Contributors This Issue:
Students:
Micah Avita
Christopher Palkow
Karen Taylor
Kay L. Trew
Molli Woosley
Staff:
Shelley D. Sparks
Camelia McNeil Elliott (also a student)
Faculty:
Angela Allen
Dwight Huber
Dr. William Netherton
Margaret Waguespack
Prajinta Sthapitanonda
Pointbreak "Surfing You"
by Prajinta Sthapitanonda
You are a 40 foot swella wall of blueWaimea
Me, a trembling ballerina standing on a splinter
Surfing in the dark with eyes shut and sharks swimming
You swallow me, I go under and lose all direction
I am drowning beneath pounding surf that drags me deeper.
The sun glitters in the blue tube that takes me
For the ride of my life before hitting the bottom
I think I may be bleedingbut I didn’t even feel the hit
That crushing blow should have killed me or knocked me out
Because it hurts to drown beneath your endless heavy blue.
Christopher's Porch
by Kay Trew
The view was from Christopher’s porch. Most of his time was spent focused on the dozens of toy animals his obsessions led him to sort repeatedly. He sorted them by size, color or the Disney movies they were in. We weren’t always sure of the order of the sets, but we were certain he had a clear definition of them in his head. Every once in a great while he would look up and see what we saw the bright autumn fire colors of the aspens that dotted the green mountain in front of us. A fall thunderstorm had wetted the scene, and gray-white wisps of clouds partially hid the top of the old mountain. Peace filled the space washed by the gentle rain, promising new beginning.
Suddenly Christopher woke from his world of sorting and ran to the railing, excitedly pointing at the colorful pastel arc of color that appeared to span the sky. He exclaimed, "Brainbow!" Then slowly a look of dawning crossed his face, and he turned, pointed at me, and again said "Brainbow!" as if he now knew two things named "Brainbow." Until that moment, his name for me had been "Braybo," his take on the name "Graybo" my oldest grandson Jorden had bestowed upon me when he had a sinus infection.
Jan started to correct Christopher . . . and didn’t. She had seen the look on my face that said, "You do, and you die." He went back to his animals, once again sorting them, this time in order of species: birds, insects, mammals, and fish. We made it a game to try to find his order of things. Christopher was four years old, and since that beautiful afternoon on Christopher’s porch in Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, I have been "Brainbow."
I read a book my daughter recommended that was authored by a high-functioning adult autistic, Temple Granden. In it, Ms. Granden attempts to explain how her processing of words differs from the "normal" person. The book is titled Thinking in Pictures. Ms. Granden says that when someone tells her a story, a slide show plays in her head. If one uses the word "dog," a picture of the first dog she remembers seeing drops down. Intangible words like "love" and "hate" are difficult for her to grasp. She then tries to make sense of the pictures. Just think, if Christopher thinks in pictures as Ms. Granden does, for the rest of his life when he sees a rainbow, he just may think of his Brainbow.
That afternoon in that place was significant to me in so many ways. Rainbows symbolize God’s promise, and it was as if with that one word He gave me a definitive answer to a two-year prayer for my grandson, Christopher Michael Heinza promise that Christopher was going to be okay . . . that He had Christopher’s back.
From Christopher’s porch I have seen some amazing things. A doe and her fawn once wandered through the clearing into our view, seeking perhaps a new view of their own. Gracefully and confidently, the doe led her fawn to fresh grass. When a neighbor’s cat came into the scene, she quickly placed herself between her fawn and the intruder and charged at the cat to scare it away. Christopher’s mother Jan is so much like that doe. I have watched as she has led Christopher to new pastures, instinctively knowing when to comfort, when to protect, and when to let him "graze" and find his own way. During the critical time of his development that Christopher wanted to stay in his own world, she was an "in-your-face" mom, not allowing him to stay there long, making it fun and exciting for him not to. I sometimes think I should have named her "Grace."
I have seen Christopher’s Uncle Dave, who had previously been afraid of caring for small children, take Christopher in his strong arms and wrestle with him until he squealed with laughter. Dave has learned from this little boy about the awesome ability he himself has to nurture and the value of patience, empathy, and responsibility in relationships. At the same time, he has shown Christopher the example of a consistently strong male figure to emulate. Christopher didn’t have that for a while.
I have also seen countless friends gather in this place. Jan has brought a rich array of caring people into Christopher’s life, and he has escorted a few of them in himself. He has been a sorter of persons for her in a way, weeding out folks whose hearts aren’t big enough for them both. Those who do stay receive a gift they never expected and are renewed and strengthened in some important way.
Christopher’s struggles with autism in the "real world" are often difficult, but he has learned to compensate in many ways. One of the struggles he deals with daily is other people’s attitudes or reactions to him because he looks so beautiful and "normal." I think that God shields him most of the time, but just like any other child, he recognizes to some degree that he is differentto what extent I have no clue. He will probably always be somewhat different, but Jan says Christopher doesn’t have a disability, he has a "diffability," and God has given him his safe people and places to go back to when things get a little tough.
At age seven, Christopher now reads on a fourth grade level and knows the technical names for most of the animals in the Colorado Springs Zoo, as well as the countries from which each originated. He knows if they are cold or warm blooded, and he knows the difference between a porpoise and a dolphin. Strangely enough, Christopher’s favorite animal is a macaw. Jan has posted my cell phone number on their refrigerator. When he calls me and I happen to stray from his favorite subject, he patiently asks, "Brainbow, can we talk about animals again?" . . . and we always talk about animals again.
Jan and Christopher have weathered many storms, and some were pretty tough. But after each storm, that same rainbow reappears, and the sun shines again almost brighter than before. Jan always comes through them with even more faith and resolve.
These are but just a few of the pictures I’ve seen from Christopher’s porch. I often wonder what pictures Christopher sees from his porch.
For Cornelia
(after reading "The Jilting of Granny Weatherall")
by Dwight Huber
(after reading "The Jilting of Granny Weatherall")by Dwight Huber
"Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall."
If there were plows in heaven
she’d break ground with one----
not for casting seed
but to open new earth there
as if to say, "See, it can be
done and done by me alone."
If there were a place to burn
in deeper suffering, she’d ride
a razor wind there, outsped
only by the special grace
of her falling body’s thinking
it the first to feed the fire.
May pardon come for you,
Cornelia, forever nursing a
grousing mother into her
final silence there in your
house so you alone might
come alive to make her bed
and not lie in it.
In The Rafters of Jack's Creek Covered Bridge
by Camelia McNeil Elliott
On July 20, 1942, fresh cool mountain dew kissed each blade of grass, as early morning sun peeked over the mountain. Ralph started his chores. First milking the cows, then shoveling manure and finally chopping weeds in the garden.
Down the road, Alfred helped his Pa repair damaged boards on the corn crib. Then he carried water to his Ma from the springhouse. Ma’s laundry basket overflowed with dirty laundry. She washed clothes on a scrub board, in a large wooden tub bound by metal hoops. Ma hung garments on the clothesline. They needed to dry and be taken inside before darkness fell upon the mountain.
On the sweltering, windless summer afternoon, Ralph and Alfred had made big plans to meet each other as soon as their daily chores were finished. At two o’clock, Ralph strode with a watchful eye down the road to Alfred’s. He collected thin, flat, round rocks to skip across the river. With care, he placed them into his shorts pocket--the one without holes. He stopped along the way to pick a leaf from a sedum flower. The cluster of small pastel pink flowers were his grandmother’s favorite. For several minutes, he gently pressed on the leaf, just as Grandma Haden taught him. He never knew how she learned this clever trick. Ralph placed the leaf between his lips and gently blew. It expanded like an angry toad.
Alfred ran up the lane to meet his buddy.
Ralph whispered, "Did you get it?"
Alfred opened his shirt and showed Ralph the church key dangling around his neck on an old shoe string. "Got it! Ma packed us some biscuits and ham to snack on," he exclaimed.
The thirteen-year-old barefoot boys, dressed in denim cut offs and old faded shirts, headed toward Smith River. As the lads approached the foaming, rushing water, cascading over rocks, they searched for still, slow moving pools. Ralph found a perfect place to skip his rocks.
The cool crystal stream was clear as glass. Ralph took the rocks out of his pocket. In deep concentration, he threw a stone at an angle, so the flat bottom of the rock was parallel with the water. He skipped the rock across the water. "One . . . two, not too good," he whispered to himself. Pulling another rock from his pocket, "One, two, three, four. Hey, not too bad!" he yelled, looking around to see where Alfred had gone.
Splash! Alfred’s plunge, followed by enormous waves of water, beckoned Ralph to swing on the rope. Alfred’s older cousin had tied the rope to a majestic oak tree in April. The boys enjoyed swinging from the rope out over the creek.
"Hey Ralph, I saw you smiling at Margie the other day," said Alfred.
"Did not," Ralph said, defending himself.
"Did, too," persisted Alfred.
The boys heard the welcome sound of an old Coca-Cola truck rumbled up the mountain following its scheduled delivery at Woolwine’s Mercantile. "Brrm, brrm, brrm."
Quickly, they waded through mud and ran toward the old covered bridge. Like fearless monkeys, they climbed into the rafters of the bridge, until they could touch the rusty, metal roof.
The truck puttered toward the narrow entrance of the covered bridge and then came to a stop. The driver stepped out to gauge his clearance on each side of the trailer. Alfred and Ralph froze in place. They held their breath and without turning their heads their eyes locked on one another.
Ralph moved his lips, "Has he seen us?"
Alfred barely shrugged his shoulders as beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip. Back in the driver’s seat he carefully lined the truck tires up with the wheel strips on the bridge’s deck, and then drove through at a turtle’s pace.
The boys gave a sigh of relief, flexed their hands and relaxed their white knuckles.
"Whew", Alfred breathed a sigh of relief.
Ralph whispered to Alfred, "Are you ready?"
Alfred replied, "Yes."
Perched securely on old wooden rafters, Alfred and Ralph leaned down and grabbed Coca-Cola’s from the back of the truck as it passed slowly beneath. They waited until the trailer vanished from sight before scampering down from the rafters.
Alfred whistled, as Ralph chewed on a black birch twig, dispersing a delightful, spicy, wintergreen flavor over his taste buds.
"Hey, Al, our plan worked!" Ralph said with a grin.
"We did it!" agreed Alfred.
Hands filled with bottles of soda pop, the boys searched for a spot to chill them in the cold water of Smith River.
"Here’s a good place," said Ralph, as he put the bottles in amongst a cluster of rocks in the brook. Then they plopped down and each grabbed a biscuit sandwich from the burlap bag. Alfred removed the shoe lace from around his neck.
With the bottle opener, they opened two Coca-Cola’s, satisfying their thirst while dining on ham biscuits. Alfred shoved the remaining bottles into the burlap bag and tied the top closed. He then arranged stones in a circle, safeguarding their sodas from the rapid motion of the current and from floating downstream.
"Bet you can’t do a cannon ball as big as mine," bragged Alfred.
"Can too!" Ralph hollered. The boys jumped into the river, trying to outdo each other. The cool water felt good on their sunburned backs.
At five o’clock, Mr. Wood, a landowner next to the covered bridge approached the boys. "You boys better get on home for supper, before your Ma’s tan your hides. Best not keep them waiting."
"Yes sir, Mr. Wood. Thanks for reminding us . . . time flies when you’re having fun," said Ralph with a grin, repeating one of his father’s favorite saying.
As soon as Mr. Wood disappeared, Ralph and Alfred tiptoed on wrinkled feet to the spot where their Coca-Cola’s were hidden. Each opened a bottle. Alfred tossed the wet knapsack over his back and the lads ventured down the winding road, sipping their ice cold soda pops.
Skipping Stones
by Dr. William Netherton
I could never beat my brothers at anything
. . . except at skipping stones.
Wading down Beatty Creek
in humid Ozark summers,
we searched for stones, flint, and granite,
sculpted flat and smooth from years
beneath icy ripples.
When we had gathered enough,
we held our skipping contests:
the biggest stone.
the roundest rock.
the farthest skip.
the most skips.
In every contest, I beat them all.
I could win at nothing else.
But when last we waded Beatty Creek
my brothers and I
(having shirked our Oxford shirts and ties)
my nephew Zack came along.
And it was I who taught him how to skip a stone.
Eyes and Expenses
by Karen Taylor
When winter sends its first fluffy snowflakes slowly tumbling down to rest on the leafy mantle of autumn’s best scarlet and gold, it signals the beginning of the holiday season. This time of the year is always magical for my family and me. Bulging red plastic tubs thump out a cadence as my husband drags them down the rungs of the creaky attic ladder, beckoning my children like a dusty piped piper. We all set about the task of freeing the holiday decorations from their plastic prisons and with the zeal of maniacal elves, we strategically place them inside and outside of our home, setting the scene. My children start making their Christmas lists of life altering must-haves, throwing in a few reasonable requests to effect a veneer of practicality. Somewhere in between frenzied decorating and fervent list making, my children stop to ponder if Santa Claus is real. This evokes my memory of old half-bald doll sitting in the top of my closet, the ambassador to my first epiphany.
On a mottled gray, snowy day in early December when I was about five years old, my mother took me to the old Sears and Roebuck store. I headed straight for the toy department, the only place that was truly of any interest. The toy department was festooned with shiny-silver swags of garland and huge, sparkling snowflakes magically frozen in mid-fall. Christmas carolers crooned bouncy tunes from the overhead speakers. The shelves, which were usually modestly filled, were transformed into a burgeoning cornucopia of potential Christmas spoils. I approached the overflowing toys with so much excitement that I could no longer walk, but instead wobbled from shelf to shelf like a little drunken sailor in search of one last drink. My beady eyes were spinning independently, bombarding my brain with pertinent toy information to help sort out the keepers from the duds. I was a well-oiled toy sorting machine with all pistons wide open when something suddenly made both of my eyes snap together. Gracefully perched amongst the smorgasbord of toys was the most beautiful doll I had ever seen. In that instant, my mission ended. I knew exactly what I wanted for Christmas.
I pulled my mother to the doll and showed her the ultimate Christmas gift. She actually removed the doll from the shelf, which in a kid’s world is a promising sign that victory may be close at hand. Then my mother said I could not have the doll because it was too expensive. She had just given one of the two reasons that instantly knock a kid in the dirt on the road to joy. She only needed to add that other, "It will poke your eye out," for my Christmas to be completely doomed. Because my only understanding of money was to trade dimes for nickels because nickels were bigger, it was impossible for me to convince her the doll was well worth the price. As my pint sized brain whirred through my repertoire gift acquiring tactics in search of just the right one, my mother provided the answer, "Ask Santa Claus for the doll."
Bless her and her infinite wisdom! I could simply bypass my mother the naysayer and go straight to the most generous and reasonable man known to children, Santa Claus. I hastily appraised my behavior over the past year and decided I had done nothing too dastardly to warrant billing on the Naughty List . My eyes frantically darted about the toy department seeking out the jolly old chap. Then I spotted a portable North Pole complete with billowing mounds of glistening snow, furry moving creatures, and sprinkles of twinkling lights. I gleefully sprinted towards this mechanized mirage only to find Santa’s chair was empty. I surmised he was probably outside tending to his reindeer or dealing with an unruly elf, and I hoped he would come back soon. Because Santa knew everything, surely he knew little anxiety-driven clients were attempting to wait patiently as he was our only hope for a truly merry Christmas, because parents were too preoccupied with eyes and expenses to know the real value of a toy. Soon, the group of hopeful children turned into fidgety marauders, and as if on cue, Santa Claus appeared and opened for business. Without hesitation, I darted past the queue of my dumbfounded cohorts and catapulted into his lap with the aid of his big black boot. The momentum of my landing spewed forth one great gust of air that flipped Santas beard up over his head, and as he struggled to free himself from the silvery white web, I quickly donned my most cherubic and deserving face. With all the flair and drama of a well-heeled soap opera queen, I made a wide-sweeping motion as I pointed to the brimming toy shelves, and said, "All I want for Christmas is . . . THE DOLL!"
A few days before Christmas, my sister and I were inside our house playing a game of Hide and Seek. I cleverly chose the heater closet to hide in because nothing could fit in there, except me. As I squeezed in between the heater and the wall, I bumped into something. My worried little eyes strained in the dusty darkness to see just what kind of closet monster I had just awakened. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the monster’s lair, and then I plainly saw two bright blue orbs staring right back at me. Hit by a great jolt of fright, I jumped straight back and knocked the closet door wide open. Now the hall light easily streamed in and illuminated the owner of the eyes. It was not the clandestine closet monster I had long suspected of stealing my socks, but instead was the beautiful doll I had hoped to get from Santa. The excitement of this serendipitous event sent a torrent of thoughts effervescing through my brain like tiny bubbles in a glass of champagne, until one lone thought was left bobbing on the surface . . . if the doll is here, how could Santa Claus bring her with him on Christmas morning? Deciding she was a gift from my mother, I quietly closed the door and skipped away grinning.
Christmas Eve finally came, and that night my family cheerfully gathered around the tree to open gifts. When the frenzy of paper ripping ceased and all box contents were thoroughly examined, I sat scowling in pile of parent-practical gift rubble. I thought this was a ploy to build my suspense before giving me my prize, and in an effort to speed things along, I relentlessly dropped doll hints all evening. When bedtime arrived without the doll’s debut, I deduced this Christmas catastrophe was because somehow my mother knew I had found my present, and she had returned it to the store. I managed to squeeze out, "Thanks for the sweater," before slowly shuffling off to bed.
In the dawn of Christmas morning, I dolefully plodded to the living room to investigate my Santa Claus loot. My eyes flew open as I spied the doll sweetly smiling in a pink highchair sitting right in front of the tree. Instantly, little flickering images of the bright blue eyes in the dusty closet clicked through my head, giving birth to an epiphany.
With the exception of occasionally taunting my older sister with the fact that I was the sole possessor of some top secret, parent-only information, I did not tell anyone about my closet find for a very long time. I did not want the fantasy to end, and I found it didn’t have to. Santa Claus continued to leave some sort of too expensive, eye-poking booty every year until I was grown. Now that my children are at the all-knowing age of eleven, I find it harder every Christmas to dream up the elaborate, proof providing schemes that help them believe in Santa Claus. When they ask me the fated question, I tell them the only answer I know to be true, "Santa Claus is real for as long as you want him to be."
The Staked Plains
by Shelley D. Sparks
The dark highway stretches out in front of me.
And only the headlights feel their way through the blackness of the night.
The asphalt carves a scar across the far-reaching prairie.
My mind wanders to the thoughts of
Ancient wagon ruts marking the trail
Of proud pioneers, that long ago, headed West.
This lonesome land was once home to the proud Comanche,
and the thunder of buffalo hooves,
and the soaring of eagle’s wings,
and the screechings of the hawk.
The rising moon shines golden light above distant arroyos.
Stars glisten boldly in the big Texas sky
Stars that guide our forefathers as they tended to their lonely herds
While the fierce cougar’s eyes watched from afar.
The jagged silhouettes of the mesquite become the ghosts
Of those who fought fiercely to keep their land
And lost.
I have heard the storiesthe tales of old.
Such history is hidden in these harsh Texas plains
A land that blazes in the summer heat
And is bitter cold in the winter wind.
Suddenly, out of the silence of the night
The mournful howl of the coyote
Cries out from atop a distant mesa,
Now
As it did long,
So long ago.
The Victorious Pen
by Molli Woosley
Yes, I admit it: I have a secret obsession. I love pens! I could stand in the stationary aisle for hours, just staring at all the pretty pens. However, the stationary aisle is not the peaceful place one might imagine. A battle is raging between old-school ink pens and the new, flashy gel pens. Although both types of writing tools are popular, there are considerable differences between the two varieties.
The gel pens, which have become popular during the last decade, come in every color imaginable. Scented, glittery, and neon varieties can add a dash of creativity to an otherwise boring homework assignment. Because some of the colors are nearly fluorescent and are frustratingly hard to read, the wide range of colors offered makes gel pens ideal for the writer who just wants to have fun and is not concerned with legibility. Gel pens appeal mostly to pre-teens who write love letters during class or creative people who feel compelled to embellish every scrap of paper with multi-colored swirls. Compared to the rainbow of colors available in gel pens, some people may find the traditional black, blue, and red ink offered by ink pens boring. I find it minimalist and practical. Conservative black or blue ink is much more useful in daily life than purple, candy-scented ink. Ink pens may not be the most exciting things in the world, but their simplicity has made them a staple for studious, business-minded people. Whether you prefer the flashy colors of gel pens or the understated colors of ink pens is simply a matter of taste.
Anyone who has used a gel pen may have noticed that the ink dries slowly. This normally wouldn’t be a problem, except the wet gel has a tendency to smudge when a pinky finger or shirt cuff drags across it. For people like me, who slide their writing hand across the paper, this can cause sloppy work. If the writer has chosen to use the many fun colors offered by gel pens, this can result in a psychedelic pinky. That would be fine, if the writer were dropping acid. For those who opt not to use hallucinogenic drugs while writing, ink pens are a clean alternative to messy gel. The ink dries almost instantly, which decreases the amount of smudges on both the paper and the writer. The writing remains readable and doesn’t morph into a blur like it would if it were done in gel. The black, blue, and red ink may be boring, but at least it stays off the writer and on the paper. For those who like their work to be legible, fast-drying ink pens are more practical than gel.
If there is one area in which gel pens are superior to ink pens, it is consistency of ink flow. Gel pens provide a long-lasting, even stream of ink. Most gel pens work the first time they are touched to paper, and don’t sputter out and quit writing until they are nearly out of gel. A writer can put an entire thought on paper without having to stop and revive his pen by scribbling or retracing his letters. This results in a smooth, scribble-free paper. Imagine a river cutting fluidly across the smooth plains. This is how a gel pen works. Now, imagine a pathetic little stream that sputters along, disappearing into the earth at random intervals. This is similar to an ink pen. The ink has an annoying tendency to stop flowing right in the middle of a word. Of course, the quickest way to fix this problem is to scribble. For those concerned with neatness, this means pulling out a separate "scribble sheet" to revive the pen. Just to be even more of a nuisance, the ink runs out more frequently as the pen approaches empty. Plus, the ink takes longer to sputter back to life. When it comes to consistency of ink flow, gel pens are considerably more reliable than ink pens.
In the battle between gel and ink, there is no clear victor. It all boils down to preference. Do you enjoy a flamboyant, sometimes messy river, or a traditional, clean mountain stream? The choice is up to you. May the best pen win!
The Games We Played
by Angela Allen
by Angela Allen
I don’t remember your face
Back in the day
Were you involved in the games?
We used to play
Out on the blacktop
or across the field
Red light, Green light, Mother May I
or was Touch Football your appeal
Or was It Red Rover
That sent you right over
Boys on one side, girls on the other
Did you break through the line
By your favorite girl
And take me by the hand back to your world
Or was it Four Square or Tether Ball
the Merry-go-round or Swings
the Monkey Bars, the Slide
or was Hide and Seek your thing
Did you pull my pigtails
And untie my hair bows
Did you send me love notes?
Do you love me
check Yes __ or No __
Did you chase me around?
and yell Tag you’re it
or did you secretly wish for dusk
to play Hide and Go Kiss
I don’t remember your face
Back in the day
But I do remember
The games we used to play.
Justice For Sale: Visa or Mastercard Accepted
by Karen Taylor
Lady Justice stands blindfolded with the Scales of Justice in one hand and a book of laws held in the crook of her other arm. Upon closer observation, one realizes she is actually peeking out from her blindfold and winking at the television cameras. The book under her arm is the script from her latest movie deal, and the scales are actually an offering plate that can be tipped in one’s favor once the correct amount of money has been laid upon it. Justice is for sale and those with the most money and fame are given special treatment, they can buy their way out of legal woes with the best legal defense and expert witnesses, and they are able to sway juries who are enamored with the celebrity.
The justice system shows bias to the rich and famous, and the procedures for their arrests differ greatly from that of the average defendant. This preferential treatment is evidenced by the recent arrest of Michael Jackson on charges of child molestation. An everyday person accused of the same crime would have been promptly arrested, placed alone in the backseat of a police unit, and driven straight to jail without any fanfare. However, Michael Jackson was allowed three days to choreograph his surrender because of his fame and fortune. Once all of the arrangements had been made, the media was notified, and the television cameras rolled as two private jets pulled into the Santa Barbara Airport. The first jet, much to the dismay of the media, contained part of Jackson’s prominent legal team and decoys. The second jet held the celebrity, and it was allowed to pull far enough into a hangar so that the hangar doors could be closed around the front of the jet. This was done to shield Jackson and his entourage from the cameras as they walked down the jet’s stairway and met the many awaiting officers. Jackson and his legal team were then whisked away in vans through the throng of adoring fans. According to a reporter witnessing the procession, "Some fans of the King of Pop are standing by their man, holding candlelight vigils in his honor and chasing down his motorcade with supportive signs" (Sealey).
The special care of Michael Jackson did not stop there. Upon arriving at the booking facility, his legal team was present throughout the booking procedures. I have worked in two different jails and never witnessed an attorney attending the booking procedures. Those who had an attorney saw the attorney after they were booked, and in most cases, their attorneys rarely came to the jail at all.
The rich and famous effortlessly negotiate the legal system because of the caliber of attorneys they are able to hire. When a celebrity becomes entangled with the law, prominent attorneys clamor to get the case, and these attorneys retain the only best expert witnesses. O. J. Simpson assembled a legal team that was dubbed "The Dream Team." Just as their moniker promised, they gave O. J. Simpson his dream of being found not guilty even though there was an extensive amount of evidence that indicated the contrary. Typical defendants do not have top-notch attorneys vying for their case. If they are lucky, they can afford a private attorney; however, they can not afford to hire an entire "Dream Team." Those who can not afford an attorney are provided a public defender, who is usually paid a small fee by the county and is less than enthusiastic about the case. Most defendants can hardly afford to hire one expert witness to help with their defense, much less hire the multitude of experts flocking to the aid of the rich and famous.
The special treatment, high-profile attorneys and expert witnesses are not the only disparities between a celebrity trial and the average trial. Another blatant disparity comes in the form of the jury. Celebrities begin to sway the potential jury pool long before their trial commences. Upon the eve of his arrest, Michael Jackson began flooding the media with interviews and documentaries oozing excuses for his predilection for the company of young boys or depicting him as a misunderstood victim of his own success. The onslaught of coverage of Jackson continues to this day. Most defendants do not have access to such resources, nor is the public interested in their excuses. Jury selection for the rich and famous is done with advice from experts who specialize in choosing a winning panel. The average defendant has to rely on a lone attorney and hope the attorney chooses wisely. Juries for celebrity trials become enthralled with being involved with the celebrity in such an intimate way. They are influenced by what they have seen in the media and by their adoration of the celebrity. Jurors are less likely to justly punish someone they are enamored with even if punishment is warranted. On the other hand, it is not hard to convict someone who is anonymous and with whom there is no emotional connection.
Once the celebrity has hired the best attorneys and expert witnesses, it is time to put on the dog and pony show for the judge, the jury, and the media. The acclaimed attorneys wow the jury with elaborate evidentiary props, dynamic expert witnesses, and theatrical performances worthy of an Academy Award. The judge is ever mindful of the whirring cameras recording the days events and tolerates the defense attorneys’ antics that otherwise would be stopped. The jury is beguiled by the charisma of the beloved celebrity and they are hard-pressed to mete out punishment when called upon to do so. In the end, seeing that justice is served is no longer a priority. Instead, everyone involved is busy scouting the best book or movie deal for the small part they played in helping the celebrity circumvent the justice system because the public’s thirst for firsthand details pays handsomely. The author of O. J. Simpson, Analysis of His Murder Trial had this to say at the conclusion of the trial:
By the time it was all over, it had long ceased to be about law and order and justice served, and instead had become about voyeurs feasting on and being titillated by the complex life-style and tragedies of people whose lives, loves, and ultimately, deaths simply served up a special brand of entertainment to help a bored audience get through the day. (Jones)
Had Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman been slaughtered by John Doe, the likelihood of an author being present at the trial to make such an observation would be non-existent. The murderer would now be sitting on Death Row instead of sappily waving at the cameras as he plays golf and frolics on the manicured grounds of his one-and-a-half million dollar home. Thanks to justice being for sale, free-flowing Florida O. J. no longer pertains just to orange juice.
Works Cited
Jones, Thomas L. O. J. Simpson, Analysis of His Murder Trial. Court TV’s Crime Library. 2 Dec. 2003 .
Sealy, Geraldine. "When the Famous Become Infamous." America Online News. 25 Nov. 2003. 26 Nov. 2003 .
Why Amarillo College Should Change Its Slogan
by Margie Waguespack
"Give Yourself a Raise. Education Pays." Amarillo College’s slogan has been prominently displayed on area billboards, college publications, and the college Website for several years now. Reactions to this slogan have varied. Some community members, AC students, and AC employees have no trouble with its message. Others, however, are bothered by it and do not like the fact that it represents their community college. One AC staff member commented that it downplays what education is all about, that people can lose jobs but no one can ever take away what education gives them. A student lab worker noted that this slogan puts too much emphasis on money. Although some supporters of the slogan have argued that "raise" and "pays" don’t necessarily refer to money alone, recently pictures of money have been added to some billboards, underscoring the mercenary message. Amarillo College should change its slogan because the slogan implies that education is simply a means to an end, it ignores many unique benefits of an AC education, and it does not correspond with AC’s mission statement.
The slogan’s emphasis implies that education is simply a means to an end. If we say that the point of an education is to make more money, then we devalue education itself. Education has inherent value that should be recognized and promoted. Higher education immerses students in an environment that promotes reflection and critical thinking. In college, students necessarily learn more about themselves and others. They learn to question, refine, and support important ideas related to the nature of the universe and human nature. Studying and discussing biology, history, literature, political science, psychology, and art helps students understand themselves and their place in the world. It provides a larger and more complex context, changing their perspectives permanently, helping them to think and communicate with more depth, clarity, and purpose. This process brings them more dignity and confidence in every area of their lives, a dignity and confidence that is revealed as they relate to friends, family members, and people they encounter each day. Faculty members and advisors witness these kinds of transformations firsthand, as they see struggling single mothers, under-appreciated senior citizens, and confused nineteen-year-olds realize who they are and what they have to offer. We devalue and dehumanize these students when we tell them that the only thing happening here is cash-related. As John Henry Newman said in his well-known work, The Idea of a University Defined and Illustrated, knowledge is "an acquired illumination," and education "implies an action upon our mental nature, and the formation of character; it is something individual and permanent" (977). In her article, "College Education is a Necessity in Today’s World," Katharine Hansen lists and discusses five benefits of a college education, and only one of them relates directly to money. She points out that education brings social change to countries and communities, improving conditions for oppressed and disadvantaged people. She also notes that education is the "cornerstone of public progress" and the "essence of democratic ideals." Blacks in the segregated South and women under the Taliban in Afghanistan desired the right to be educated so that they could become full participants in their societies. Surely, the power to influence social change, improve conditions for ourselves and our children, and preserve democracy can inspire us as much as money.
If we turn students’ focus to the money at the end of the educational process, then they could start to view teachers, classes, and ideas as mere stepping stones to cross hurriedly on the way to the "important" destination. It is counterproductive to shortchange what an environment has to offer by pointing to the exit door. Would a travel agent promote a cruise by saying, "You’ll be glad when it’s over"? If AC has valuable teachers, classes, and subjects, then it should be proud to promote them. This type of promotion would also increase institutional awareness and pride.
Another problem with the slogan is that its narrow focus ignores many unique benefits of an AC education. One of the first pages of the AC catalog lists all of the "Advantages" of attending AC, but not one of these advantages is reflected by the AC slogan. Central to Amarillo College’s identity is the fact that it offers small classes taught by a dedicated and well-qualified faculty. AC has many professors with PhDs and ABD status who could be teaching at major universities but have chosen instead to devote themselves to teaching students rather than conducting research. In fact, in some AC departments, such as English and Music, the majority of the professors have PhDs or ABD status, which is quite unusual for a community college. At major universities, many classes are lecture classes taught by graduate assistants so that students are identified by numbers and do not get to know the professors or each other. That never happens at AC. Amarillo College’s well-qualified faculty members teach at every level and in small classes, allowing them to get to know their students and promote class discussions and student camaraderie. Faculty members are also involved in campus activities and advising so that they get to know their students outside of class as well. AC’s personnel are known for their commitment to students. Amarillo College attends to the whole student, providing classes and services that promote student learning and well-being. At AC, students receive personal attention and commitment to their success from the START Center, advising and counseling services, peer tutoring, study groups, extensive financial aid, and scholarships provided through the AC Foundation. AC also recognizes and promotes diversity by offering many different types of learning opportunities for different types of students. There are online classes, dual-credit classes, night and weekend classes, and five campuses for student convenience. AC has supportive programs for ESL students, adult students, first-generation college students, and more. The current slogan does not reflect any of these unique benefits and could just as easily refer to a competing college or university, where a student could also work on getting a "raise." So, even those who like the idea of associating college with a pay raise should consider that this concept does not promote AC itself.
Finally, the current slogan does not correspond to AC’s mission statement, which identifies the college’s core values. Amarillo College’s mission statement reads, "Amarillo College, a public community college, is dedicated to providing educational, cultural, and community services and resources to enhance the quality of life for the diverse population in the service area." Quality of life extends well beyond money. Recently film critic Roger Ebert encouraged teenagers to see the movie About Schmidt, in which a middle-aged man retires and realizes that he hasn’t lived a conscious or fulfilling life. Ebert noted, "If they define their lives only in terms of a good job, a good paycheck and a comfortable suburban existence, they could end up like Schmidt, dead in the water." So, when Amarillo College says it is dedicated to enhancing the quality of life for many different people, hopefully it is committed to promoting depth, clarity, and purpose that would help them avoid Schmidt’s fate. If an institution is focused solely on helping students earn a bigger paycheck, there is a danger that depth, clarity, and purpose can become superfluities to be brushed aside. As one large, successful company advises, "Your slogan helps define your business’s mission statement, values, and beliefs in one succinct phrase. Begin creating your slogan by brainstorming words you want customers to associate with your business. Then choose the most important words that emphasize the message you want to impress on consumers, encompassing your strengths and values" (Symantec Corporation).
Hopefully, we at AC can create a slogan that does just that. Amarillo College has much to offer its students, and students will be transformed in many valuable ways when they’re here. Let’s make clear to the community that, at Amarillo College, education pays--in more ways than one.
Works Cited
Ebert, Roger. Review of About Schmidt, dir. Alexander Payne. RogerEbert.com. 20
December 2002. 14 March 2005 <http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/appa/pbcs.dll/frontpage>.
Hansen, Katharine. "A College Education Is a Necessity in Today’s World."
Education and College. Ed. William Dudley. Teen Decisions Series. Greenhaven
Press, 2003. Opposing Viewpoints Resource Center. Gale Group. Lynn Library,
Amarillo College. 18 March 2005 <http://www.galegroup.com/>.
Newman, John Henry. The Idea of a University. The Norton Anthology of English
Literature. Vol. 2. Ed. M.H.Abrams. 6th ed. New York: Norton, 1993. 976-982.
Symantec Corporation. "Smart Business Branding." Symantec. 18 March 2005
<www.symantec.com>.
Spring 2005
Writers' Roundup Winners
Each year the Amarillo College English Department holds a Writer’s Roundup contest to encourage beginning as well as advanced writers to demonstrate their creative flair. Students are given a prompt and have two hours in which to write. The type of writing is up to the student.
For more information on how to enter this friendly competition, please call (806) 371-5170 or email Angie Kleffman, English Department Writing Lab Supervisor II, at kleffman-am@actx.edu.
Lime Calculations and Tequila Risks
(Grand Prize Winner)
by Micah Avita
The shot burned going down, and the lime helpedbut not enough. The girl sitting next to me at the small round table took hers also.
"So it’s not like you’ll be f*****g anybody or bein’ a whore or something. I mean I go to my husband every night."
I was having a hard time not staring at her thigh high white leather boots with Cowboy blue stars on them and her little bottoms with a similar star right over her, well better to not think of it as some euphemism my mother would use. "P***y" really is an elegant word when you consider the puritanical alternatives.
I had been waitressing in this little burlesque bar for six months now and I wanted what those girls had, so I had joked around with the manager tonight, hoping for an opportunity. The manager was young, boyishly good looking and forever talking with the girls and wait staff, not that there was much of a staff, just me and another girl.
"So if I wanted to dance, Jeff, I bet you wouldn’t let me near that stage. Ya know I’m not glamorous like those other girls."
"I’d put you on in a heartbeat baby, but," and he had leaned in closer to me across the bar, "it’s not worth it. You’re a good girl, not like these other girls and besides you’ll make good money for a month but then you’ll be goin’ home with fifteen buck’s a night."
"You’re telling me those girls are goin’ home with fifteen buck’s a night. Bulls**t, I see the money they’re makin’."
"I’m telling you the truth but if you wanna do it, go talk to Star. She’ll lend you some clothes to get started."
I took up my tray and made a round of the room. I was not a "good girl" and it seems I was spending most of my life trying to prove that to myself. I knew Star was a freak for tequila, even having me bring her shots to the stage, so I took a couple to her table. Her customer had left and the other few men were already sitting with girls, so I knew the time was right.
"Little Sister you picked a good night to start. Hardly anybody here. C’mon I’ll find you something to wear."
We wound our way past the DJ booth and past the curtain to the dressing room. Now I had never been allowed back here before. There was a long counter with a long mirror. A virtual city of hair accessories populated the counter and lockers were against the wall. Star began rummaging through a giant duffle bag, spilling clothes everywhere. Shiny reds and blues and pinks. I would never have guessed she had that many outfits as she almost perpetually wore her Dallas Cowboy outfit, which the men adored.
She held something up that looked like all strings, but when she saw my face quickly put it back and pulled out a blue crushed velvet dress. It could’ve been a cocktail dress except it was way too short. Grabbing some blue panties she called T-backs, "See it will make a T right over your ass," she handed it all to me. I was suddenly self-conscious. I’ve dressed for gym plenty of times but suddenly I felt like I was an actress in a dressing room and everything was different.
As I slipped my jeans and panties off, I thought of lying in Jackson’s arms last night. We were lovers; we were friends. "Don’t you ever feel like you need to go to the edge?" I asked.
He tensed, sensing another one of my ludicrous ideas coming on. "Edge of what?"
"The knife, the cliff, sanity. You knowdo something that’s frightening and exhilarating. Something once in a lifetime," I answered.
"Baby, you always thinking that life is on the other side, but when you get there it still ain’t there."
"I wanna try dancing, and I’m asking you to support me and believe that I would never hurt you intentionally."
He had turned his head then, but I knew I had him. "Alright but I don’t like it."
"You look great," Star chirped into my thoughts, talking to me but looking at herself in the full length mirror. Actually I didn’t "look great." Or so I thought. I definitely didn’t have that rail thin taut body of the dancers I most admired, but my dark hair and eyes could be called alluring.
"I’m scared, I’m nervous, I don’t think I can do this."
Star turned and walked to the curtain by the DJ booth, "Hey get us a couple of dressed tequilas. I’ll pay you in an hour."
After the shots had arrived, Star began showing me various moves to start with on stage. She taught me to crouch down with my fingertips on my knees just so and slowly stand back up while making a seductive S-curve with my whole body. She had me practice with a chair like it was a pole and laughed at my efforts but kept repeating, "You’ll get it, you’ll get it."
Next we went to the DJ booth to select music and choose a stage name. Now this excited me. Choose a name for myself. Which I did. But the music turned out to be difficult. I have always been a radio person, but I tune out song names and artists so I was at a loss at recognizing songs. I left that up to Star.
We went back stage to wait for the DJ to call me and practiced moves. Star kept up a barrage of suggestions and rules, "Take the tip here over your hip, never in the front or in the back. Say thank you and kiss them on the cheek, never on the lips. Don’t dance too long for one personmake them buy a couch dance to get that. Don’t sell your dances cheaper than the rest of us or we will make your life hell. Don’t go home with anyone."
The money aspect was beginning to cloud things for me when the DJ called, "Mystery," and the terror tightened in my stomach. The high strappy black heels wobbled but I braced myself, steeled myself, and stepped daintily over a cliff and onto the stage to the sensuous sounds of Meredith Brooks singing, "I’m a Bitch, I’m a lover."
The Grass Guard
(1st Place Sophomore Winner)
by Karen Taylor
Dear Justin,
I have a little story to tell you about Papa or as we like to call him, "the Blue Man," because all he likes to wear are stretchy, blue coveralls.
Ever since Papa bought his house in the new addition, he has become obsessed with his yard and won’t allow anyone to walk on it. For the most part, Papa sits on a rickety metal stool on his front porch, and in his gnarled hand he holds a dull, green garden hose. Anyone passing by would think he is just a kindly old man tending to his yard. However, they only need to look closer at the hose to see the water coming out of it is more of a leak than a trickle, and his eyes are not meeting theirs, but are instead trained on their feet watching for any movements toward his grass. As the errant foot is in mid-step hovering over the grass, Papa shoots off of the stool like a freshly lit bottle rocket and explodes, "Stay Off The Grass!!" The shocked wouldbe grass crusher makes a quick retreat, and Papa perches back on his stool like an old buzzard on a fence just waiting for his next meal.
Recently, the builders have started erecting a house on the vacant lot next door to Papa. This event has added greatly to his grass guard duty as now the side yard is in danger of the carpenters squashing it with their huge steel-toe boots and wheelbarrows loaded down with dirt, bricks and concrete. Papa has moved from the front porch to the garage, which is now his personal lair. He lurks in the shadows, quietly surveying the carpenters’ every move. This works for a while until the carpenters move out of his field of vision and cause him to devise a new plan. I stopped by the other day and found Papa suited out in his most flexible blue coveralls lying on the grass, half creeping, half rolling and sporadically repositioning a bucket in front of him. I’m not quite sure what to make of this spectacle, so I cautiously walk over to him and ask him if he is all right. He looks up at me with a Chesshire cat grin and calmly states he is pulling weeds. Now you and I both know there is not a single weed in his museum quality grass, and one look in the empty bucket confirms this. At that moment, a big booted carpenter gingerly walks by with a wheelbarrow full of bricks, narrowly missing the edge of Papa’s grass. This close call causes Papa to snatch up his empty bucket with one hand while he uses the other to push off as he rolls towards the offender, effecting a portly, grandpa-body barrier. Once in position, Papa smiles sweetly at the potential grass killer, and as their eyes meet, an exchange of understanding passes between them. I’m the only one standing there shocked by this display of my seventy-year-old father rolling around on grass like some big blue playful old dog because it is apparent the carpenter has witnessed this bizarre ballet several times before. Papa has fooled these lead-footed carpenters into thinking he is a harmless, peaceful old man, but I know if they take one step onto his grass he will instantly turn into an ankle biter.
I know how much you like to hear what our crazy family is up to, and I hope this little tale has made you feel closer to home now that you’re far off in Iraq. In my next letter, I will tell you about papa frolicking on his grass with his new friend, Oreo. Oreo is the builder’s big Labrador Retriever.
Love you always,
Auntie Em
Mort et Vie
(1st Place Freshman Winner)
by Christopher Palkow
The ambulance rocked wildly as it blasted through traffic. Suzanne watched the contents of the shelves as they bounced about, kept from smashing all over the back by Plexiglass doors.
The IV in her arm was beginning to burn. She tried to touch the spot where the needle was digging in, but was too weak to move.
It was going to be okay, though. Sitting beside her, whispering encouraging nothings that made only him feel better, was her husband Ray. He was a good man, but strangely incompetent when left to his own devices. Now, when she needed him to be strong and supportive, he could manage little more than weak simpering.
Suzanne grunted and closed her eyes. She could feel their baby kicking away like hell inside her. It was as if Little Brutus was forgoing the classic escape route and was planning to punch through her belly button.
A cry escaped her lips, and Ray began a new litany of calming cliche!s.
The ambulance continued to rock, but now she began to imagine it was a boat on a lake, rocking gently as she fished.
There was a strange crashing sound, screams, the grinding of metal and intense heat. Suzanne opened her eyes, but could see nothing but black. Heat stung her eyes. She felt the air choking out of her and tried to stand up.
Her body, too numb from the medication to move, was unresponsive. She cried out for help, but her words couldn’t get past her throat. Something had lodged itself down her neck and refused to let go.
She frantically looked about, fighting her stinging eyes and the thick air in the ambulance. She managed to make out a twisted metal frame and realized that somehow the ambulance was a misshapen shadow of its former self.
Hopelessness washed over her. She lay back, nothing to do but wait. And where the hell was Ray? The smoke and heat made it difficult to see, but how hard would it be for Ray to grab her and drag her to safety? It was their child they were rushing to the hospital for in the first place. What if they had left her there? What if Ray had finally become his true cowardly self and had run off, leaving her to face whatever fate alone? The thought became an icy rock in her chest. And just moments ago she had been so safe!
Suzanne laid back, tears running free, and closed her eyes. She let herself slip away. What did it matter? If they were going to get her out, they’d do so. Otherwise, she might as well relax and allow herself a dream or two before death.
There was a sharp bump and Suzanne opened her eyes. Fluorescent lights moved past her overhead. The sound of squeaking wheels filled her ears. Suddenly, layered over that, was the sound of voices calling hurriedly for 100 ccs of something or other and "Cold compresses at once!"
She was safe. She sighed and allowed herself to settle into the gurney.
A face in a doctor’s mask appeared over hers, the large brown eyes filled with concern.
"You’re gonna be okay, Suzanne!" The doctor said, patting her shoulder. "We’ll take good care of you."
Suzanne tried to respond, but found it difficult to keep her eyes open. She was safe here, and she surrendered to the need to give up and let someone else worry about her.
Soon she was in a large area she could only identify by a large single round light overhead and a glistening white ceiling.
She was lifted from the bed and placed onto another, on her side. This movement revealed the room to her.
Smeared over all the walls was blood. Pieces of meat and flesh could be discerned here and there, along with bits of hair. The tables, the instruments, the hems of the doctors’ gowns were all dripping with blood. She could see dried blood caked to her table, all about her head.
There was a welling up of strength, and Suzanne raised her voice. "Where am I?"
The doctors seemed surprised by her outburst. One of them motioned to her, and a large man came over, pulling her to her back. With surprising force, he held her down and strapped her to the bed.
Suzanne tried to scream, but it was too late. Her body, weak and drugged, was no match. She could only watch.
The doctor with the large brown eyes appeared again, nodding. "Don’t worry, Suzanne. You are perfectly safe. We just need to get that little critter out of you and you’ll be fine." He lifted a scalpel from a rusting tray. The scalpel was covered with dried blood, and a bit of hair clung from it. The doctor noticed the hair, peeled it off, and threw it to the floor. "We don’t want to be unsanitary, do we?"
And with that, the doctor made the first incision. No anesthetic, the pain shot through her system. She was being cut open in this hell-hole! She was going to die.
"You know, Suzanne," the doctor began, "It always surprises me how easily people are able to give themselves over to their doctors. You know what I’m talking about. You like to trust doctors, don’t ya?" He giggled, throwing the scalpel over his shoulder. Suzanne watched it fly through the air, blood arcing behind it. "Yep, good old doctors. You know, I went to one once. You know what he told me?" The doctor winked and leaned in close. "He said I needed to take some medicine. " He lifted his cap, revealing a bald plate covered with thick pink and red scars. "So I did." He laughed, pulling the cap back into place, and began feeling her belly.
The pain was a constant burn now, and Suzanne knew something was incredibly wrong. She could feel something tearing apart inside.
"Well, here goes something." The doctor chuckled and plunged his hands into Suzanne. At that moment, her body began to shake on its own. She could feel herself flapping about, and could do nothing to stop it. Fire flowed from her belly outward, bringing with it a sweet numbness and an overwhelming feeling of finality.
Suzanne had no illusions about her surviving. Whatever was going on, whoever these beasts were, she was going to die.
The doctor began ripping out organs as he charged in for the unborn child. Suzanne watched the blood explode up out of her body as the doctor let out a triumphant yell. With a full yank, he pulled a mottled body out of the remains of her stomach. It was a grey color, disfigured and still.
"Damn it!" The doctor cried out. "We lost one!" He looked at the child for a moment. "Well, waste not want not." He pulled the mask away. His mouth was little more than a gaping hole filled with long, thin, pointed teeth. He stuffed the baby in and began to chew.
Suzanne cried out and the world slipped away.
She awoke to find herself strapped to the table yet, her body riddled with pain.
Instead of a hospital, she was in a long hallway lit by buzzing lights and filled with creatures that were more corpses than people.
She was beginning to feel some peace again. Perhaps what she had witnessed was a hallucination. It was conceivable that she was simply in a hospital, waiting for Ray to bring her flowers and candy. Hellshe might still be in the ambulance!
The lights dimmed and then came up full, forcing many of those in the hall to gasp and cover her eyes. Suzanne was certainly one of them.
When the light subsided, she saw her doctor’s full form, and she knew she was dead.
Ray sat outside the operating room, restless. He glanced at his watch five minutes later than the last time he looked.
The door to the room opened, and Dr. Mackey came out. His mask was removed, and Ray could see there was something horribly wrong.
"What happened?" Ray asked, rising to his feet.
"Now, Ray, I’m so sorry. Your wife, Suzanne... there were complications." He put his hand on Ray’s shoulder, gripping it. "Your little boy is fine, and will be ready for you once we get him weighed."
"Suz..."
"She’s gone."
Ray collapsed into the chair, dumbstruck.
He had told her everything was going to be all right. They both believed that once she got to the hospital, she was safe.
She had slipped away even before they reached the hospital, though, hadn’t she? So that sense of security was nothing more than a lie.
Ray wiped his eyes and waited for his son to be delivered to him. He was sure about that, at least. His son was safe. His son, a boy whose soul came very close to being stolen away just moments ago. A boy who almost died. A boy who actually remembered seeing something with large brown eyes looking at him while he slept in the womb, waiting to be delivered.
Even in his mother’s womb, peace and security were illusions.