"The Fall" by Brooke Sudderth

We are one. The rhythmic pounding of the horse’s hooves beneath me hastens as a gust of crisp September air fills both him and I with renewed energy. Strands of long white hair intertwine with my fingers as the wind flows through my horse’s mane. My hair mirrors his, windswept, as it streams out behind me with the force of his gallop.

Every movement is pronounced. Beneath me, the horse feels like a coiled spring. The electric force of his energy buzzes through me. I feel him slowly pulling against the bit, the reins going taut in my hands. Through the reins, I feel his every motion. Every step grows faster. The sky is a flowing blue sheet arcing above us, its stoic clouds racing past as though it is they, not us, that are in motion.

Ahead, the fence stands three feet tall, striped blue and red poles like sticks of candy. We can both taste it. The horse’s chiseled yellow ears snap in the direction of the jump. With gentle, steady pressure against his mouth I pull him to a stop. He weaves back and forth in a serpentine twist, tossing his head in defiance. A sudden motion over the hill draws an inquisitive flick of his left ear, and I follow with a glance. Four figures are striding towards us – my little mother and my father in his plaid shirt, followed by their two friends. They’ll be angry with me– I’m not supposed to be riding bareback.

A smile plays at the corners of my mouth. The horse snorts as I wheel him around, trotting several paces away from the fence. My mother shouts something, but I ignore the vague sound of her voice. The world seems to fold in around me, forming a tunnel leading to the fence. I gather the reins. Tuned in to my motions, the horse bends his neck, touching his chin to his chest in anticipation. I clench my calves around his sides, and he bursts into a gallop.

My veins grow hot as adrenaline pulses through me. The reins slide through my fingers as I give him freedom to run, and he takes it. I can hear nothing but the wind resonating in my ears as we run. The jump grows closer and closer and closer. He speeds up. Faster, I urge. I grip his mane. The coiled spring looses, and he hurls over the fence. His back arches. I am leaning over his neck, his mane and the wind in my face. This instant stretches out, and for a moment we feel like we are flying.

His front hooves strike the ground. The impact is jarring. I feel my teeth click together. Our pace is dizzying. Frantically I gather the reins, but it’s no good, I’ve let them fall too loose. The horse charges towards a steep hill, and for a panicked moment I think he’s going to jump off it. In the distance, my mother screams something. I can’t make it out. All I can see is the slope. My heartbeat is erratic. Then, the horse swerves left. I slide sideways on his bare back, clenching the reins with white knuckles. For one futile moment I struggle. Legs twisted on his back, arms around his neck, reins flapping in the wind.

And for a moment, I really am flying.

My head cracks against the ground. Pain lances through my back. The word is swirling white, and voices sparkle in the distance. The horse’s big muzzle sniffs at me intrusively. His huge black eyes search mine innocently. I sigh. Now, we are two.

"Seven Cubicles" by Anahita Kalianivala

I was born in Ohio. I like to flaunt it when the Buckeyes are winning. I don’t want to make excuses when they’re not. Columbus, Dayton, Akron. These are all cities people always ask about when they find out, but my pride washes away when I break the news: I only lived in Cincinnati for one year. They smile, turn their heads, and think to themselves “She’s not from Ohio.”

* * *

Whenever Dad is home before me, I know. I know because his car is in the driveway before 5:32pm. I know because he’s still in bed at half past eight. I know because the classifieds from six days ago have been dug up and are sprawled across the kitchen table open to “Employment.” Once, noticing the car wasn’t even relevant; he had a full day of work. But the boom-box sitting in the entryway against the cherry wood cabinet gave it away. There’s no reason to bring your belongings home from your office cubicle unless you were to go back tomorrow and find the cubicle is no longer yours.

He’s lost seven over my lifetime.

* * *

Blaming it on the economy makes sense but the Bush administration is a bigger enemy than I can muster the strength to fight. Every boss he’s had has been a friend or said “I really don’t want to do this to you.” But they did. I can’t fight people with two faces. Who else is there to blame? Being laid-off isn’t the employee’s fault. Do I run after the contractors who pulled out of jobs? The corporations who bought land but didn’t build on it? Where would my energy best be spent?

My dad has had a new job since March. For the first time that I can remember, he’s actually happy, not just going through the motions. And with his office just one block away from my mom’s school, they caravan to work everyday, side by side—leaving early enough for her and late enough for him. The running joke of the family is that my mom’s forgotten how to drive with all that exercise she gives to the passenger seat. Every so often they drive separately if Mom has a conference at another school or has to be a chaperone for the 8th grade dance.

* * *

I called my mom Tuesday afternoon to take a break from my studying. We exchanged “How was your day?”-s and our respective answers. She mentioned I should call my dad because the mechanic had news about my car in the shop. She was getting antsy on the phone and then explained it was because she was driving—straining her neck to hold the phone without hands.
“Why are you driving?” I asked, knowing I hadn’t forgotten a special activity for the day.
“I’ll explain later. My neck is really hurting right now.”

* * *

My dad answered the phone short of breath that didn’t seem to be recovering. “Hu-hu-hello?” he said.
“Dad? Dad?! Are you okay? What are you doing? Where are you?” In between all my questions were small moments of silence in which I supposed he was trying to muster the strength to answer. Now I know he wanted to decide which question to use to break the news.
“I’m on the-the treadmill. Let me. Call you. Back,” he puffed into the receiver.
“You’re at home? Okay. Geez, Dad, you scared the shit out of me.” I whispered to keep my voice down in the bookstore.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“Yeah. Okay. Call me later.”

* * *

“What the hell is going on?”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“What. is. going. on?”
“Anu, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re driving. Dad’s at home. What’s going on?”
Why I asked, I have no idea. I knew.

She asked me later how I knew. I asked her why she didn’t tell me sooner.

I said I called Dad to ask about my car like she told me to. She said she didn’t want me to have to deal with it on my own.

* * *

Where are you from?

…Cincinnati, Ohio.
…Ocean City, Maryland.
…Memphis, Tennessee.
…Fort Worth, Texas.

"How Art Impresses People" by Kurt Hare

As I wander through the exhibit of French Impressionist Paintings, I not only look at the artwork, but I also am interested in the people around me. People from all walks of life are engrossed in the paintings – young, old, middle class, students, artistic types, etc. Most are transfixed by the paintings, but there are a few young children that seem restless. I wonder if anyone else is feeling any of the same emotions that I feel as I gaze at these spectacular works of art. Do they visualize the same things I do? Do they feel the sense of awe at seeing these masterpieces?

The people around me stare intently at the Impressionist artwork. They seem impressed by the daubs of red, green, blue and yellow that dominates the work of Manet, Cezanne, Degas, Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh. Some of them hold audio headsets up around their ears like cell phones. Others just look at the descriptions off to the side. Whether they have an audio headset or not, the viewers spend no more than three minutes viewing each painting on the walls. I go along with everybody else from painting to painting without an audio headset around my ear. Sometimes I’m an interloper in their midst; listening to the comments they make about these great works of art.

Van Gogh’s Chambre d’Arles captures the attention of many of the audience. They seem captivated by the simplicity of the room - the bright colors and the intensity of emotion that the painting inspires. His use of vivid colors and simple lines light up the room. The bed almost jumps out of the painting at the viewer because it seems to dominate the painting.

The one that interests me the most is Monet’s Le jardin de l’artiste a Giverny. I am impressed by the way Monet dabbed the purple flowers on the canvas and surrounded them with bright hues of red, white and pink of the other flora. Also, the way he painted a dirt trail straight down the middle under a forest of trees with green, red, and orange foliage is sublime. This path seems to lead an unknown two-story house. Whose house is it? (Later I find out it was Monet’s house.)

After an hour of being immersed in the world of the Impressionists, I begin to become weary - I am overwhelmed by the beauty of all of the paintings. I will have to return again to view these wonderful pieces that have captivated my imagination.

"Bolivar" by Laura Collier

We grew up there. At least until we were eight. We were a block away from the water. I can feel the seagrass on my skin even now. There was the board in the front corner of the bedroom that Mom and her brothers measured each other with each year. The photo of our great-grandfather pulling a fish out of the water hung on the wall next to the more current photos of the red snapper catch they had in ’85. The green oven that looked plastic next to the sink we used to be bathed in. We had a black and white T.V. with rabbit ears that never really worked. We’d watch for fifteen minutes and race outside when we heard the fireworks, maybe one would catch the neighbors thatch roof on fire again. Mom would chase us out the door with a can of Off and aerosol us down. The sound of the ice cream truck- I always picked the Tweety Bird Popsicle, yellow cream with blue bubblegum eyes. The men would go out in the evening and come back in the early morning with the mythical flounder catch. The flat grey body and beady eyes always looked stale if I happened to see a carcass or two the next day. I never went when I was asked.

We played under the house, chasing each other around the poles that held the house above the sand. We were soup-makers, using sandy mud, shells and twigs and occasional hermit crab, grasping up with its wiry claws, reaching out for dear life. Mom would make us rinse off our sandy feet and bottoms before we came into the house. It was dark sand, thick and sticky. We’d trek up to the Fort to dodge poison ivy and make up stories about the past and the hurricanes and the myths. Sitting on the top we could see the lighthouse- the faded white paint chipping off with each salty breeze. I stubbed my toe the last time I was there as a child. It bruised for months.

---

I went back during the summer a few years ago. We rode the ferry back and forth at night. I used to always guess the color we’d get. My favorite was red. The house was different, new appliances, new carpet and a color T.V. I went floundering that night, for the first time- a sense of nostalgia, a sense of finality. I didn’t get one, but I saw the glistening colors under the surface by the lantern light, gold and green in the murky mud. I woke up the next morning and drove back on the yellow ferry.

---

They went down to board the house up and took a picture to remember it by. I watched the storm come in on the news. I felt the surge and the waves that night and I knew that it was gone. The only pieces remaining were the stubs of telephone poles peeking out of the standing water on sand that will eventually be condemned.We grew up there. At least until we were eight. We were a block away from the water. I can feel the seagrass on my skin even now. There was the board in the front corner of the bedroom that Mom and her brothers measured each other with each year. The photo of our great-grandfather pulling a fish out of the water hung on the wall next to the more current photos of the red snapper catch they had in ’85. The green oven that looked plastic next to the sink we used to be bathed in. We had a black and white T.V. with rabbit ears that never really worked. We’d watch for fifteen minutes and race outside when we heard the fireworks, maybe one would catch the neighbors thatch roof on fire again. Mom would chase us out the door with a can of Off and aerosol us down. The sound of the ice cream truck- I always picked the Tweety Bird Popsicle, yellow cream with blue bubblegum eyes. The men would go out in the evening and come back in the early morning with the mythical flounder catch. The flat grey body and beady eyes always looked stale if I happened to see a carcass or two the next day. I never went when I was asked. We played under the house, chasing each other around the poles that held the house above the sand. We were soup-makers, using sandy mud, shells and twigs and occasional hermit crab, grasping up with its wiry claws, reaching out for dear life. Mom would make us rinse off our sandy feet and bottoms before we came into the house. It was dark sand, thick and sticky. We’d trek up to the Fort to dodge poison ivy and make up stories about the past and the hurricanes and the myths. Sitting on the top we could see the lighthouse- the faded white paint chipping off with each salty breeze. I stubbed my toe the last time I was there as a child. It bruised for months.

---

I went back during the summer a few years ago. We rode the ferry back and forth at night. I used to always guess the color we’d get. My favorite was red. The house was different, new appliances, new carpet and a color T.V. I went floundering that night, for the first time- a sense of nostalgia, a sense of finality. I didn’t get one, but I saw the glistening colors under the surface by the lantern light, gold and green in the murky mud. I woke up the next morning and drove back on the yellow ferry.

---

They went down to board the house up and took a picture to remember it by. I watched the storm come in on the news. I felt the surge and the waves that night and I knew that it was gone. The only pieces remaining were the stubs of telephone poles peeking out of the standing water on sand that will eventually be condemned.

"Three Days of New Orleans" by Brooke Sudderth

Day 1: Gas Station

The gas station next to the Mont Leon is empty as my aunt and I walk to the counter with glass Coke bottles in hand. Street lights filter through the glass doors from outside, yet the city seems louder at night than in day. Sounds of loud conversation from the streets weave into the background as my aunt and I set our Cokes on the counter. Aunt Mel takes out her wallet. The girl behind the counter barely seems to notice us. She smacks her gum and scratches her head with long fake fingernails. A sudden sound from the interior makes her lift her head. My gaze follows. I see a teenage boy – he looks about my age – sprinting for the door. His pockets look lumpy. The girl screams a string of curses. A dull thud sounds as she shoulders past Aunt Mel, smacking bodily into her. Her footsteps tap on the cheap linoleum floor as she lunges for the boy. He darts out the door, she chases him. Alone, Aunt Mel and I leave our Cokes on the counter, enfolded in the ceaseless sounds of the night.

Day 2: Bourbon

Bourbon street is a riot of neon color. People cluster beneath balconies, hands outstretched in hope to catch falling Mardi Gras beads. MeMaw points to the right, to two tall, statuesque women in six inch heels. “Brooke, would you believe those are men?” she laughs in her Creole accent. She promises to take me to hear them sing when I turn eighteen. A man slumps against a decrepit brick wall, drinking from a beer bottle three feet tall. Beside him, a huge smirking face forms the entrance to a building. The face sneers at me, holding a cigar crookedly in his mouth. A group of young men stumble in the door, laughing. Someone taps my aunt on the shoulder. She whirls to find a gaunt man, holding his hands out, eyes round and hopeful. My mother clenches my arm. Laughing, Aunt Mel hands him a to-go container of leftover spaghetti. His eyes light up. I wonder why my friends’ mothers won’t let them come here.

Day 3: Tour

Daylight washes the French Quarter in a disguise of cleanliness and wealth as we roll over the ancient streets, peering out from inside the carriage. The driver points at landmarks and explains their significance in his Creole accent. I wonder if people who aren’t Cajun can understand him. The horse plods past an ornate balcony, rimmed with a wrought-iron fence embellished with black fleur-de-lis. Lenny Kravitz lives here, the tour guide says. I smile and say nothing. Aunt Mel points to something on the other side of the road, and we all turn to look. Policemen form a semicircle around a figure lying on the ground. I stare. The figure doesn’t move. “He’s dead,” I head one of the officers say. My mother and aunt look on for a moment longer, then resume surveying the buildings. As though nothing happened. The tour guide urges the horse forward and begins to tell us about the Voodoo Queen.

"Touch" by Anahita Kalianivala

Thin straggly curls. Left over after the whole thing had been picked. Pulled. Teased. Sprayed apart. 360 degrees of mocha frizz. Now only remnants. Of her conditioned. Moussed. Defrizzed hair.
Extending out like a halo, the afro puts a smile on her face and all those around her.

Few things worth feeling. One. Overcoming their initial shock and surprise. Two. Reveling together in sheer delight. Three. Acknowledging their extended arms asking to touch.
Not four: self-consciousness.

It all started on a relaxed evening at home as she brushed her fingers through her hair, idly preparing for bed. Twirling the loose coils at her temples. Pulling the tight springs at the nape of her neck. Then, in rebellion to the natural pattern, she shoved all five fingers into her bangs. She wriggled at the roots. She pulled forcefully forward. A glance in the mirror showed her a chunk of hair extending straight out from her forehead. While the other curls waited to be pulled out of line.

The same disequilibrium occurred naturally after a good night's rest. If she slept on her back, she woke up to a cool neck. And five extra inches of height. Hair flat at the back and vertical at the top. If she tossed and turned, she woke up Flavor of the Week. Hair parted at the ears like an ice cream cone. No matter the slumber, every morning her curls were called upwards to heaven, but lost the battle to gravity. Physical evidence of an immortal fight.

Only teeth of professional separation could help control the chaos. Usually a curly girl's worst nightmare, she held the wand between her fingers. Bristles peeled curls apart, loosening bonds of hair. Slowly they transformed from composed swirls to exploding sparks. Ignoring every request to abstain, pushing outward from the bubble: the daily life of restrain.

Few curls stayed. Intact. Product wound tightly. These. Kept her back. Kept her grounded. Bound to the former state of affairs. Shiny. Still. Tamed. Intangible. No one would touch. But worry. One moved strand. And the style is askew.
She only knew to how to obey: keep people away; maintain the dignity of perfect curls.

But the five inch radius...
The black glow. Encircling her face. Brave. Incandescent. Intrepid. Tangible. Made bets for neatness. Off. Made shooing away of fingers. Welcomed.
…She could be touched.

"Solitude" by Kurt Hare

Running

Running clears my head and I often brainstorm about the next story I’m planning to write for my creative writing class. Thoughts bombard me and sometimes I can’t wait to get home to write them down. Lately I’ve been reflecting on how I’m going to write a story about my grandfather’s aunts and uncles who lived in Texas before World War I. I think that it will make an interesting narrative - they went through so much.

I enjoy stretching my limbs across eight miles, loping like a gazelle down on the leaf strewn trail. Sometimes it seems that I experience a sense of weightlessness as I run. I embrace the elements, even when it’s cold and wet. I tough it out and keep running. Sometimes, I run for pure pleasure or at other times it’s just a way to forget about the stresses of the week.

Relaxing

When I have a spare hour, I soak up sun rays sitting in a deck chair. I’m reading sports, humor, or mysteries – enjoying King, Christie, or Amis. If I don’t want to expand my mind with literature, I absorb the music of Aerosmith, Pink Floyd, or U2. Electronic Yahtzee or Solitaire are always fun when I have an hour to spare. If I’m in the mood and the weather is rather nasty, I curl up in a wing chair and immerse myself in the comedy movies of Jim Carey, Leslie Nielsen, or Bill Murray. Their slap stick comedies are so uproariously funny that I once I almost slipped out of my chair.

Reality

I spend many hours studying or writing in a tiny room surrounded by literature, medical texts, and scientific journals. On the evenings when I burn the midnight oil, I have to remind myself why I spend so many hours in solitude. Whether I am running, relaxing, or studying, I am a slave to solitude.