Archive for December, 2010

Movement


06 Dec

Movement

by Taylor Meredith

Biography

Taylor Meredith’s currently in her third year at SCF with plans to graduate in May of 2011. After graduation, Taylor intends to transfer either to New College of Florida or Florida State University where she’ll major in English and Creative Writing. Outside of school, Taylor enjoys storytelling through both her written and visual work. In her rare downtime she’s a fan of vegging out with sinfully delicious snacks and good horror movies.

Color Wash


06 Dec

Color Wash

by Taylor Meredith

Biography

Taylor Meredith’s currently in her third year at SCF with plans to graduate in May of 2011. After graduation, Taylor intends to transfer either to New College of Florida or Florida State University where she’ll major in English and Creative Writing. Outside of school, Taylor enjoys storytelling through both her written and visual work. In her rare downtime she’s a fan of vegging out with sinfully delicious snacks and good horror movies.

Child


06 Dec

Child

by Jay Foulk

Biography

I was born with three legs but when the doc tried to cut off the third, she dropped the chainsaw, and now I’m one and a half legged.

Mother


06 Dec

Mother

by Jay Foulk

Biography

I was born with three legs but when the doc tried to cut off the third, she dropped the chainsaw, and now I’m one and a half legged.

Prayer for a Recent Planting


06 Dec

O Strong Oak,
Mighty Oak,
I invoke to you
a future.

Though slender and spindly,
Your twisted trunk strengthens,
The taut fibrous sinews
Of a god-made steel.

O Strong Oak,
Mighty Oak,
I invoke to you
A home.

by Woody McCree

The Ocala Forest


05 Dec

Run Rabbit Run,
Disappearing off the grid,
No inner compass at hand-
Just endless seas
Of scrub and sand
And windswept pine.

Run Rabbit Run,
Deeper and deeper-
Indecipherable trails-
Never to return.

Regress to the age
of conifers and ferns,
the green desert calling
all civilized to repent,
dissolve, and forever disappear.

by Woody McCree

Southern Pot-Stickers


05 Dec

{Pre-heat}

Let’s start with the rib-stickers of waist-wideners that ward off the cold lean of a belly’s grumble: back-fat and fat back, with ham hocks, and bacon grease and lard-lined pans—“to season” stews and pots full of vegetables: white acre and black-eyed peas, lima and green beans make tongues live easy and jaws clap in ovation of fill theS empty gut.

Let’s continue with leftover Thanksgiving’s turkey carcass boiled-all-day-down till its spare skeletal frame elbows the pot’s brim, and swats at and ducks from the wooden spoon. Just a spoonful of carnage helps the ingredients meld down, in the most traditional way: gumbo, gravy, étouffée, chili, barbeque, roux.

{Preparation of Main Course}

Vegetarians, like vultures, scavenge too for Earth’s tendrils: umbilical fruits, parsnips, organic algae. Southern Vegetarians’ hands handle oyster knives, cut-up okra and tomatoes, yellow squash and Spanish onions with a teat of brown sugar. Pillagers they are. Harvesters in-season.

Vegetarians shuck then fry yellow and white corn kernels, strewn with salt and black-pepper seasonings in a pan to plate right next to Jiffy cornbread baked in 9-inch cast iron skillets, coated in vegetable oil. Season-side-up, double-dipped in buttermilk, deep-fried okra drowns paper towels lined in a tinfoil cake pan.

{Dessert}

Southerners jar jelly, fill lard-laden piecrusts, hand-patted with flour, and then folded with fruit—been-out-all-week fruit ripens on countertops, like bananas, apples, and pineapples. Banana puddings, peach & blueberry cobblers, meld down with sticks of butter. Cake heaven on holidays, passport us to German Chocolate, and Italian Cream; just a slice of cream cheese pound cake, coconut or red velvet, tradition the most Southern way.

by Yolanda J. Franklin

Sixty-Nine


05 Dec

The first girl I ever kissed wore
cherry necklaces and swore by
numbers. Somehow, she explained
as we sat alone in her house, her
parents gone away to a movie,
our names amounted to nothing
more than a sequence of digits,
a summation of our identities, and
who we could become together. So
she added our names together, the two
of us sitting on her bed, alone in her
house with her parents gone away
to a movie. She chewed on her pen,
quietly assessing the number written
on the notepad in front of her, leaving
me to guess the meaning of her silence.

Double zeroes, maybe, or worse, I
feared, perhaps three sixes. Together
We were the Biblical beast, our future
offspring a sign of the End Times?
Instead of showing me the number,
She spoke it. She breathed it.

69

Infused by cherry wisps, it hung
like a promise in the air, radiated by
the heat of our bodies, everything
suspended,
her chest rising and falling
awaiting my response. “The year
I was born,” I answered, causing
the number to dissipate suddenly, no
more than an afterimage then, and I
wondered at the staleness filling the room
then, something rank lingering in my
mouth for as long as I remembered
the stars that predetermined the words
I was doomed to speak, every woman
since then the bearer of something precious, if only
I could make the numbers come
out right.

by Douglas Ford

Staff — Fall 2010


05 Dec

chelsey
Chelsey Lucas, Editor in Chief

kat
Kat Douse, Assistant Editor in Chief

Nancy Avila, Editor

Aubry Boyd, Editor

Victoria Champion, Editor

Juan Colon, Editor


Tricia Gorton, Editor


Brennan O’Dea, Editor


Drake Rucker, Editor


A.J. Saponara, Editor

Non-Fiction — Fall 2010


05 Dec

Anna Maldzhiev, Mindless Addiction