Packers were fierce. Aaron Rogers was our new superstar
quarterback, and the team was stacked with talent. I quickly surrendered to the hype and
excitement of the NFL. I took on the role of super-fan, and my energy lifted the team to greater
greatness. The louder I cheered, the greater they played. So, I screamed with sporting battle cries,

stood on tables, high-fived everyone in my reach, and shot my arms up to signal each point. I drank
beer and tipped back shots of booze at every scoring play. I was in. I was a fan.
I kept my son updated on game highlights in case he missed them and passed a notebook around
the bar during every game. Everyone wrote and cheered their sport's team and their military team,
and my son. Every game day notebook brought pages of excitement and fun-filled love from home,
along with marshmallow treats of various cereal flavors and pictures of his baby girl. In one
package, as requested, was his Aaron Rogers jersey. He was going to watch the Superbowl and
needed some gear. I bought a jersey for myself (I had been wearing his), and we-- my son and I, and
the Packers-- were one team, united by a global cycle of intense, building energy. No distance could
hinder our bonds or our forward-moving forces. I felt like we were unstoppable.

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 We were going to the Superbowl! I made sure I was not on the bar's schedule for that event.

Preparations began a few weeks prior to the big game: food, gear, raffles, and deciding who would
tend the bar for the party. The ones who worked the party could count on a jam-packed tip jar. A
former fellow bartender, who moved away a couple of years prior, came back as a surprise guest
bartender. She wanted to be in Green Bay for this one. The whole town was gearing up and

planning.
February 6, 2011, finally arrived; it was game day! Green Bay was bubbling, anxious with
excitement. Everywhere, people decorated with green and gold painted fences and faces, babies
were dressed in Packers logoed onesies. Pets were adorned with festive team apparel. I painted the
'G' logo on my eyelids so that I could blink symbolically. I was draped in beaded necklaces of plastic
cheese wedges, gold beads, green beads, football beads, Green Bay Packers hat and jersey, a green
and gold feather boa, green and gold striped knee socks, and I rallied with the same color-
coordinated pom poms. I got to the bar early to help set up the food and tables and to ensure a good
seat at the bar. The air was thick and heavy with the scents of chili and onions, the sting of hot
wings, beer dip, and many fried things. The pool tables were topped with large boards draped in
plastic team-festive covers. Everyone brought their favorite recipes. From homemade chocolate
truffles to shrimp cocktails, the buffet grew to match the magnificence of the day.
We had party favors like that of New Year's Eve: hats and tiaras, horns and rattles, streamers, and
poppers. Bets were placed between the usual parties. I bet $100 on the Packers against my favorite
billiards rival. Raffles and prize cards were passed around every quarter. The bar's new owner went
big with the raffle prizes. He gave away televisions, rifles, grills, electronics, fire pits, and an
autographed football. I won the fire pit, a $30 bar tab, and a couple of other things that I fail to
recall. I do not remember who won the huge flatscreen tv or the football, only that I did not. None of
that mattered. I was there for my team. I was there for my son as the greatest by-proxy fan ever to
cheer their team to victory.
We were playing against the Pittsburgh Steelers. The two teams had the largest fanbases in the
NFL at that time, adding an extra layer of power to the game's atmosphere. The Packers brought the
'Frozen Tundra' to Dallas, Texas, in the days preceding the big game. The teams played with the

page 37
retracting roof of the Cowboys stadium closed due to winter weather. It was the 1st Superbowl
without cheerleaders' high kicks and short skirts. Former President George W. Bush, his lovely wife
Laura, and Condoleezza Rice attended. President Obama did not attend because Green Bay beat

Chicago, his favorite team, in the final division playoff game.

The game kicked off. The Packers were strong right out of the gate and put the first points on the
scoreboard. The first quarter brought 14 points against the Steelers' 0. The Steelers were the
'favorite' due to their 12-4 wins against our 10-6 (with a lucky wildcard NFC Division playoff win
against our rival team, the Chicago Bears) and their six previous Superbowl Championships. I felt,
nay, I knew that we were going to win. The game was intense. We had the Steelers by a 21-3 lead

heading toward half-time. Then, just under the wire, the Steelers scored a touchdown, hitting half-
time with 21-10. We were still ahead and have always been a second half come-back sort of team.
Green Bay showed real promise but was down three key players by half-time. Donald Driver and
Charles Woodson were out for the rest of the game. Sam Shields went down but came back to play.
The Steelers were minus Emanual Sanders, their wide receiver. The second half would be a different
show.
Half-time was rocked by The Black-eyed Peas and many guest artists. They put on an incredible
and powerful show, but the real highlights were yet to come. The stadium was electrified. The
energy in the bar was electrified. We cheered and groaned as a whole. We had our own roar, and it
felt great! These were my people, so many of whom I considered family. So many that knew my
station and proxied with me. Everyone, even those I did not know, wrote in the "Notebook from
Home." Everyone shared this great day with my son. In my mind, I heard him cheering; in my heart,
I felt his excitement, and throughout that game, I felt that he was there with me.
The Steelers took charge of the game coming into the second half. A touchdown tightened the
score 21-17. Balls were intercepted, quarterbacks were sacked, fumbles, both teams were fighting
hard for the win. The Packers added a touchdown in the fourth quarter. The Steelers came back with
a touchdown on a two-point conversion play. The score was 28-25. The Packers could not get past
the Steelers' defense but managed a field goal, bringing the score to 31-25. Pittsburgh had the ball
with 2:07 left in the game. My phone lit up. It was a video call from my son. We watched the Packers

page 38
block the Steelers. They passed the ball for two receptions but gained little ground, then,

incomplete, incomplete, and incomplete! The ball was back in the hands of Green Bay. The last
seconds ticked away. WE WON THE SUPERBOWL! The Lombardi Trophy was coming home.
I got to see the joy and victory on my son's face. He cheered and jumped around in his favorite
Packers jersey, somewhere in the deserts of Afghanistan. The bar went crazy; the whole town went

crazy. The best part of this celebration was hearing my son's voice among the many in the victorious
uproar. Emotion welled up inside of me, and I cried. I could not fight back any of that rich emotion,,
nor did I want to. I cried happiness, overwhelmed by the accelerated energy in the room. I cried

worry; I cried as a mother's heart breaks for her child. I cried for Green Bay. My son cried with me.
Our lives and that victory are forever intertwined in history and I am now an avid Packers fan.

page 39
 Rolling Through Life
By John McKenna

It was another Saturday night with the boys, tempting fate with both the speed and agility
brought on by a unique skill set that consisted of fearlessness, bravado, and of course, one up-ness.
All these feelings and emotions are inspired by the horror and embarrassment of crashing and

burning into the shiny hardwood of shame, a slipup that could very well steal away your manhood.
For a twelve-year-old boy, the results would not only be devastating to the ego but make Monday
morning quite humbling.
Skating was what we did most as kids, keeping us, as the parents would say, "out of trouble."
Although for me, it seemed the allure of a convenient babysitter was the more parental driver,
especially the times when I was saddled with my little brother. In any event, it was a chance to fit in
and build self-confidence and learn the very lessons of pre-teen life, possibly even preparing us for
the inescapable crossover to the deep dark unknown where that cool perception that those eight
wheels bought you can be stolen away in an instant.

Frank, Sasso, and Menture were my boys and my skater buddies in crime. Monday through
Friday, we wasted most of our educator's time talking about the previous Saturday night feats and

failures and agonized over whose parent was going to drive us to the rink next Saturday. This
anguish would breed throughout the week and turn into sheer panic by Friday. Although we all
knew Menture and Sasso's parents were not an option. As a matter of fact, we did not even know if
they really existed! Frank or I were always the ones to come through. Whether that meant our
parents loved us more or less, well, nobody can be sure.

The monthly all-night skate was a beast of its own. Defying the body's natural needs and wants to
show how cool you really must be, spinning the wheels while the weak-minded or physically inept
crashed on nearby benches, searching out comfort from their scrunched-up winter skins to comfort
them through the long, loud night.

page 40
 Skating was driven primarily by sound, a sound that would consume your soul and take total

control of your bodily movements, emotions, and feelings. Knowing the words to the hits was a
prerequisite for hitting the floor with confidence and fearlessness that would define your level of
coolness. The music dictated the speed at which you would ride and the moves you would exhibit..

"Le Freak" would lead to subtle toe stamping and side shuffling, showing that despite all your
manliness, you had some groove in your moves. It would essentially prepare you for the time of
night where the only light in the arena was the silver bullets sprayed across the glassy floor, shot
from the silver dance moon above as the sounds of "Stayin' Alive" made its long-awaited arrival,
transforming us all into our own version of a disco legend from Brooklyn. Mostly, this is the time we
would embarrass ourselves most as we pretend our coolness level is above the sounds of disco and
try to disguise our transformational glee!
Thank goodness for "My Sharona," which would transform us instantaneously into the men we
were. As the song built, so did our confidence, bringing out our inner speed demons where our
ability to move slowly was lost. With each lap, our long locks would flow straighter out of the backs
of our heads. Too cool indeed until the striped man whistled you to a sudden halt, and your fate was
that of a lonely rider on the penalty bench of shame, exiled from the world of cool.
You knew this was going to be your fate for defying the laws established by the historical society
of the Airport Plaza Skating Rink, namely, Fat Al, who would awkwardly stare down all the young
girls entering the arena and old Marge, the crank pot who would collect entry fees between long

drags of her badly needing-to-be-flicked Marlboro cigarette.

Suddenly, your boys were now your nemeses, subjecting you to torturous finger pointing,
exaggerated laughter, and by simply overplaying what you were missing out on while doing your
time, the rolling rhythm of "I Wanna Be Sedated." However, while Frank and Sasso were particularly
clever at this game, Menture was a total failure. As expected, all attention shifted to him as he fell on
his face while trying to mock me. When you are a 12-year-old that lacks spunk and looks like you are
going on 80, these things often happen. There's one in every group. Menture was the one who
always made us all feel better about ourselves.

page 41
 When the announcement blared over the loudspeaker to "line up," we knew it was time to display

another tool from our belts, the innate ability to squat, point, and roll under a stick held by two
hands given the authority to eliminate your very existence if you dare make even razor-thin contact.
Yes, it was time to "do the limbo rock, all around the limbo clock!" Certainly, it is a skill that looks
easier to do than it is, especially on wheels.

This is where Sasso shined, though. Despite his five-foot-high curly afro, he was able to shrink his
90-pound frame and short skinny legs to ironing board-like dimensions and roll his extra wide red
glowing wheels a foot underneath the bar that a conga line of kids would feel more confident

jumping. While clumsy in real life, the limbo is where Sasso showed off his unique deftness. "How
low can you go? You'll be a limbo star." Yeah, he oftentimes was.
Frank had neither Sasso's dexterity nor Menture's clumsiness. He also looked every bit of his
Italian heritage as I did my Irish, but we did share the same pimple pattern. The skill that Frank
displayed most was his gift of gab, from which we three benefitted. Frank would act as a conduit to
other acne-ridden boys and girls at the rink, breaking down those barriers and helping us through
the awkwardness of talking and skating with others outside of our mini group.
One day, this skill was especially helpful when the dreaded "clear the floor" announcement came
over the muffled loudspeaker. We knew what this meant. It meant it was time to seek a skate key to
tighten your already too tight wheels; it meant it was time to use the boy's room; it meant it was time
to visit the snack stand for a hot pretzel. It meant it was time to play some KISS pinball and it meant
it was time to freakin' hide! It was time for the dreaded couples’ skate.

Suddenly the boys weren't standing as tall or screaming as loud, or much in the joking mood. All
our hard work to build our images could come tumbling down really quick if we were branded as
losers in the female department, which, although we would never admit it, we certainly were. "No, I
refuse to go down like this, so will make myself seem uninterested and occupied by fake
distractions."
Then something truly magical happened. Frank somehow collectively tracked us down to
introduce us to his four new friends, which all happened to be of the female persuasion. Standing in
front of me was the most beautiful girl my 12-year-old eyes had ever seen. Short reddish-brown hair
and brown eyes were staring at me from behind red owl-shaped frames, and magnificently pearly

page 42
whites peaked out between sparkling silver supports.

Trying to act cool without puking can be hard, but I somehow managed and asked her if she
wanted to skate couples with me. Unfamiliar with what exactly to do after she said "yes!" I simply

reached out my sweaty hand and took hold of her clammy one, and we slowly circled the hardwood
while 'Love Will Keep Us Together" rained down upon us.
Now, 41 years later, that girl is my wife and my life. Last Saturday night, we took to the hardwood
once again. The boys, the pimples, and the fears of growing up are gone now, replaced by friends,
wrinkles, and a wee bit more confidence. When the room dimmed and couples skate was

announced over the loudspeaker, my warm and her soft hand bonded once again, and we slowly
circled the hardwood, continuing our roll through life together.

page 43
Featured Faculty
"Education is not the filling of a pot but
the lighting of a fire."
-W.B. Yeats-

page 44
 Hello Lucy
By Jackie Fowler
I fall asleep to a chorus of howling dogs and the beat-beat-beat of the music from a not-so-distant
disco, the cool breezes of an Ethiopian night blow through my hotel window. It is a Friday night, a
few days before my first Christmas day as an orphan. When I awake, the cool blue of the ancient
Abyssinian skies heralds the destiny I will complete. On December 23, 2017. Or, at least, that is the
date at home.
Time is different-behaving in Ethiopia. It is 2010 here, something my 2017 self cannot begin to
explain. New Year’s Day is celebrated in September, not in January, and while my cell phone

registers the time as 7:00 AM, the Ethiopian clocks say 1:00 PM. In a reasonably practical
understanding of how day and night works, Ethiopians start their clocks at dawn: 1:00 PM. Twelve
hours later, when people are just beginning to wind down from their days, Ethiopians note the
beginning of night as 1:00 AM. It is, I admit, awfully confusing, but since I am only a visitor to this
ancient kingdom, I will be the one to bend to the fluidity of their time.
Before I left for Addis Ababa, my sister and I texted each other.
Me: Going on Friday.
Sister: Ethiopia isn’t my idea of a fun vacation.
Me: Africa is beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful.
Sister: Better you than me.
Why Ethiopia? my sister wants to know. To fulfill a promise I made long ago. Someone has been
waiting for me for a very long time. The compulsion to go comes from deep in my past, from the
stories I read as a child. With him. His taste was for the exotic—3 million-year-old fossils, an
immense Buddha carved into the face of mountains, ancient ruins found under the sea, the vestiges
of past civilizations, lions and zebra, elephants and giraffes; these are the things that captured his
attention and, through him, mine as well. And so, as an adult, I have been on a mission to touch
those things we read about—if only with my eyes—as a testament to him. Because he could not.

On my first full day in Addis Ababa, I pay a visit to the woman I came to see. I stand in front of
her, a tiny incomplete skeleton in a glass box, millennia removed from the friends and family she
must have known.

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 “Hello Lucy,” I say.

She has traveled 3.2 million years to me; I have traveled a little more than 7000 miles and 40 years
to her. Around us are other links to our collective past, including Australopithecus man. These relics
are not new to me; I have seen them all before—these ancient ancestors—in the pages of magazines.
While I stand in the National Museum of Ethiopia, I am transported to the kitchen of my
childhood home. At the round wooden pedestal table, my father has just received his most recent
copy of Time Magazine, one of the few luxuries he allows himself. On the cover is Richard Leakey, the

famous archaeologist; inside is a story of ancient life come to life in recent finds. Together with
National Geographic, Time opens our little world of Delano, Pennsylvania, to the world beyond,
something my father craves. A craving he passes on to me.
“Listen to this,” my father orders as he reads the cover story to my mother and me. “To see things
like this,” he marvels, pointing to the model of Australopithecus man on the cover.
“Go to Africa,” I tease him. “See for yourself.”
“Africa?” my mom echoes with incredulity.
“Not me,” my dad shakes his head. “Too late. You go for me, huh?”

“Okay,” the eleven-year-old me promises.

Forty years later, I have come to fulfill that promise in a dimly lit basement of the National
Museum of Ethiopia. All around me is evidence of an ancient past. All around me are the real objects
of the stories my father and I read together. From Time Magazine and National Geographic.
Because time is so fluid here in Ethiopia, I am not constrained by the international date or time of
day. If it can be 2010 in 2017, it might as well be 1977. So, I become a fifty-one-year-old woman who
sees everything through the eyes of an eleven-year-old child. My dad stands with me in front of
Lucy, sporting the wavy black hair and gray-blue eyes he had in my youth. My beautiful mother
arrives, too, placing her hand in my hair, stroking it as she did when I was a child.
In Ethiopian time, I am whole again with them beside me; I will not navigate this Christmas
alone. A reprieve, I think. Here. In Ethiopia. This is why I have come, I say to myself, wondering if I
can explain it to my sister.
“Lucy,” I whisper; “my dad says hello.”

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Night Watch
by Penny Freeland

I am an expert at mosquitoes—
not like the ranger girl who studies
and tests them on the border
of this wilderness for such ominous infections
as West Nile and encephalitis.

Not me.
Legs apart, solid in my tent,
considering females and ignoring males,
I swat and swing, smearing blood (my blood)
across the gray/blue dome,
ringed by the small flashlight,
under invisible storm clouds,
beneath indiscernible stars.

I scan the ceiling with the light beam

crossing back and forth like
the search light in a war zone—
a siren goes off in my head.

Later, after some hours of lantern reading

and like any murderous queen,
I sleep among dead bodies
smug, matriarchal.

page 47
 The Nest
By Batya Weinbaum
The Mouse Speaks:
I was busily minding my own business building my nest. It’s a lot of work to build a nest,

especially when pregnant, with snakes in the brush and one even shedding in the camper where I
had been nesting in a drawer. I exited when the snake slithered in, and entered a cabin, one of these
new-fangled ones, thinking he would not follow me. I hauled paper, leaves, and twig bark up to the
top of a giant box 25 times taller than me. When she got home, or back here, I don’t even know why
she calls it home, she is hardly ever here -- she referred to my rooftop penthouse as “on top of a
sauna.” All I know is that she did not appreciate what I had done. She referred to my tall box with a
fancy roof, in this cabin where this big fat snake is not likely to find me or the wasps, as something
she owned. So, there I was: hauling, carrying, fluffing what I put together, and BOOM! Two hairy,
giant goons she had hired destroyed my nest and threw it off the porch in one fell swoop. There went

my home.

The Wasps Speak:

Bzzt, sbszrbzbzzzzzzzzz bzzzzzzzz where is our bzzzzzhommmme? Bzz? Here we were out in the wide
wilds alone and bzzzzz we had built a nice compact home by a window, indoors, in a cabin where
the mouse had built a nest to have her babies. Ours was for our queen. Now bzzt it's gone bzzzzz. We
had built a nice new home in the camper, inside the door before the snake moved in. She destroyed
that one with all kinds of poison and then came and threw it away, dressed up in a black jacket and
covered with black plastic bags like she was afraid we would sting her after what she did to us. Then
we built another nest in the tool shed. She sprayed that one too. So, then we built two on the porch

and bzzaaat she sprayed those with poison and peppermint spray. Then all these psychic messages
started coming through… PLEASE WASP KINGDOM YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO EXIST TOO BUT AWAY
FROM ME AS I LIVE HERE TOO… so we abandoned those two nests on the porch where she does her
dishes, and we were all excited about the new ranch house we had built on the roof on the side of her
porch. Then she poisoned that one too! So, ZAP! When she tried to move bricks to the firepit she was
building, we zapped her -- we didn’t sting her, but we sent one of us to fly near and bzzz to send her
a message… This was our place too.

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 The Snake Speaks:
Slither, slither, slither, said the long snake… think I will eat a mouse on the steps, leave gray fur, and

then come right up these steps to the camper. Looks like a great place to shed up in the higher
cabinets. She is never here at night when it is dark. I can live behind the drawers in the cabinets… I
will be fine here, going over to defecate on the bed… ‘til she notices I am living here all the time.
Which she finally just did. Now she is too afraid to come in here and leaves the lights on all the time
and goes running out screaming when I slither over her hand whenever she puts it in a drawer
searching for the range lighter. Well, it is gone. I ate it. Or I moved it. I am staying here and aim to
terrify her for good.

The Wasps Speak Again:

Okay, listen up! Alert, alert, alert! There she is standing on the porch, shouting, and waving her
hands trying to kill us... Oh no Wally! Wally, come here quick so the wasps don't sting us… Wait! That's not a
war cry, she's talking to her dog! But soon we hope she is going to discover we are hornets, and that we
eat insects. Swoop! Swipe! Swoop, nose-dive into her kerchief, and get matted up in her hair. She
DOES NOT appreciate that we eat up all the insects we can to balance the ecosystem in this land,
and OUR LIVES MATTER, DEFUND INSECTICIDES! Watch out! Here she comes with a spray paint
can! STING HER RIGHT WHERE IT HURTS A WRITER MOST: in her writing - ZAP - hand!
STING!!!!@#+&#!

And the Snake Ever So Calmly Observing:

Ahhh, said the snake, it's so much fun to be me… I've really established my territory. The plumber
won't come back to help her. The handyman who built steps out of railway ties won't either. Private
exterminator companies won't come because she has no legitimate street address and besides, I am
in a structure up on wheels. Gotcha! I mean, pardon that postmodern moment, I got her! at least
until she drives an hour and goes into Lowe's tomorrow to pick up those ‘Snake Away’ crystals.
Meanwhile, I get to lay back and watch all the fun: her stomping around in her pink “Ruth Bader
Ginsberg” sweatshirt with the hoodie all pulled up over her head and the mask tightly drawn, and
the poison spray-can is gripped in one hand in case the wasps attack her. The hornets sound the
alarm every time she approaches the cabin, HERE SHE COMES AGAIN, DANGER!

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 Oh yes, I overheard her say on the phone, I am going back to my house in Ohio if I get the job with

you, where it's less work to take care of my basic needs, and I can turn on the tap and have running
water, throw my clothes in a washing machine…
She didn't mention the wildlife had run her out of her own refuge. Oh yes, she has a sign on the
side of the road, “National Wildlife Refuge,” but what a hypocrite she is. She only likes, no, loves, the

dawns and the butterflies and birds and fireflies and wild blackberries and black-eyed Susans and
great tall trees but not the rest of us. So that's why we teamed up to give her the run for her life!
Well, no peace with no justice, that's what we out here in nature will all be chanting vociferously and
laughing as she packs up and drives herself and that little dog of hers, a traitor to the true wilds of
nature if we ever saw one, away! Maybe she will catch the virus and die and never come back,
anyway. We are like the herds of goats running through the upstate NY towns eating people's
shrubberies, the polar bears moving down into cities from melting ice caps, the deer families
wandering in suburban streets. Where is our refuge? When do humans decide they want a place to
go? We are taking the wild back now that their civilization is on slow. We will be the ones calling the
shots, setting you all in motion. Yes. Flee! Go!!

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El Fin.

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