novel opening: There’s Something I Need to Tell You
Constance Alexander, Murray
In its heyday, the Mayflower Hotel for Women was home to daughters of the rich seeking adventure in Manhattan until they got married and moved to Westchester. Grace Kelly was rumored to have lived there before she moved uptown to the Barbizon, then on to Hollywood, and finally to the palace in Monaco, but that was years ago. By the time Win Anderson moved in the day of her college graduation in 1968, the only remnant of the Mayflower’s mythic past was an ancient bellman in an ill-fitting uniform. He waved Win’s father aside, pointing to the sign that said, “No men allowed above the lobby,” and piled her luggage onto a rickety cart, leaving Fred Anderson leaning against a pillar by the reception desk, chain-smoking and checking his watch. Win dumped the bags and the shoebox filled with letters in her room, and then rushed downstairs to beg off a celebratory graduation dinner by claiming she had cramps, an excuse that guaranteed a swift goodbye kiss from Daddy. Back upstairs, she unwrapped the commencement gifts from her sister: padded hangers, sweet-scented sachets and a pink satin bed jacket with matching high-heeled slippers, the kind their mother would have said you could kill yourself in.
“A little luxury for the working girl,” Arden had scrawled on the card, causing Win to wonder if her older sister imagined she was taking up residence in a bordello.
With a sigh, Win pulled her demure cotton nightgown over her head and began removing the clothes underneath without revealing any flesh. She’d learned the maneuver at Catholic boarding school, and it had become second nature, but when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she realized it was time to shrug off old habits. With that, she flung the nightgown across the room, stripped naked and sank into bed to re-read Bobby’s letters.
novel opening: Cousins at War
Ruth Ochs Webster, Allison Park, Pennsylvania (Ruth was born and raised in Kenton County, Kentucky.)
Bracken County, Kentucky, June 1861
It called to be touched, the strong jawline of her 19-year-old son. Her own cheeks no longer held the beauty of youth—reflecting, instead, 52 years of hardscrabble existence. Tucking wayward strands of whispery gray hair behind her ear, she resisted the urge to touch, to stroke, the youngest of her boys. He wanted none of that. Had asked her point blank not to. He needed to see strength now, and she would give that—as she always gave. Whatever was needed.
fiction: Lock and Key
Katie Sullivan Hughbanks, Louisville
Through the tall hay, high as a pony’s chest, I spotted him ducking. He scrutinized me, watched me silently. From my partial view, I could see his coffee-colored skin glinting in the sun.
Not knowing what to do, I kept to my chore, hacking away at the dead tree Papa cursed at all last week. Said he didn’t have time to be hauling off some dead oak that fell in a lightning storm near a month ago. He told me it was a boy’s job. My ax arm was hurting and sore. Still, I hacked. Every few seconds, though, I’d spy a sideways glance to see if that man was still there, hiding in the hayfield to my left. Not hiding too good, I might add. He must have known I’d see him.
What to do.
Only 13, I don’t know what’s right. Some say the rich folks should be able to keep as many slaves as they can afford. Papa says he ain’t so sure. Don’t really matter much to us, I suppose, since we don’t have enough money for new shoes or leather gloves, much less slaves. Must be awful being somebody else’s possession, much less a runaway. He is gonna get hisself killed, I thought to myself as I chopped at the limbs. Another sideways glance. And he don’t look all that much older than me. Maybe 20. Maybe younger.
What to do.
My arm was dreadful tired, so I decided to chance it and take a break. Papa was off in town; Ma was making lunch. No one would catch me wasting a moment to relax my muscle. I’m not big like Papa, barely Ma’s size, really, but I’m growing. Soon I’ll be a real man.
Man. That black man. I caught his eye and lifted my chin his way. In that moment, everything stopped but the summer breeze. It brought some relief as it blew through my damp shirt. Then he lifted his chin, too. Not that much older than me, but bigger. Darker, for sure.
What to do.
The man, he began to stand from the crouch where he hid. He was a head taller than that hay when he stood up full. Geez, he really could get hisself killed if somebody saw him. Who knows what a person might do. Even Mama. I thought of the rifle that stands ready near our kitchen stove. Here I was, and I had seen him. Who would see him next?
He lifted his hands through the golden-green hay stalks. Cuffs—iron ones—held his wrists inches apart. The man was locked tight by those manacles.
I paused, then looked at the heavy ax in my hands. I’ve never even been near a black man before. With a silent prayer we’d both be free of each other safely, I held the ax up and approached him slowly, crouching into the hay myself. No movement from the house; Mama had not seen me. Up close, the black man’s breath was fast and loud. I could see whiskers on his jaws. His eyes, full of fear and pleading.
It took only a moment and not one word.
He put his hands near the ground, and I lifted the ax over my shoulder. The hay prickled at my arms and face. In one swing, it was all over. Using all my 13-year-old might, the blade crashed down. That iron chain weren’t so hefty and strong after all.
Free in one blow, the cuffs separated. His dark head nodded, he lifted his chin at me once again, and then he ran like a wild animal through the hayfield toward old man Carter’s farm.
He had been locked. My ax was the key.
Free.
With a dirty, shaking hand, I rubbed sweat from my cheek, sensing one tiny hair poking from my skin. Maybe, I thought as I headed back to the dead oak and my boy’s job, I’m gettin’ closer to bein’ a real man.
fiction: Drive Through
Marie Mitchell + Mason Smith, Richmond
Calvin Baker, night manager of Lanesville’s 24-hour McDonald’s, spots his drive-through clerk frantically waving at him. The already weary Baker walks toward her window. It’s 3:30 a.m. His feet hurt, and he’s counting the days—five—until his fishing trip to a friend’s cabin.
It’s been a painfully slow shift for mid-October. And there are still 90 minutes to go before the breakfast crew arrives to relieve them.
“What is it?” he asks Larkyn, an easily excitable teen.
“That customer,” says the college freshman, pointing at a Ford Escort barely visible on the security camera.
Baker studies the grainy screen. The dim light makes it hard to pick up details. But he can tell the car’s in bad shape. Front bumper askew. Windshield with a lightning bolt crack. One headlight shorting out. Dings spread all over the mud-spattered hood.
“It’s not stalled in queue, is it?” he asks, dreading the thought, let alone the act, of having to push it somewhere so it doesn’t block the other cars.
“I don’t think so,” Larkyn says.
“Did he say something offensive?”
“No. Just ordered his fish sandwich, extra tartar sauce.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Baker prompts, as he tires of the guessing game.
Larkyn turns as pale as Morticia Addams. She hesitates before blurting out, “I think the guy in the passenger seat is … dead.”
“What?” Baker says, startled. There’s nothing in the manager’s manual about handling such a situation.
He stares at the screen. It’s obvious that the passenger is slumped down in the seat.
Baker watches for a few moments. He confirms that the passenger is still. Very still. Definitely not moving. But … dead? Impossible.
How ridiculously absurd would it be for someone to haul around a body, then pull into a fast food drive-through lane to satisfy a craving for a fish sandwich? No one would be that stupid.
“He probably partied all night. He’s just sleeping off a bender,” Baker assures his staff. But still, he can’t take his eyes off the camera. Surely the guy will twitch. Turn. Or puke. Anything to show there’s some life in him.
“I don’t think so,” Larkyn argues. “His eyes are wide open. But they’re not blinking. It’s not normal. It creeps me out.”
Baker scrutinizes the image some more while Larkyn’s trembling hands nearly drop the change for a customer wearing hospital scrubs.
“It’s just a prank,” Baker rationalizes. “Stunts like this happen all the time. Folks are always trying to freak us out. That’s the way they get their kicks. Don’t fall for it.”
But Baker’s not totally convinced himself.
As the Escort finally reaches the window, a gloved hand extends a $10 bill. Larkyn nearly recoils as she accepts the money, holding it out like a dead rat.
One corner has a reddish stain, so Baker sends Larkyn to the sink to wash off what he believes is corn syrup and red dye. This clown takes a joke to the limit, he thinks.
Politely, he tells the driver, “It’ll be another minute on that fish,” and asks him to pull forward so they can serve the other customers whose orders are ready.
Larkyn refuses to deliver the sandwich when it’s done, so, grudgingly, Baker carries the sack outside to the waiting car, noting something is leaking from the Escort—probably oil.
He taps on the driver’s window, and it slowly rolls down. “Sorry about the wait,” he apologizes to the hooded figure.
Baker knows he should leave. Now. Without any further conversation—or a glance inside the car.
He knows he should keep his curiosity in check. Walk back inside. Finish out his shift. Not let his imagination run wild.
But he can’t help himself. Against his better judgment, he looks straight through the open window and right at the passenger who’s propped against the opposite door.
The man doesn’t appear to be breathing. His chest isn’t moving. His eyes are staring blankly upward. And, oh yes, there’s a wet circle on his jacket, dangerously close to his heart.
Baker steps back—shocked, speechless, spooked. He nearly trips on the curb.
The driver locks eyes with Baker, who can’t seem to break the connection. Calmly, emotionlessly, hypnotically, he says, “Hunting accident. Heading to the ER.”
Baker nods as the gleam of a gun barrel shines between the seats. “Hospital’s a mile down the road,” he says, pointing south toward the bypass, aware that the driver is in no hurry to get there.
“Thanks … Calvin Baker,” the driver growls, reading the manager’s name tag. “I’ll remember to give you five stars for such good service.”
The Escort pulls away in a cloud of exhaust. Baker begins hosing down the drive-through lane to rinse what he’s pretty sure now isn’t motor oil. He contemplates his vacation. A transfer to a different location. Or maybe entering a witness protection program.
non fiction: The Plumber
Bobbie S. Bryant, Louisville
“I put a bucket under the back of the toilet in the upstairs bathroom,” says Margaret the housekeeper as she descends the stairs. “I had to mop up a good bit of water.”
“Just what I need,” Phil groans aloud to the housekeeper. “Guess I’ll have to call a plumber.”
“Yeah, it’s leaking pretty badly. You’d better keep an eye on the bucket to make sure it doesn’t overflow.” Margaret places the wet mop in the hall closet, finished for the day. A moment later, she calls out, “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks,” as she lets herself out the back door.
Phil continues typing at his computer. When finished, he leans back in his chair in thought. Stupid toilet. I really can’t afford to get it fixed right now. I just got the hospital paid off from surgery six months ago.
With conviction, he gets up and marches directly to the utility room to get a wrench.
“I’ll just fix it myself,” he mutters.
Knee replacement surgery has left Phil with diminished mobility, but he manages the stairs relatively well. He holds tightly to the handrail and takes his time.
Sure enough, the bucket is already filling with water.
Annoyed, he looks at the backside of the toilet to locate the problem. He gingerly kneels on his right knee, holding onto the bowl for balance. He leans to the left and locates the bolt that probably needs adjusting. The task is going to be tricky as he’s right-handed. The space between the wall on his left and the toilet on his right is only about a dozen inches apart. Then there’s the toilet paper holder on the wall in the spot where his body needs to be.
With the wrench in his left hand, he wedges his substantial girth into the narrow space. At such an awkward angle, placement is complicated, but he manages to secure the wrench and gives it a twist. Nothing happens. Another tug and the wrench slips off the bolt.
Darn it! This isn’t going as well as he’d imagined.
He makes another clumsy attempt, and the wrench drops off again, clanking loudly onto the base of the toilet.
Wiggling his less-than-supple body a little further into the tight space, he leans in, his head pressed against the back wall. His right hand grips the toilet lid, serving as his anchor.
His face reddens, and a bead of sweat forms at his hairline.
Phil tugs the bolt one more time. Nothing.
He curses.
Frustrated, he contemplates his next move.
This has got to be what’s causing the drip, he reasons. Minutes tick by. His neck is numb from his head being turned to the side, pressed against the wall. With resolve, he repositions himself and makes one more rotation, this time with force. The bolt suddenly gives, and Phil loses his balance. His body lurches and pins his torso and hips between the wall, the paper dispenser and the toilet.
To make matters worse, the water bucket is nearly at capacity.
Fully wedged in the corner of the back and side walls, Phil distends his right arm. He reaches for the tank of the toilet and braces himself for lift. He digs the toes of his shoes into the linoleum floor for leverage. He sucks in his belly and shimmies his hips.
Nothing moves.
He tries again.
Nada.
He can’t believe the dilemma. No one else is in the house, and he’s not expecting company. He didn’t bring his cell phone upstairs, and there is no phone in the bathroom.
What a pickle.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The water is less than a quarter-inch from overflowing the bucket.
Phil ponders his next move.
He aligns his right arm above his head, placing his hand against the back wall. He pushes with all his might while slightly lifting his lower body. His body plops heavily to the floor.
With moves that would make a contortionist proud, he wiggles backward and finally works loose from the torture chamber.
Clear of the toilet, he rolls over and sits on his rump. His hair is wet against his brow. Sweat streams down his back, and his shirt is soaked. He is exhausted.
Now, to stand up so he can empty the bucket.
He puts his left forearm on the lid of the toilet seat for leverage and strains to get his right leg into position.
It doesn’t work.
He rolls onto his hip and tries again.
Crap.
Sweat pours profusely.
Drained, he thinks about those old ladies on TV commercials who have fallen and can’t get up.
He curses.
Minutes tick by. What to do?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Finally, good, old-fashioned ingenuity wins the day. Using both hands and feet while sitting on his butt, he inchworms his body toward the door, out into the hall. At the top of the stairs, he plants his feet on the top step.
With labored breath, he rests, dog-tired from the exertion.
He grips the handrail, hoists himself up and stands erect, shoulders squared. The Hallelujah Chorus rises to a crescendo.
Phil wearily returns to the bathroom, grabs the bucket of water and dumps it into the tub.
Now, if he can just remember the name of that plumber.
non-fiction: Christmas Red
Katie Glauber Bush, Louisville
Today is the day after Christmas, 1960, and I am on the St. Matthews-Springhill bus with my older sister, Ann. We’re heading to Stewart’s Dry Goods in downtown Louisville to exchange the hideous green slippers I received from Aunt Inez and Uncle John. They apparently have no clue what an almost 11-year-old would like for Christmas. In their defense, it’s hard to find clothes that fit me.
I’m 5-feet, 8 inches tall, and my wrists and ankles seem to be perpetually surrounded by miles of bare skin because sleeves and pant legs have no notion how far they need to stretch. I am the tallest fifth grader at Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school. My feet are already huge, and I often feel like Baby Huey, the gigantic cartoon duck. Worst of all, my face, with no warning, can turn into a bright-red lighthouse beacon.
The green slippers are too short, and I have no intention of replacing them with a longer pair. Surely in all the floors at Stewart’s there is something that will fit my freak body. Children’s clothes no longer fit, and junior clothes are often too short. Misses sizes presume my bosoms have developed, and that, sadly, has not happened. And while I sat enthralled as the nuns shared with us the booklet, Growing Up and Liking It, my enthusiasm has not brought about my menstrual period.
Regardless of my size, Mother and Ann say I am still a child. But if I am a child, then I would like someone to explain why I absolutely know for certain that I am going to marry TV star George Maharis. When I watch him on Route 66, I get this giggling sensation in my tummy. It’s love. I just know it.
We get off the bus at the stop between Third and Fourth streets and cross Walnut Street to enter Stewart’s. I wander past the cosmetics, scarves and purses on the first floor and head to the escalator. Ann follows. Once I hit the second floor, the lingerie section draws me like a moth to its nylon-and-lace flame. I’ve never noticed this section before. There are no pajamas here—only beautiful, slippery gowns. I see the most glorious red nightgown and robe.
“Do you have it in my size?” I ask the saleswoman.
“I believe you would take a medium in this peignoir set,” the smiling woman says.
“Peignoir,” I quietly repeat to myself. That even sounds grown up.
Before my sister can say a word, I’m in a dressing room admiring how soft it feels next to my skin, how beautiful it is, and how glamorous I feel. Spaghetti straps are so grown up and, if my face behaves, I even look good in red. I can’t wait to take it home and show everyone.
I look like Loretta Young.
Riding home on the bus, I know that my new nightgown and robe will make Momma realize I am no longer a little kid. When the bus drops us off at the corner of Breckenridge Lane and Winchester Road, I start to feel my first twinge of anxiety.
“Wait until Mom and Dad see what you bought with your Christmas money,” Ann says.
When we walk in the door, Ann calls out for everyone to come see what I have purchased. She begs me to put it on and come out and model it for all to see.
Meekly, I take the bag to my bedroom and quickly change from my scratchy wool pedal pushers and sweater to my new soft gown and sheer robe.
“Here I come!” I announce.
I stride into the room and take a twirl so all of them can see just how beautiful it is. I take my final turn only to realize they are all laughing. My face turns as crimson as the gown, as red as a lighthouse beacon, but there is no safe harbor.
poetry: Pitching My Tent at the Losses
Kristy Robinson Horine, Paris
To the left and right of 460
is Ace High Cattle Company.
The way it smells tonight
makes me want to
pitch my tent
in the middle
of the asphalt.
One side: cut alfalfa,
pushed up into rows
like a girl’s fresh-plaited hair.
But green and fragrant
warm and spiked with drying stalks,
flowers wilted to drooping heads.
Other side: promise of corn.
On the fence: honeysuckle vine,
strange trees to me,
unruly and strong,
with the smell that lingers
and the taste that leaves me
to long for more than a touch upon my tongue.
Mama’s the one,
who taught me the parts to pull out
for the sweetness.
Red clover and honeysuckle.
Tiny tubes not even big enough to satisfy the fairies.
But adequate
for a butterfly,
like me.
Right now, I’d say
it’s the giving up
to get what you got.
It’s the gains
and the losses along the way.
You have to kill it to taste it.
Cut it down to feed it.
Necessary sacrifices.
And the actions harvested from times ago …
memories put into rows and baled and ricked.
Celebrated with a toast of honeysuckle and clover.
Sweetness.
To honor the losses
along the way.
poetry: And The People Moved
Earl Hall, Trophy Club, Texas (Earl was born in Martin, Kentucky, and raised in McDowell.)
They pushed and dug and clanked and the trains rumbled through the valleys and the whistles blew and the windows rattled and the mountains shook until they heaved forth the coal to power the industries and wars that made a country great.
When the coal was gone the houses fell the people moved and stayed in hospitals with lungs that wheezed like the trains that moved the coal.
The people moved to the cities and built cars for the country to travel the roads that people built west to California that didn’t stop until they came to the ocean and then built piers reaching out into the ocean to a new world where better cars were built and the factories closed and the people moved and the houses fell and the families crumbled like the cities’ walls and streets.
The people moved back to their homes in the hills and the rusted hulks of cars and trucks polluted rivers and scared mountains unable to buy the cars or build the roads or schools for the children of the people broken from the mines and the factories that made a country great.
poetry: Blue Collar & Green Hands
Josh Christian, Louisville
It took us three days to clear the grass,
each of us taking a turn, hours long,
pushing and pulling the mower, which
huffs gas fumes, CO2, and I, but 13, a farmer,
skipping school, scalping the lawn
with a small engine and hungry blades.
With each push, I grow taller, closer
to the heavens I depend on for rain, or sun,
or even the chaffing cold, which chips my
cheeks until they are copper red, rusted in rain.
And when I am done, I lay flat, like the tall stalks
of grass, staring, waiting for the sky to blow open full
of light, full promise, that no matter how raw
my hands, how thick the concrete callouses, how
deep the mud drags us closer to death, I will pry
myself from squashed-thin mattress, to plow the field,
work the dirt, and wait, for roots to explode
like their starry-kin and something to grow.
poetry: Ruffian
Anthony Stalled, Lexington
Tomorrow comes to claim its own
beyond the paddock where they play,
with an empty, unexpected, silence
the wind alone dares breathe.
Her rider up, the Call to Post
falls like morning dew upon her ears.
The echo of its summons ended
by the gate’s noise slammed to closed.
Ruffian; a dark bay three-year old;
a Filly … poised and unbeaten,
waiting the beginning of the rest
of time.
I ask what must it be to know
a joy found written on one’s every
breath,
to be one born to chase Life’s elusive
chances,
calling out from somewhere well
beyond the wind?
Adored … balanced on a fragile limb,
a trio of her promise in mid-air,
separate pieces in a Calder mirrored,
poised and unbeaten at their place
in line.
Eager for a change in partners.
Her presence was our calm,
before a dark and cruel cloud
came unannounced to call;
set adrift while life played out itself
for the ages on the backstretch.
A hush came over Belmont,
silence fell into itself.
From its echo came the cry.
This, is who I am.
Suddenly, she was no more,
her last furlong run.
Cradled in time, she lay,
an undefeated spirit, forever stilled,
sad as any photograph can be.
At the door of hurt, is a sorrow we
must bear
measured by a tolling bell, an open
gate,
a run to shattered bones and broken
hearts,
of innocents like you
… Like me.
Beyond life’s veil is seen,
what’s stilled … things left undone,
the wake of aspirations not to be,
their silks of colors worn
to craft a story, unfulfilled,
with the saddest lines I know.
poetry: Hardscrabble
Ron O’Brien, Amburgey (Knott County)
Not much comes easy
in this country.
Steep mountains
see to that.
So when men
feel the need to be
Somewherelse
a little sooner,
they first have to
Look out boys
we’re comin’ through
blast Mother Nature
out of the way—
reconfigure Creation,
you might say.
All in a day’s work.
Imposing, too, some of these
cuts
through solid rock.
Engineering marvels.
Their chiseled flanks
dot the landscape like
battlefield monuments—our
initials carved in stone.
Proof
that we were here.
Unimpressed,
the pine trees
rising from their jagged ledges
say nothing.