magnolia manuscripts

Welcome to Magnolia Manuscripts

2008-01-29T16:44:00.001-05:00

magnolia manuscripts is a creative writing blog powered by students and faculty of Pellissippi State Technical Community College. This blog is intended to give students an uncensored voice and an outlet for creative expression. Not everyone who reads our blog will like what is written in each post, but simply put, magnolia manuscripts is what it tis. Please leave a comment and let us know what you think. If you would like to submit some of your own works, please email s_acbeattie@pstcc.edu.
Thanks.

Poems by Amanda Downs

2007-08-28T16:03:00.000-05:00

Theme: Children and Parenting

DAUGHTER
I smile inside
When I think of her
Her eyes are the sunshine in my heart

VIRTUOUS
When I was young
She was perfect
Now that I am older
She is no longer flawless
Should I judge?
Yes and no
My children will judge me
I hope they will prove me blessed

MY PSALM
Oh Lord my soul cries out to you
You have saved them in days of old and days of new
Save now me in my time

Lord only you can create light and dark
And separate the two
Separate me from my darkness

You alone are Holy
Rescue me
Revive me
Resurrect me

KENNEDY
Thank you
Her words were honey
The sparkles in her eyes were fireworks
Her hands were not eager
I watched her with admiration
She was genuine
Her innocence pure
My love for her makes me better

Fall Semester

2007-08-27T23:03:00.000-05:00

Fall classes have started once again at PSTCC. All student writers are welcome to submit their work.
Have a wonderful fall semester

summer school

2007-05-28T22:58:00.002-05:00

Hello everyone. I hope everybody is having a great summer. If there are any PSTCC students who would like to post anything to this blog, please send any contributions to s_msjohnson@pstcc.edu
poems, plays, random thoughts, essays, short stories, whatever...
And no, I guess school isn't really out for summer, much less forever. Classes begin today for summer school. Good luck to all involved in that!

An African Tragedy Part II By Chuck

2007-04-17T11:22:00.000-05:00

“Charles, this is Awa, I just came back from The Gambia.”
My heart started racing with excitement, because I just knew that Awa had news for me about her cousin, the one woman in the world that I loved more than life.
“Did you see Fatima?”
“Charles, she’s,” Awa paused for what seemed like an eternity, let out a sigh and said, “Fatima is dead.”
“Dead?” My voice was choking, my eyes filling with tears. I could barely breathe, and the one woman who loved me as much as I loved her was dead.
“What do you mean dead?”
“Charles, you knew she was sick, you knew she would probably never recover from this disease!” Awa’s voice was cracking; the strain of telling me about her beloved cousin was starting to take its toll on her too. Than in a cold voice Awa said, “Safilie is also dead; he died two weeks before Fatima did.”
“I don’t give a damn about her ex-husband. His infidelity is the cause of this; If not for these stupid ancient customs, her husband would not have been able to infect her with HIV. I hope his ass burns in hell.”
My eyes were now blurry, tears streaming down my face, suddenly I exploded and threw the telephone down, and without even thinking, I picked up the lamp that was at my side and threw it against the wall.
“Oh God, why, why Fatima, Lord?” Furniture was flying all through the house; I was in such a state of shock and anger that I did not realize what I was doing. Than as if a switch had clicked in my mind, a sudden sense of calm overcame me. I was looking in the mirror with a chair raised over my head, but my eyes were looking at the picture, the only picture Fatima and I ever took together. It was than I could also hear Awa’s voice screaming through the telephone.
“Charles, Charles, stop talk to me, please.”
“I’m here”, I replied as I held the picture close to my heart.
“I know you two loved each other, and because of the way things were when you met, you could not marry, but. . . “
“Awa, I will call you later,” I retorted as I hung up the receiver.
I was clutching the picture to my body as if I was hugging Fatima, trying not to let her go. I laid on my sofa, tears streaming down my face. I started to think and remember that day that would change my life forever, the day that would bring me so much happiness and at the same time so much sadness and grief. The day I met Fatima.
My daily routine, without fail was to stop at College Store, a local convenience store run by the students of Tennessee College. The school was one of the oldest Historically Black Colleges still in existence, and as part of the students training and work-study program, they worked in the store a few hours a week. Entering the store, I stopped, my heart was pounding, and there behind the counter was the most beautiful African woman I had ever seen before in my life. No, she would never win a beauty contest by any means. She was not beautiful in the way most men would judge her; but her smooth milky chocolate skin, the smile on her face with the pearly white teeth, made her the most beautiful woman in the world to me. As if on cue, she looked up at me and the sun seemed to shine brightly on her face giving her a radiant beauty that astounded me.
“May I help you sir?” I was at a lost for words. “Sir, may I help you with something?”
“No, I mean yes, one coffee, uh, yes, one coffee, light and sweet please.”
In all my days living up north, I was never at a lost for words when it came to the women. I mean this woman had me tongue-tied. I took a deep breath; I was trying to gain my composure.
“Excuse me, my name is Charles. Do you have a husband?”
“No I don’t, I am divorced.”
“I know you must have a boyfriend?”
“No, who wants a divorced African student like me?”
“I do, and if you will have me, I will be your boyfriend.”
My composure was returning. My days of being a ladies man although in the past, I never forgot how to play the game, the game of “macking” women. However, this was not a game, about me trying to conquer a new woman, this was, and I do not know this was something different, very different.
“I don’t even know you.” She replied softly with the most beautiful accent I had ever heard in my life.
“I want to get to know you; can I please have your telephone number?” In fact here is my number.”
“Ok, let me write it down.”
“Great!” I said with a big smile on my face. “What time can I call you?”
“I will be back in my dorm room about 7:30 tonight.”
“Ok, I will call you say at 7:45 tonight. This way it will give you a chance to settle down some. I can’t wait till I talk to you.”
“Okay, I will talk to you. Now that will be $1.75 please!”
“$1.75 to call you?”
“No, $1.75 for your coffee and newspaper!” We both smiled and started laughing as I left her the money and was walking towards the door.
“Wait a minute, I almost forgot. My name is Charles, what’s your name?”
“Fatima, Fatima Dalilah.”
We talked on the telephone for hours. Everyday we grew closer together; it was as if this woman had captured my heart and I loved every moment of it. We finally were able to arrange our schedules where we could have dinner together.
“Do you like seafood?” I asked as I was thinking of the restaurant I had in mind.
“Yes I love seafood”
“Good, I know a nice restaurant that I know you will just love.”
The fanciest seafood restaurant in College Town is the Seafood Inn, not only do they have a great cuisine but it is a classy restaurant, with dim lights, candles on the table and a piano. I was going to sweep this woman off her feet and make her mine. This was the kind of woman I had been searching for my entire life; and now I was going to stake my claim.
Dinner was great! The food as always was exquisite, our conversation although light, was informative and at times witty. Fatima had a sparkle in her eyes as she told me of her childhood growing up in the African country of The Gambia. Her father is the Chief of her village of Kambo North.
The coffee and desserts arrived and I knew this was the time to let her know how I felt. I looked into her deep brown eyes and as I cleared the lump from my throat, I said to her, “Fatima, I really don’t know what is happening here. I do know I have never been this happy my whole life.”
“Really? A man like you that has lived the life you have.”
“Fatima, I would like to have a serious relationship with you. A relationship that could lead to something permanent.”
“You just think you do. Let’s finish our dessert.”
I was crushed; I sat there barely touching the remainder of my dessert. Our eyes barely met during the remainder of the meal. After paying the bill, we headed towards the parking lot. I still could not understand how I could have misread this woman.
In the parking lot, I stopped walking and took her by the hand. Gently pulling her towards me, I lifted her chin up with my hand, looked her in the eyes and said, “I know I love you and I feel you love me too. What’s the problem, why can’t we be together?”
“I do love you, Charles, I love you like no man I have ever known. But . . .” Her voice trailed off as she busted into tears. “. . . you are going to hate me for what I am about to tell you and never want to see me anymore.”
“No I won’t. Talk to me I promise I won’t.” Fatima looked into my eyes as if she was trying to read my mind. I truly believe she could see into my heart and soul and read the love I had for her.
“I am HIV positive.” I pulled Fatima to my body, holding her head against my chest. My mind was racing, my heart was breaking, but not because I knew I could never have a child with this woman, never cements our relationship the way all couples do. I also knew at that moment that I loved this woman with my whole heart and I would not abandon her. She was going to be mine and I hers as long as she wanted me in her life.
“Fatima, I love you and I will not abandon you. Tell me how this happened, please talk to me.”
“I told you that I was divorced.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Eight years ago, when I was sixteen years old, my father made me marry a man that was much older than me.” She stopped and took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “I did not love the man I didn’t even know him. But according to our customs, if a man pays a brides price or what you Americans call a dowry, the woman must obey her father and marry the man.”
“I have read about this practice, but I didn’t know it still went on.”
“It does and I fought my father, but he was adamant that I would obey him and not bring shame upon him or our family.”
“So how did the divorce come about?”
“On our wedding night, I would not let Safilie, that’s my ex-husbands name. I would not let him touch me. He went for my father, and my father beat me and than held me while this man took my virginity.” Fatima but her head down and continued, “I always dreamt of the day that I would give myself to a man that I loved on my wedding night, and because of our culture I was married to a man I did not know or live and my most cherished possession, my body, my virginity was taken from me.”
I looked into her eyes again and said, “Fatima you can tell me anything, tell me it all I am here for you, today, tomorrow, always.”

“In our country a man is allowed to have as many wives that he can afford. I don’t like it, but that is life in my village.”
“I didn’t realize this still went on.”
“Not only did he take three other wives, but he also had many other women that he slept with.”
“I don’t see how he could do this I really don’t”
“Well we had a bad marriage and I would not put up with the outside women in his life. Therefore, there were constant fights and beatings. He would beat me anytime he felt like it.”
I put my arms around her and as the image of this beautiful angel of a woman, being beat crept into my mind, I whispered to her, “I will never ever let anyone hurt you again.”
“Charles I knew I had to get away and I started making my plan.” Fatima than told me how she began to pretend that all was well in her home. She played the good Gambian wife and did not complain. She had even called her best friend and cousin, Awa, who was living in Tennessee.
“So how were you able to leave your husband and get a divorce?”
“After six months of pretending, I asked my husband and father for permission to visit Awa. They both agreed and my husband booked me a roundtrip ticket to come and see her.”
“Just like that, they agreed?”
“Yes, but they did not know I had made plans with Awa to come here and never return.” She than told me of her plan that she and Awa had devised. She was enrolling in Tennessee College and try to pick up the pieces of her life, since, as is the custom in most African cultures the woman are not permitted to obtain a higher education, because her whole life is groomed towards being a wife and mother.
“So how did you find out you are HIV positive?” I was hoping that maybe this was a mistake.
“The college offered free HIV exams and Awa felt that maybe we both should take one.”
“Did they verify it?”
“Yes, and I was prescribed very expensive medicine that my father was paying for but now he tells me I must come home or he will not support me in anyway.”
“How did you get the divorce?”
“My father took care of it, but now he tells me I must come back home and take my rightful place with my husband, as he is also sick. She let out a deep sigh and said, “I miss my country, and I do miss my father regardless of what he made me do.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, I am very confused because I do know that I love you but I also know that we cannot have a life together not with me having this, this curse. It’s not fair to you.”
“Fatima, I love you with all my heart and I will standby your side, this I promise.”
“Thank you, but it is not fair to you. Wait here.” She than turned and ran to the restaurant. Coming out of the restaurant, I could see that she was carrying paper towels from the bathroom. She had wet some of them, soaped them up, she than wiped my face, my hands and than gave me a kiss on my cheek, and said, “I love you and I don’t want to take any chances that you will ever be infected with this curse by me.”
“Baby, I appreciate that but you don’t have to worry about me.”
“No, if you are going to see me, than you will have to take precautions and be careful. Do you understand?”
“Yes and I do love you.”
“And I love you.”
We continued to see each other always taking the necessary precautions to ensure that she did not give me the ‘curse’ as she called it. Even though we could not have a normal relationship, it was the best three months of my life with a woman. Fatima was starting to loose weight and feeling ill. I offered to marry her so that she could be my dependent and my medical insurance would cover her; naturally, she refused, “I do not want to burden you.” No matter how much I protested, Fatima would not relent, she felt that she would be cheating me out of a normal life. Nothing I could say would change her mind, I constantly told her, “When two people love each other and live as one, sex is not that important when they have that love.” She would not budge from her stance.
My brother in New York needed me to come and help him close out our parents’ estate, so I had to leave for a few days. Assuring Fatima I would be back no later than a week, I was off to New York. The ten-hour drive to New York City seemed to be short to be very short, I was reliving the past three months in my mind and the last words Fatima said to me as I left, “I love you Charles, be careful.”
With the family business settled, I made my return trip home. I was so anxious to see Fatima that I left the rental car at Kennedy Airport and took a flight home. I was also a little worried because when I called Fatima, I could not reach her or Awa. When I arrived, I went straight to her house that she now shared with Awa and no one was there. I left a note on the door announcing my return and went home. When I arrived, I could see a note on the coffee table. Fatima had used the key I had given her and to let herself in while I was away. I started reading the letter and my heart was broken:
My Dearest Charles,
I know you will be very hurt by my actions but I have to do what is best. I am dying Charles, and I may not make it. By the time, you read this letter, Awa and I will be in The Gambia. She is escorting me back so that if or when I should die, you do not feel the pain that I know you will feel. It is not fair to you that you take the burden of my burial. I want you to know that I love you very much. You have given me the happiness that I always dreamt about as a young girl and I could not give you the full relationship that I know you deserved.
My love do not feel badly for me and please move on with your life. You will one day find the love from a woman that can be your woman in all ways. I will always love and remember you.
Loving You Forever,
Fatima Jackson
P.S. I always wanted to see what my name would look like if I was your
wife, now I know.

Life was not easy, every waking moment my mind was on Fatima and every night I cried myself to sleep. Than came the phone call that has now killed my spirit and a big part of my life. I always dreamt that somehow, Fatima would be able to if not recover from this horrible disease, she would at least be able to obtain the medicine that would put her into remission and she would come home to me.
Now I must go see Awa and at least give her some comfort because as much as Fatima loved me, she loved Awa too; we both are suffering the lost of Fatima.

Poems by Tiffany Harris

2007-03-15T11:24:00.000-05:00

A Peace Breaker’s Plot

There’s always someone lurking about

Trying to discover what secrets are out.

Not even concerned for her neighbor’s welfare;

But eager to know is there anything to spare.

Is there a drop of wine, a piece of cheesecake,

Perhaps some steak, or some gossip for my plate?

How about some bread or a drink from your fountain?

With just a little bit, she could urn a molehill into a mountain!

Don’t you fret none- your secrets safe with me!

Just give me the biggest apple from your apple tree!

Now leaving full with a wicked grin,

All secrets are out; they were too much to hold in!

If it is peace, my child, that you are pursuing,

Never let you left hand know what your right hand is doing.

Written by,

Tiffany Harris

*This poem, above, was written in Hempstead, New York in 1993. Published once, without pay in a local Bank’s periodical located in Hicksville, New York.

Why Didn’t You Come Home Last Night

Why didn’t you come home last night?

I wondered; I worried were you alright!

Why didn’t you come home last night?

Were you out on the street hustling?

Were you chasing the street lights?

Did you mean to cause me pain?

My heart’s all enflamed!

Tears bursting from my eyes,

The anguish so great now, I wish I could die!

Could it be from the argument we had 3 nights ago?

I said that I forgave you, but you didn’t hear me tho’!

Why didn’t you come home last night?

Had you found love in another one’s eyes?

Were you curious about the woman on the corner?

Her heart filled with lies!

Probably festering with AIDS. What?

That should be no surprise.

Now you can’t come home tonight;

For you have met your plight!

Your things are all packed on the front, under the porch light.

Why didn’t I come home last night?

You may ask yourself.

It doesn’t matter now!

For all I care, you can go to HELL!

Written by Tiffany Harris

*This poem was written in 2006 in Eastside Knoxville, TN

Where I Stand

Where I stand, right now, I feel I stand alone…

Broken down and on my own.

My father, I cannot call for help.

I am 35, I must fend for myself.

My children, they cannot rescue me,

For I am the parent and must provide for their needs.

My husband who is suppose to be my rock,

Has idolized one and cannot stop.

This pain I feel is too great to be

The very essence of what is meant for me!

It’s not the vision that I see!

This just cannot be my destiny.

Yet, I’ve written this check and it has bounced.

And I must pay the penalty. Yes, every ounce.

Written by Tiffany Harris

* This poem was written in Alcoa, TN, in the month of December of 2006 while staying in home for battered women.

Journal Entry on 10/11/06

Today marks a day of pure, raw anger. I am angry with myself for having been fooled, once again, in giving my heart to unworthiness. I was not looking for fault yet it appeared, and appeared once too many. I was willing to sacrifice better judgment, all in the name of love, to hold to what I revered as special and dear. How special and dear can it be if it causes me so much pain? How meant is it, if it is destroying me, my accomplishments, my esteem, little by little like a carver chiseling away at his wooden masterpiece.

Is this truly my destiny? I ask this because this behavioral pattern seems to follow me from relationship to relationship, as if the moment I begin to love, another being, an imp if you will, takes over my loved ones body to break my heart beyond repair. I give so much, but when it seems I need someone, no one is there for me. A life of despair is what mine has been. When will the chain reaction stop?

I must learn to untwine the ropes of love as I have twined them, when I know it is no good for me. Life is love, and life is what you make of it; but is that true for love? You can make love as you will, but it takes two. If the other person isn’t making love with you, you’re in it by yourself. If you’re in it by yourself, cut the rope that ties you to the dead weight so that you can escape drowning. Because, if you know how to swim, you will find yourself in the sea of love again.

Written by Tiffany Harris

*This journal entry was written on the Eastside of Knoxville, TN.

from magnolia manuscripts:

2007-02-24T19:43:00.000-05:00

Poems by Cynthia H. Lewis

2007-01-31T08:53:00.000-05:00

Sleep
Closing my eyes I wait for sleep.
Your body pressed close to me.
Legs intertwined, skin to skin.
Rhythm of two hearts pulling me in.
Most tender love more precious than gold.
Soft warm breath upon my soul.
Lost in us I drift in peace.
Forever I am yours to keep.

The Look

One look took down a wall,
A facade of contentment
So warm, so close,
But no, can't go closer
Wish so much we hadn't touched,
The memory catches me unaware
Pulls me, draws me,
Takes me there

Me As I Am

Have you ever been told you're unique,
About one hundred times a day,
So different from everyone else,
with no desire to change,

Floating in an ocean of faces,
years of crests and waves,
Just one person who could understand,
who could take me as I am?

So many who judge and frown,
for they know what is wrong.
The way you look; The way you speak;
The way you think and believe.

Just one face in the ocean
one voice that does not judge.
Only one person to walk beside me,
who could trust me as I am.

Spring Semester

2007-01-17T09:37:00.000-05:00

Welcome back PSTCC students. Magnolia Manuscripts is still accepting submissions for this blog.
Have a great semester.

Nurses and Therapists Raisin’ the Son By Scott Searle

2006-12-12T10:57:00.000-05:00

Alternate ending to A Raisin In the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry

As Mama watched Linder sign the check and hand it over to Walter, a big part of her died; she could not believe her eyes. No one in the house could believe their eyes, except for Walter and Linder that is. Ruth began crying uncontrollably, and Beneatha glared at Walter with a look that could have brought the devil himself to his knees. When Linder finally folded up his paperwork and latched his fancy briefcase, he smiled as though he had just won the Nobel Peace Prize; he felt a major victory had been won for the white neighborhood association, and he had been the one to win it for them. As he happily exited the apartment, realizing he’d never again have to come back and deal with those people, he hurried down the stairs and rushed towards his Chrysler, feeling victorious again – this time, for not being mugged or severely beaten by the many angry and blank-faced black people on the street corner near his car. Those people were everywhere, he thought.
When Linder left, the tense atmosphere in theYounger household intensified greatly. Ruth cried herself right to the living room floor. Mama looked at her dying plant with an absent look on her face; she was nearly zombie-like, and it looked as though she could start drooling at any moment; for once, she was completely robbed of thought, expression, and words to say. Beneatha could not restrain herself any longer when Walter opened a longneck bottle of beer, started to whistle “zippidy-doo-da,” and dance throughout the house, waving and flaunting the check like a one-armed cheerleader shaking just a single pom-pom. When Travis started chuckling and egging his father on, Beneatha lost control of herself and snapped. She opened the box of gardening tools that they had enthusiastically purchased for Mama earlier in the week and began throwing them at Walter. The first one nearly hit Travis in the back of the head, as Beneatha was definitely no Cy Young candidate. The second tool she threw made a direct hit to the family’s prized photograph of Big Walter, breaking great grandma Younger’s antique frame into a million pieces; Mama never even blinked as the glass sprinkled all over Ruth’s fragile skin. By this time, Walter had the record player turned up so loud that he was completely entranced and lost within the music; he (like Mama) had no idea what was going on around him . . . until tool number three slammed heavily into his left wrist, breaking both his beer glass and the record player, and spilling Pabst Blue Ribbon all over Linder’s check.
The look on Beneatha’s face immediately changed from hostility to terror, as Walter bolted towards her with both hands outstretched – apparently going straight for her neck. She tried to escape him, but he was much too strong and quick for her. When he started to hold her down and slap her, Travis became very frightened and screamed. Sure, he had seen his father extremely angry before, but never like this! He made his way for the door, running as fast as he could with his heart pounding fast, his entire body trembling, and his feet bare. Walter yelled for him to get back in the house, but it was too late . . . much too late for poor little Travis.
Whether his feet were wet from his father’s spilt beer or his mother’s fallen tears, it did not matter, except maybe for whom most of the blame could be pointed at later on; there was sure to be much blame passed around the Younger household. As he was sprinting to escape the chaos within his home, Travis slipped on the second-to-the-top stair and fell all the way to the bottom, twisting and tumbling and banging and crashing the entire way. It didn’t take Walter and Beneatha long to realize, by the sound of things, what had just happened. In a flash, they were both standing over the top of little Travis, both afraid to move him due to the unusual position his body ended up; it didn’t take a doctor to make the call that both legs and his left wrist were broken. He didn’t appear to be breathing either. He was quickly losing the healthy warm complexion he always had, and the look in the poor child’s eyes did not appear to be Travis at all. He looked much older and more serious, yet at the same time so young, innocent, and fragile. Walter was crying and repeatedly punching the already-battered wall, just above where Travis’s shoulder had left an impressive indentation. Luckily, Beneatha had been paying a little attention in school, and had thought to try CPR on the limp-bodied Travis. By this time, both Mama and Ruth were also in the cramped area at the bottom of the stairway. Mama began praying and pleading to God, while Ruth held Travis’s neck upward – in order to hopefully open his airway better. She also helped matters immensely by reminding the shaky-handed Beneatha to plug Travis’s nose while breathing into his mouth. Although it had only been forty five seconds since Travis took his last breath, it seemed like it had been two hours. Slow motion was hovering . . . like a dark cloud. Everyone felt helpless and hopeless. Both of Walter’s hands were broken, several times.
Two Years Later:
Although he had to take all of his classes from the hospital/shelter where he now lived, Travis Younger was first in his class. He was determined to live out his Aunt Beneatha’s dream to someday get a PHD in college. He had been paralyzed from the neck down and on a breathing machine for two years now. Because of the lack of technology and science in the medical field, he was unable to leave the Gray Medical Institute – for any reason. Therefore, he had missed his grandmother’s funeral, his father’s court trial (which ended in life imprisonment), his Aunt’s wedding to George Murchison, and the birth of his baby brother. And because his mother had no other choice but to work three jobs, she was only able to visit Travis on Sunday mornings after church for an hour or so. She always entered his room with a smile on her face, and left with tears on her cheeks. She just couldn’t get herself to believe Travis when he told her, with his eyes, that everything was going to be fine. Every night when she rocked baby to sleep, she made bargains with God to help heal her firstborn son; one step at a time, she pleaded:
Maybe you could start with his voice? Let him talk and laugh out loud again. Then we could work up to those hands and arms – let him give hugs again. Then we could get rid of all the machines, cord, tubes, and electricity; I could take him to the mountains . . . let him breathe your pure and fresh air. Oh please God, make him walk, run, and play like he used to. I’ll do anything you ask, if you please heal my Travis. Little by little is fine, just please keep my son in mind.

In The Glade by Christina Nyenhuis

2006-12-11T09:01:00.000-05:00

This story uses the scientific names of the Black Willow, Cucumber tree, Southern Magnolia, Red Mulberry, and the Northern Red Oak, as the names of the characters. The characters are introduced in the same order as the above tree names.

The wind blows softly and the sun shines brightly through the glade, a glade familiar to many. This glade is beyond the base of a mountain, and before the panoramic view at the peak of the mountain. From beyond this mountain come many storms. Around this glade is a magnificent wall of trees: Oaks, Maples, Poplars, Magnolias, Pines and Cedars. The roots of these trees are strengthened by these storms of time, and yet their branches have not been haggard by those same storms. These trees rightfully hold their heads high and erect. In this glade runs a stream from the mountain. A stream that one day flows coolly and quietly, bringing rest to the glade and another day leaps and tumbles over itself trying to expand its bed and dissolve the banks. This stream will forever separate the two sides of the glade.
On the bank of this stream there is a willow, a willow named Salix nigra. Her boughs dip into the stream on one side and brush the grass on the other. The wind plays through her branches. When the stream flows smoothly, Salix’s branches feel the calm rest. But when the stream leaps, Salix’s boughs are sprayed with the sparkling tear like droplets. Salix knows the stream well.
But Salix is not alone in the glade. Toward the mountain, on the edge of the glade, there are two Ancient trees. Each tree stands on a bank of the stream and bends to touch in an arch over the stream. It is as though through time these two trees have drawn together to better span the stream that will forever separate them. On the same bank as Salix stands Magnolia acuminata, tall and erect, yet softened by the years of her existence. Acuminata’s roots are deep in the soil and the stream’s flowing does not expose them. Her roots reach beneath the stream to support it, and contain it.
Across the stream from Acuminata stands Magnolia grandiflora, hardy and strong. Grandiflora’s trunk is thick and round, strong from years of storms. He does not stand as straight as Acuminata, though. It is evident he has passed through terrible storms over the years of his growth. When storms come to the glade, his branches wave in a greeting to the wind, as if it were a playful exercise. His roots reach deep below the stream and twine with Acuminata’s. Salix often looks to these trees with a sense of awe and respect: awe and respect for their strength, fortitude, and survival through years of obvious danger.
Slightly down the stream from Salix a little tree is firmly planted on the opposite bank. This little tree is named Morus rubra. Morus is an energetic tree that tries to make up for his lack of height by being in constant action. When the wind blows, he flings his branches with the wind, to appear as if he is about to be uprooted. And when the stream floods, his branches go limp and he looks as though he is going to be swept away. In the late summer, he likes to flaunt his berries to attract the flashiest birds.
Salix often smiles at Morus’ antics, and then unconsciously looks across the stream toward the ring of trees opposite her and compares Morus with Quercus rubra. Quercus is a stately tree that has his roots buried deep in the earth and tightly wound around the rocks and boulders that make up the hillside. Salix often looks with admiration towards Quercus. He is tall and she is short. The wind tosses his branches. The water tosses hers. When a storm comes, Quercus raises his branches in welcome while Salix frantically digs her roots into the bank to not be uprooted by the rushing torrent of the stream. Quercus was all Salix believed she lacked, yet he was unconscious of her.
That is why Salix wept when the woodsmen came. They came behind Quercus through the ring of tees behind him, felling one trunk after another until Salix feared for the glade. She knew the trees would grow again, but nothing was as sad as seeing the familiar trees fall. Salix trembled as the trees around Quercus fell and she wept afresh as the men surveyed Quercus’ girth. They tapped his trunk to hear how sound his wood was and smiled in satisfaction at the sturdy resonance they heard. Above their heads, Quercus held himself upright and quiet, calmly waiting for the blows of the woodsmen’s axes.
From the mountain burst a storm in all its fury. The clouds poured a torrential spring rain across the glade. Salix rejoiced to see the men run to seek shelter, and then grew concerned with the rate which the stream overflowed its banks. With her roots, she dug deeply to keep her balance while the stream ripped at her branches. Salix glanced up to see Quercus raise his branches in welcome to the saving storm, and then she looked downstream to see Morus struggling with the foaming water.
As Salix looked toward Morus she did not believe what she was seeing, Morus was struggling and then Morus was gone! He was not acting this time; he had actually lost his grip. She saw his branches swirl in the current and disappear. Salix jerked herself back as she felt water rush over her roots. The dirt was being swept away from her roots, and she was losing her grip. Just when Salix felt as if she was going to rip loose, the rain calmed and the torrent slowed. Salix gazed despairingly towards Acuminata to see her reassuringly shake dripping rain from her branches as she stood erect above the stream.
Salix shook her waterlogged branches and wiggled her roots. A fresh breeze caught her upper branches and shook her leaves. She watched the breeze leave her boughs and rustle Quercus’ raised branches. Salix looked down to see her roots bare and exposed on the stream bank. The warm sun shone through the patchy clouds to reflect off her exposed roots; Salix could feel them drying. But if they dried, they would wither. She wiggled her roots more to bury them deeper in the bank. Salix saw downstream the patch of dirt that had been where Morus stood. She softly cried for the little tree that was not strong enough to hold on during the rush of the stream.
But the storm was only temporarily in recession. Salix could see dark clouds rolling in behind the ones that had just released their burden. Salix watched the clouds as they jostled and tumbled over themselves. The clouds were dark and swollen with streaks of lightning already visible on their undersides. Salix was paralyzed with fear; what would this next storm do? With a rumble the storm was upon the glade. The rain came in sheets over Salix as the sum was blotted from the glade. Lighting momentarily illuminated the glade as it struck where Morus had stood. The clouds clapped with thunder. The stream did not have time to flood; the whole glade became an intricate pattern from the rivulets.
With a sizzle, lightning flashed across the glade and exploded the right side of Quercus’ trunk. Salix was deafened by the roar of thunder. It was all she could do to keep her roots tightly wound around the rocks in the earth. Salix fought to keep her grip as the stream tugged at her trunk and whipped her branches. The lightning flashed again as the storm started to leave the glade. The crash of thunder was lessened as the heart of the storm passed out of the glade. The rain slacked and the stream did not pull so hard while the sun reappeared. The mellow sunshine again bathed the glade in warm light.
But, alas, Quercus was not the same. His trunk was crooked and his right side was completely splintered. The branches on his right side were gone and his upper branches were frayed and hanging. Salix’s tears spilled over the loss, and she shook with grief that Quercus should be so maimed. A fresh breeze swept through the glade and hurried the remainder of the storm on. As the breeze blew past Grandiflora his branches lifted and Salix saw that his trunk was crooked; but the wound was not recent, it was mottled and scarred with the years of healing.
Salix wondered at this wound and began to weep again as she looked at the hillside and saw the woodsmen leaving their now tattered camp to walk toward Quercus. They slowly circled his now misshapen trunk and sadly shook their heads at the damage the storm did to him. They quickly turned and started to survey the surrounding trees. Then Salix understood why Grandiflora still stood and rejoiced that Quercus was still standing, also.

Through The Peephole by Amanda Downs

2006-11-30T13:36:00.000-05:00

Law and Order was going off, I watch it every week. I got up to turn off the T.V. when I heard a loud bump against the wall. It startled me at first then heard voices coming from outside. I looked through the peep hole in my door to see what was going on. I didn’t see anything at first and then I heard a female voice, “Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Don’t ever put your muthafuckin hands on me again!” When I realized what was going on I was suddenly 8 years old again. My heart started to race and I began to sweat. I started to feel helpless. Memories that I had buried so long ago started to resurface and I could see and hear every thing as clear as day. I felt like I was in the past and in the present at the same time.

I still was looking through the peep when I finally saw him. He was about six feet tall, light complexion, and very attractive. He stumbled past my door and dropped his bag. I heard the glass break and almost hid, forgetting that he could not see me watching them behind the door. “Ah-Hah,” sang the female voice in childish tone. Then I saw his face change so many expressions in about 3 seconds. First embarrassment, then anger, and then he looked confused like he wanted to do something and didn’t know what to do. Finally “I got it,” he thought and slung the broken glass towards her. “That’s alright,” he said “you clean it up bitch!” I could tell his actions were not natural to him the words came out of his mouth as if he was reading them and not really thinking of them on his own.

But the female was much sharper than him with her comebacks, “Gay muthafucka!” she said. “I fucked you, with your dick suckin ass,” he yelled back. This did not seem to offend or embarrass either of them as they continued arguing. By that time I could no longer see them through the peep hole he had gone down the stairs and she had followed him. I though maybe they would just curse each other out and it would be over. I turned off my living room lights and walked towards my bed room I passed by my daughters room and looked in on her to see if the noise had woken her but she was fast asleep undisturbed by the drama outside. I peeped through her bedroom window into the parking lot where they had gone I saw some clothes laying on the ground. I thought to myself that she had thrown his clothes at him or something. I could still hear voices but I couldn’t make out what they were saying, and I didn’t see him or her. Then I went out on the balcony where I could hear.

I opened the door and all I heard was moaning, loud moaning. I thought it was an animal but that didn’t make since it didn’t sound like a person. Then I saw the man who lived downstairs he was walking toward the clothes but I heard him say are you alright, and then he bent down over them. I squinted my eyes again. They were not just clothes, it was the female voice I had heard so sharp and full of fire just minutes before and now she was sprawled out on the concrete like a rag doll. Her small frame was barely visible under the baggy jogging pants and t-shirt that she had on, and her childish tone had turned into a gut wrenching wail. I stood on my balcony in shock not taking my eyes of the girl. My other neighbor was already on her balcony, she had been there the whole time. I heard her say, “He slammed that girl down on the concrete so hard,” she was talking to me but I didn’t look at her. I just stood there, the helpless feeling started to return. I prayed in my head, “Lord what should I do, what can I do.”

The man who lived downstairs yelled to his daughter, “Go get a towel.” His voice seemed to release my feet. Without thought I ran back into my house and got a towel and a blanket. I grabbed my keys and locked the door behind me. I ran down the three flights of stairs to the parking lot. I could see her lying on her stomach she had not stopped crying. Her boyfriend was gone and the neighbor from down stairs was calling the police. I put the towel down under her face and spread the blanket over her small body. She was barefoot and trembling. “Don’t try to move young lady,” said the man “You may have broken something.” I sat down on the ground beside her and tried to comfort her. “It’s going to be ok,” I said trying to sound confident. “God please help me please Lord help me,” she pleaded. I knew she was not talking to me, she was talking to God. Tears were streaming from both our faces now. I rubbed her back, “He will,” I said with confidence this time. “I’m hurting,” she said. I knew she was in pain physically but she was not talking about her injuries. I was fully immersed in my memories now. I could no longer hear her voice crying, it was my mothers. I cried with her. I wanted to say, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” I wanted to hug her and somehow magically fix her pain. But I just rubbed her back. By that time every person who lived in my apartment building was outside now. Some were crowed around like they were concerned, one man pretended to let his dog out to use the bathroom, others brought their children.

The police came; one officer walked up and shined his flash light in her face. The parking lot was well lit. “Mama, do you know who did this to you,” he said. “Yeah,” she said in a pitiful voice as she looked at him blindly. “Was it your boyfriend,” he asked. “Yeah,” she said again hesitantly. I was embarrassed for her and began to get angry. Why is he asking her this in front of every one? The other police man had gone into her apartment. He radioed his partner and said her 10 year old son was still in side. “Do you mean to tell me her son had to see all that fighting,” a neighbor said as her daughter darted in and out of the crowed. I rolled my eyes. No one replied so she said it again, “You mean to tell me her baby had to see all that.” “Yeah I know, it’s awful,” said another lady who had her 6 year old daughter outside with her. I stood behind the two neighbors until I saw them put her on the ambulance. I watched the six year old girl watching all the chaos and I wondered what she must have thought. I knew she was a smart little girl by talking to her occasionally when I would pass her on the steps. She just stood quietly beside her mother absorbing every thing. She looked so innocent with her little pink jacket on, and her blonde hair blowing in the cold wind. I remembered being her age and being terrified. Did she really understand? Would her mother explain it to her Maybe she was like I was at her age and had seen the same kind of seen dozens of times by then? I hope not. I picked up my blanket and towel and walked back to my apartment. I had nothing to offer the police and I didn’t want to stick around to hear the gossip. I had done all that I was supposed to do. My adrenaline had just started to go down, I felt sad for the girl but satisfied. I wasn’t helpless I was brave and proud. I went back into my apartment and looked in on my daughter. She was still asleep, innocent unaffected by the chaos that had taken place. I wished I could keep her that way innocent, at peace and unaffected by the chaos of the world.

Have your work posted on this blog!!

2006-11-27T20:18:00.000-05:00

This blog is an opportunity for PSTCC students to share their writing and get feedback.
Please email any submissions to s_msjohnson@pstcc.edu
I have to type up hard copies in order to post them online, and I can only do that as my time permits. However, if submissions are emailed to me, I can simply copy and paste. If you are having a hard time attaching a document, let me know through a comment, and I will be happy to help.

magnolia manuscripts depends on your submissions, so keep 'em coming!

Thanks

Poems by Lisa Velazquez

2006-11-27T20:06:00.000-05:00

Is It You?

You?
That scent of perfume
Is it yours?
That sound
That vibrates the air
Is it you?
That rhythm
The pace of footsteps
Is it you?

I turn over my shoulder and look
So many people
Are you there?
My heart feels your prescence
My eyes search
Please be there.

The day made me walk with my head down
But now it is lifted
Thinking that possibly you're around

I turn to my left
I turn to my right
But you are not there
Not anywhere in my sight

Back down my head falls
With my eyes to the floor
Thinking of that scent
That look
That voice I adore

And then my eyes find
Two shoes
That are not mine
I look up to see who
Who stands in those shoes
And it is
It is you

Mystery

Mystery
That's what I am
But with mystery there is misery
Uncertainty
People see me as...
But I know myself as...
What is the truth?
The secrets of my mystery
They are shared only with
The mind-
Contemplating

I stand before my conflict
I am seen as...
But I feel like...
The conflict lies both inside and out
The mystery stays inside
While the misery pushes out
Looking at my longing
I am forbidden
My misery grows to cover my mystery

My mystery
My inner conflict
My sorrow
My misery
My end.

Isabella and Antille Part 3 and 4 By Aelise Beattie and Takashi Ito

2006-11-17T09:42:00.001-05:00

Isabella and Antille Part 3 and 4
By Aelise Beattie and Takashi Ito

Isabella struggled to get Antille over her shoulder and onto her back. She winced, as his heavy body seemed to weigh her down. Antille groaned as the cut was gracing against her back. She turned her head slightly as she looked to him. He had passed out in a matter of seconds. The pain was overwhelming.    Isabella dragged along through the forest. She wanted to keep out of the view of the town’s people. If they would of seen he had escaped and that she didn't kill him, they would be angered. Silently she walked through the forests lines trying to find a back way to the Inn she was staying at.    She grew cautious as the forest line began to grow thin and the town drawing near. She could hear the folk talking amongst each other. She knelt down in the shard of grass to keep them from seeing her. Her legs began to shake as the weight was gathering so much pressure on her form. The branches under her feet began to snap.    "Hey, did you hear something" Said on of them men in the group. the men looked around through the forest lines. The torches illuminated some of the openings, yet they still could not see anything.   "Maybe it was just the wind," Said another. They nodded and decided to forget about the ruckus. The few that were still weary would occasionally look over their shoulders just to make sure.    Isabella began to sweat. She knew she had to move as soon as possible or they would be found. She slowly turned her body and began to creep down along the kill back deeper into the woods. The crickets sounded off loudly around her. She kept low and kept slow as she moved through gathering closer to the end. Her heart pounded fiercely with anticipation.   Finally she met the border to the back of the inn. She crept out from the woods slowly looking both ways to make sure there was no one to see her. When she knew the coast was clear she stepped through and onto the street. She looked up as best as she could to the second floor window where her room was.    She looked around for a way to get up there with Antilles to carry. She saw a post she could climb up on. She shifted his weight on her back to correct it enough to be able to climb up with him on her. She ripped her sleeve and made a tie with him being strapped to her back just in case.   She bit her bottom lip as she grabbed a hold of the pole. She struggled as she lifted the weight of both of them up. Sweat was beginning to form on her forehead once again. The strain immense, she slowly pulled the both of them up. She slowly gathered higher and higher. The window was becoming closer and closer.    She had finally made it to the bend of the pull. She would have to drop down her legs and hang. This part would be rather difficult. She would have both her and Antilles weight hanging on her. Suddenly she heard voices below her. Her breath stopped. She looked down to see two guards talking below them.   (Good they haven't seen me)
(Until they go away, I cannot move any further. Though I may be able to defeat them easily, I cannot create any problems in this situation...but I must hurry, before Antille wakes up and wake any noise.)
Then Isabella thinks of an idea, she pulls a small knife from her foot and throws it straight to one of the bark of the trees in the woods. Fortunately, the knife made a large echoing noise across the night sky.
"What was that noise?"
As the guards run into the forest, Isabella takes a deep breath and continues going towards her room window. Then suddenly, her weight shifted. She rushes to take balance, and found out that Antille was awake.
"That was close...", Isabella took another deep breath.
While she lets Antille lie on the wooden floor, she lights pieces of wood on fire to make a stew for him and herself. Then she pours cold water on Antille's cut gently. Antille gives another moan. Isabella then raps his cuts with cloth.
"I will have to go get some meat in the woods. Stay quiet while I'm gone. Sorry, I have nothing for you right now, but soon we will have food."
Isabella went out the wooden door and locked it. . . . . "...How long have I been sleeping?", Antille looks straight up in the wooden ceiling, which changes it's form from the fire. how long have I been alive...?" Antille tries to remember his last memory before he saw the young girl that saved her.  (I must ask her what is going on...did I hurt her at all? If so, I must apologize...and tell her that she must stay away from me...yes, I have to leave this place as soon as possible..before I start hurting anyone.) . . . . "2 rabbits...that should be enough for a night." Isabella, quite satisfied with what she was able to hunt, starts on her way back.
"Hey, you!", a voice came from behind. Isabella turned back toward where the voice came from.
(Those guards...!) Without thinking, she took a fighting stance.
"Hey hey, we are not here to fight lady. We wanted to ask if you've seen anyone around, cause we heard a noise from this place.", the guards smiled for a kind response.
Isabella shook her head. What the guard said reminded her of the knife that she had thrown, but she decides to leave it be.
"I hope Antille is doing ok..."
The guards swiftly turns their heads toward the hooded woman, with eyes already filled with anger and fear. Isabella tries to give a smile but there was no use. The guards charge towards her.
(Now I won't be able to stay here)
Isabella slashes her Ricquelle in the air twice, slicing each of the guards head off. The blood from their chopped heads flew in the air in all directions like a fountain would, and showers on Isabella.
"I'm sorry..it was my fault I said that out loud..", Isabella wipes the blood off her face with her cloth, and continues her way back to the inn.

Isabella and Antille By Aelise Beattie and Takashi Ito

2006-11-14T21:43:00.000-05:00

The church bell in the darkness of the night thunked its minute
hand one by one. It hit midnight. The bell rang through out the
cities streets. A woman's standing in the streets looked up at
the bell with awe. She was new to the city, and it had been her
first time she had heard such a melody. She smiled some and
tugged down the front of her black velvety hood, more over her
face. The cloak swallowed her form in the delicate fabrics and
hit the ground. She dragged herself and the cloaks along.
Her name was Isabella and she was in search of the
Lycanthrope Antille. Antille was the richest man in the town of
Shiba. Shiba was the town she was in now. Antille lived in a
manor in the back streets of shiba. He kept to himself. Mostly
the reason for his silence was, because he was locked into his
manor for the rest of his life. Once the town's people found out
he had the blood of a lycanthrope they had to look him away. it
was only for the safety of the towns people. The town knew only
so little of Antille. He himself was rather new to the town. He
had kept to himself from the start.
Isabella came to a small cafe on one of the streets end. She
swung open the small door which chimed with bells and walked in.
She was to meet a man by the name of Eriole. The man wrote her
his description. The letter had read:
"Dearest Isabella,
My name is Eriole and I am looking for a guard to protect the
town. I heard you were the best in the country of Aman. We need
your help; our town has a Lycanthrope in its mitts. We have him
under restraint within his own Manor at this moment, but sadly I
know it will not last long. Every night we hear the savage beast
try to pry the doors open and claw at them savagely. The doors are
getting weaker each night of the moon of full.
The town has agreed to pay you a handsome sum each end of the
month. The sum being of course twenty gold. I know it is not
much, but it all we can afford till we can find what to do with
this beast. I arrange to meet with you in the town's cafe "Swift
Feet." I am a tall man, with dark skin, blonde hair, long and
straight, blue eyes, and I'll be sure to wear my red velvet robe
over my usual attire.
Please help us,
Yours Truly,
Eriole
Once Isabella saw the man she had been looking for she approached
him. He sat at one of the small tables in the back. A pipe in his
mouth and a smoke fog building about him.
" Eriole," She said as looked to him.
He looked up and quickly stood to his feet and bowed to her
politely.
" Lady Isabella, I'm so glad you could make it." He said as he
motioned her to sit beside him.
She smiled as instead taking the seat in front of him.
"So, as you see I have agreed to take this job for you Eriole,
but instead twenty I would appreciate thirty gold a month." She
smiled coyly as she crossed a leg under the blankets of fabric.
Eriole nodded.
"As you wish My Lady thirty it will be." He had a slight look of
disapproval to the fact but he agreed to it. Isabella noticed his
frown and smiled.
" Do not worry Eriole you will not be paying me much, because I
will solve the matter quite quickly." She spoke.
A bar maid came to Isabella's side and took her order of a Chai
Tea. Eriole motioned it for him to pay. The maid scurried off to
fulfill the order promptly.

After some sips of chai tea, Isabella places coins on the table and puts back her cloth over her head.

"Will you need a sword?" asks Eriole.
"My 'Ricquelle' is the only weaponry I hold on to", replies the hired warrioress, as if she is reminding him.
"Ah yes..." says Eriole, and adds, "would you need a shield?"
"That will only restrict my movements..." says Isabella, as she picks her Ricquelle and starts to take her leave.
"Isabella!" calls Eriole, "We are counting on you."

The warrior's pushes the old wooden door of the small cafe, and disappears from Eriole's sight into the mist of darkness.
.
.
.
She looks up in the sky, where the bright full moon makes her squint her eyes as she gazes upon it.

"Will this be an omen? Or a guide from the divines...?"

As she pauses in the middle of the stone paved street in Shiba, her story starts to reveal its chapters.

The manor where Antille is contained in is known to be the largest, and the darkest mansion in the Kingdom. "Chateau Rouge", the villagers who lives nearby calls it, because of its long history of wrath, insanity, and bloodshed. Around the Chateau Rouge, there are woods surrounding it that silences any sound of life in it, as if the trees are possessed by the smell of death coming from the manor.

Isabella sits by the trees in the woods, so she can rest at the same time she can watch over the manor. A cold breeze flies across her face, blowing her hood off of her head. Isabella closes her eyes, and tries to enjoy every moment of it.

"For this may be the last moments of my soul..."

The young warrior's recites these words every time she is hired for job, being that her job as a warrior's is always adjacent to death.

"So help me god, amen..."

She prays as she tightly holds on to her Ricquelle.

The earth shatters as she hears the monstrous moan of the beast. At the same time, her heart starts to shatter, instinctively feeling that death may be nearby.

(This is it...! The beast that I must face...)

As she tries to force away the fear that climbs up upon her, she kills her breath in order to erase her existance. However, the sense of the beast is far more superior than those of humans. The smell of her flesh lures the beast closer to her every time her heart beats.

While she trembles behind the tree that the beast may have already reached, another breeze swifts across her cheek. For a moment, she was able to be freed from her tension.

She takes a deep breath quietly, and closes her eyes to realize her instincts of the Warrioress Isabella that lies within her. Then she has the blade of her Ricquelle fly across the darkness where her instincts lead.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

The blade of the Ricquelle submerges, as the sound of distorted meat and liquid echoes through her ears.

"AAAAHHHHHHGGGHHH!!!"

Isabella flings her Ricquelle towards the night sky where the moonlight still beams upon the woods, having what used to be within the beast fly across the trees. The beast moans from painfulness, and the burning sensation of the deep cuts penetrating him. As she turns back towards the deformed beast to give her final slash of her Ricquelle, what she sees was not a beast, but a handsome man.

The man, Antille, had a deep cut across from his left shoulder blades to his right waist. It was almost miraculous for him to be still alive. If he was a normal man, that is. His eyes were not the eyes of a beast, but of what a saddened man might have. His eyes looked into the eyes of Isabella. Once a powerful warrior, her tense heart plunged down, as she loses her energy to fight.

"Please...don't...look at me...like that..."

She felt herself turning completely powerless. Her Ricquelle on her hand now is becoming merely a stick. As she sees Antille, she no longer sees a beast in him. She runs to the injured man, and runs her hand across the cut that she had made.

"I will heal you. Put your arm around my neck, and I will take you to where I live."

Showing some hesitations yet hopeless, Antille puts his now a fragile life into her hands.

"A Day I Will Never Forget" by Christina McElyea

2006-11-13T10:03:00.000-05:00

August 2001 was a month that will be remembered for many reasons. It was a nice, warm, beautiful day. As the alarm went off, and I pushed the snooze button I thought to myself, “It is beautiful outside, I feel great, and this is going to be a wonderful day.” I got up and walked into my bathroom. I brushed my teeth, fixed my hair, and put on my make-up. Then I came out of the bathroom, went into my bedroom, and put my clothes on.
As I was putting my clothes on, I decided to make breakfast before I woke my son up to start our day. I went into the kitchen and proceeded to make breakfast. The smell of pancakes, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee lingered through the house. I turned around and there was my son. He was up, and I did not even have fight with him to get him up. Oh, it was really going to be a good day! As soon as I laid eyes on him I said, “Good morning sunshine, did you sleep well?” “Yes” he replied while nodding his head.
We went into his room so that I could get him dressed. After I got him dressed, I gave him a hug and a kiss and told him that I loved him. Then we went to the kitchen together so that we could eat breakfast. The food smelt so good that my stomach started growling, and growling, and growling. It was so uncomfortable that I thought my stomach was going to turn inside out. We sat down and ate breakfast, and boy was it delicious!

After breakfast, I decided to finish packing some boxes. We were moving the next day. However, my son said, “That’s no fun, I want to do something fun, and packing is not fun!” I had to think of a good compromise and I had to think of it quickly. We came to the agreement that I would pack a few boxes and then we would go to the arcade. I proceeded to pack a few boxes and the whole time I was packing my son was whining, “Let’s go, I’m bored!” Therefore, I gave in and we got ready to leave. I locked the house up as we were leaving.
We got in the car and off we went to the arcade. On the way to the arcade, we noticed that the clouds were turning black and swirling around. I said to my son, “It looks like a storm is coming.” We decided that we were going to go to the arcade anyway. Sure enough, just as we started to get on the interstate it started to sprinkle. “We can make it.” I thought to myself. Slowly, and very cautiously I drove down the interstate trying to make my way to the arcade. As I passed exit 412, it started raining cats and dogs. I had to pull over on the side of the interstate because I could not see five feet in front of my face. The chill sound of the piercing rain was utterly frightening. I then reassured my son stating that, “It’s okay, it will be over shortly just be patient.” Sure enough about five minutes later the rain stopped and the sun came back out.
We pulled back onto the interstate and continued to make our way to the arcade. While I was driving my son pointed out a beautiful rainbow. “Wow, mom look how pretty it is, look at all the colors!” he said ecstatically. “Yes baby, it sure is beautiful.” I replied. Before I knew it, we were at our exit. The arcade was only two blocks up on the left from the end of the exit ramp.

When we arrived at the arcade my son was so excited, he was like a kid in a candy store. There was so much to do that he was having a hard time figuring out what he was going to do first. He quickly made up his mind, jumping up and down, “Skee-ball, Skee-ball!” he shouted. I went to the coin changer, got him some tokens, and gave the tokens to him. With tokens in hand, he took off running from game to game. He loved it more than a fat kid loves cake. After all the tokens were gone, we decided to grab a bite to eat.
“Pizza, Pizza, Pizza!” my son shouted. Luckily, right across from the arcade was a pizza parlor. We went in and ordered the pizza that we wanted and sat down to wait for it. The pizza came and while we were eating, I told my son, “Mommy needs to drop you off at grandma’s house so that I can finishing packing.” “Okay, can I spend the night?” he said. I replied with, “Yes that will be fine as long as it is okay with your grandma.” I called my mom on my cell phone after we finished eating to make sure that it was okay for me to bring my son over for her to watch. “Gladly, bring him on over.” She said proudly. I told her that I would have to go home to pack his bag and then I would be right over. We left the pizza parlor, got in the car, and drove home.
When we arrived, we went inside so that I could pack him some clothes, snacks, and a few of his favorite toys. After I got everything together, we headed out the door again, on our way to grandma’s house. When we got to my mom’s house, I took him inside and left him in the care of my mother. She knew that I was moving the next day, and I needed to finish preparing for the move. I gave both of them hugs and kisses and left out the door on my way back home.

It had been a wonderful day. My son and I had a blast together, but it was time to go home and complete all of the final details for the move. Even though packing was not my favorite thing to do, I went home and finished packing anyway. As I was packing the last box, I decided that I would go to the new house and hang all the blinds up. The house we were moving to had already been completely remodeled, so hanging the blinds was the only thing that I had left to do before we moved.
As I pulled up at the new house, I glanced at the clock and it was 11:23 P.M. I thought to myself, “Hopefully, this will not take a long time.” I unlocked the door and went inside. I immediately started hanging the blinds with the hope of finishing quickly so that I could go home and get some rest. Two hours and one splinter later, it was done. I had hammered my thumb for the last time. All the blinds were up, and I was ready to go home and get some sleep.
Everything was done, and we were ready to move, or were we? I left the new house hoping to get home and get some rest before I had to get up and start moving the next day. It had been a great day, but my pillow was calling me. I turned onto my street and got a funny feeling in the bottom of my stomach. I shrugged it off and kept on going. I went down the hill, and when I came to the top BAM!!!
I saw lights, bright lights, directed towards something, but I could not tell what they were directed at. What ever it was, it was not good. “Please do not let it be my house.” I kept telling myself. This might sound bad, but I just knew it was a neighbor’s house, but not my house that was the farthest thing from my mind at that moment. The anxiety was killing me. As I got closer, I realized, “Oh My God It Is My House!”

There were about six or seven fire trucks pointing their lights at my house. My house was engulfed in flames. The firemen had to take breaks to catch their breath, and to get water because the fire was so hot. It took the firemen two and a half hours just to put the fire out. What took me a lifetime to collect was gone in less than three hours. All Gone! I was not worried about all of the material things that I had lost. I was sickened from all of the memories that I had lost that night. The house had been in my family for years, and it was handed down to me. My son took his first step at that house. If I could have saved one thing it would have been, all of my pictures. I guess we were not ready to move after all because we ended up not having anything to move. The moral of the story is when you think it is a beautiful day and nothing can go wrong, it does!

An African Tragedy. Part 1

2006-11-12T20:09:00.001-05:00

An African Tragedy

If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. But I feel that it is my duty to tell the world…I loved her. Fire lived in her veins and ultimately consumed her. But there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t remember her presence. Even though I knew I would never be able to touch her, to kiss her, to feel her, I wanted nothing more than to call her mine. Beauty was her name. Let me tell you her secret…

It was a beautiful day in the village of Kambo North in the African country of Gambia. The air was filled with aromatic smells of freshly baked bread, spiced fruits and exotic flowers. A fattened cow has been slaughtered and fresh fish have been caught and prepared. A wedding is getting ready to take place.

While the final preparations were being made, sixteen-year-old Fatima Dalilah sat in her father’s mansion weeping and refusing to get dressed.

“Fatima, what’s wrong with you? Any young girl would kill to be in your position. Safilie is handsome, wealthy, and one day he’ll be the biggest politician in Kambo” the servant pleaded.

“Why don’t you marry him then? He already has two wives. What does he need me for? I’m not going to do this and I’m not putting that dress on.” Fatima threw her beautiful beige Bubu on the floor.

After many attempts to get Fatima dressed, the servant girl reported to Chief Alu Dalilah that his daughter refused to cooperate. In an outrage, Chief Dalilah stormed through the mansion and into Fatima’s room. He sees the Bubu in a pile on the floor and immediately picks it up.

“I will not have this Fatima. Put the dress on now.”

“Daddy no. Please! Please don’t make me go through with this.” She begged her father.

“Fatima, you know the customs and traditions of our people. Safilie paid the dowry and he will take you as his bride!”

“Is that all I am to you, a piece of property you can marry off to the highest bidder? I hate you! Now I see why mother could never love you.”

In a fit of rage Chief Dalilah slapped her across the face. “You will not shame me or disgrace my name. You are getting married and you will be a good wife to him. There is nothing more to discuss.” As he left the room, he instructed the servants to dress her and beat her if she did not cooperate. With streams of tears rolling down her face, Fatima allowed the servants to help her dress.

The courtyard of the mansion was ready and the wedding party lined up. Fatima refused to appear. To avoid further embarrassment, Chief Dalilah declared, “ Under Islamic law, Safilie Bookson and Fatima Dalilah are now joined as one. The celebration was in full bloom.

magnolia manuscripts theme poem by Amanda Downs

2006-11-04T13:47:00.001-05:00

The Swamp
Amanda Downs

A place where dreams are smothered
and hope is discouraged
A place where calamity and misfortune is celebrated
Mediocrity is accepted and hardships are expected
A swamp of depression
where accomplishments are boring
and you are congratulated by a, "You think you all that now!"
where you can get a dirty look from others
who are threatened by your beauty
only because they are unaware of their own.

Will to Survive by joinmeonthemoon

2006-11-04T13:16:00.001-05:00

It has been six minutes since I swallowed all of the pills. My head is pounding, my throat feels tight, I'm tired, and I feel like I need to get sick. I look in the mirror and see how dilated my eyes are. I am starting to worry. It is time to go now. I cannot stay awake, my eyes feel too heavy. Goodbye Bill, goodbye Bridget, goodbye Lindsey, and goodbye Dad.
Dad was sick in the hospital, so we did not get to spend much time together. It seemed like he always had something to complain about. He would isolate himself from everyone. Maybe he was mad at the world; maybe it was me he was mad at.
My best friend Laura in ninth grade invited me to stay the night with her at her aunt’s house. We played games and watched TV. The next day her uncle Bill asked if I could stay another night because he and his wife, Bridget, wanted to go out to a late movie and needed someone to baby-sit their five year old daughter, Lindsey. That night Lindsey and I did a lot of coloring, made some

supper, and watched “Blues Clues” over and over before putting her to sleep. I called my Dad to tell him how my day went. He held such apathy for me.
Now that Dad was in the hospital in Maine and Mom was back in Boston with her new boyfriend, the prospects of them caring were slim to none. I felt like nobody cared except Bill and Bridget. Laura became too busy to hang out with me, when really it was because she got a new boyfriend. I started staying over at Bill and Bridget’s more and more and was there for extensive periods of time. I could not help but feel so happy, I finally found a family. I had this family feeling back, something I never wanted to let go of.
I started staying over their house so much that they told me to call them Uncle Bill and Aunt Bridget. Dad was still sick in the hospital, and to be blunt I did not care. I was having too much fun with Uncle Bill, Aunt Bridget, and Lindsey. School was starting to get harder so Aunt Bridget helped me. I felt like I was on top of the world. I earned A+’s in all my classes. I was so proud of myself. A little part of me wished Dad was too.
Uncle Bill gave me a hug and said he loved me before I went to bed that night. I felt weird. This hug did not feel like the others. As time went on, he helped me see that I do not need anyone but him. I could not sleep much so I stayed up watching TV, even on school nights. He said school only does so much, and it was time with him that mattered. Yet another weird hug. He told me it was getting late. I went into the bathroom and when I was coming out I put my hand on the light to shut it off, but he put his hand over mine. I thought he needed the bathroom, so I was unsure why he wanted the light off. I asked him if I could get by him and he told me to lie down. I was going to but I needed to get out of the bathroom and that is what I told him. I soon found out that that is not what he meant. Uncle Bill wanted me to lie on the bathroom floor with the lights off, but for what reason? Uncle Bill pushed me down onto the Bathroom floor, hitting my head on the sink. I was trying to rationalize with myself that it was an accident but he used too much pressure. “What are you…” I tried to say but he cut me off by putting his hand over my mouth.
I tried to reach for something accessible to my reach. I loved Uncle Bill and could not hurt him. I felt the cold bathroom tile against my now naked body. My pants were wrapped around my eyes like a blindfold. I started to cry but he said only weak people cry. I tried not to, I really did, but his heavy forty year old body on my fourteen year old body was too much to handle. I began to cry and felt my tears gently rolling down my cheek hitting my cut lip from where I hit my head on the sink. It stings and I could not help but cry more.
I thought Uncle Bill loved me! He took care of me, helped me with my homework, let me sleep on the good couch, and made me feel welcome. I wondered if I said something wrong. I always heard on the news about this happening, but Bill was too nice to be like those other creeps. How can someone be so nice and simultaneously be so sadistic? After it was over he made me wash
my clothes and shower for two hours. That night I went to bed scared, shaking, and wanting to be somewhere else. The house I felt the most comfortable in, is now the house I want to be away from. All morning Uncle Bill kept looking at me. He would smile and it made me feel dirty, like I needed to get out of my own skin. I wonder if Aunt Bridget knows. It has now been eleven months after what happened, whatever it was. I have kept track of how many times it has happened, forty-three times. I can predict what time it will happen, the severity, and what I need to do. I close my eyes and pretend I am in the wallpaper looking at myself letting me know that it will be okay.
In school they teach us to run to an adult when you need help. What do you do when your foundation breaks and the adult you run to is the adult you need to be running from? Tonight I realized something. I realized I am broken and do not feel the love I use to. I feel alone, scared, dirty, and broken. I have had broken bones each month and am usually covered in black and blue. I wish someone could help. How can my teachers or even Aunt Bridget not see this? Late at night while everyone was sleeping and I could get away, I went to the hospital because my belly hurt. I then heard the scariest news I have ever heard. “You are pregnant”. I left as soon as I was alone in the hospital room. I came back "home" and took three bottles of Seroquel to end this pain.
No! Screw this! I changed my mind. I am not going to do this shit. I called 911 and was rushed to the hospital where I had my stomach pumped, drank
some awful charcoal and was on a heart monitor for six days. They did some tests and found out I lost my baby. I may have not had my baby for any length of time but I still felt some sort of connection. I lost my baby who was created by a monster but I will not lose myself. I can do this with or without help. I have the will to survive, this is all I need.

magnolia manuscripts meeting

2006-11-01T10:15:00.000-05:00

There will be a meeting held November 15@2pm in room 160 on the Magnolia Campus. Feel free to share any writing you have done and would like to contribute to this blog. If there is a schedule conflict email your submissions to :
s_msjohnson@pstcc.edu.
If there are any questions feel free to leave a comment on this site, and it will be addressed.

Toure` brings Soul City to magnolia

2006-10-27T08:52:00.000-05:00

Toure`, the author of "Soul City", "Portable Promise Land" and "Never Drank the Kool Aid" stopped by Magnolia Campus to talk with us about his book "Soul City," and some of us were fortunate enough to get a picture with him.