BELLE RVE LITERARY JOURNAL

Issue 13.1
Editors Choice
Summer 2013

Belle Rve Literary Journals Issue 13.1 is a collection of the editors favorite submissions. Editors found that these works exemplify contemporary southern literature at its best.

Table of Contents

Poetry Dr.William Miller2-7 Barbara Brooks....8 Fiction Tom Sheehan .9-20 Diane Thomas-Plunk21-31 Non-fiction Tom Hooten..32-37 About Contributors/Authors....38-39 Editors....40

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Window Unit, 1962 by Dr. William Miller

It came in a cardboard box so big it took two big men to carry it.

We watched, my parents and I, sweating, while they struggled to put it in the best window to cool the house.

And when the first cold air blew from the vents, it was like the seasons changed in less than a minute.

We stayed inside all day, took turns standing in front of the gray, metal machine, felt the thrill of freezing in July

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But something was lost; we didnt sit on the porch until late, wait for the house to cool just enough to sleep above the sheets, a small fan turning.

And my parents didnt tell about the dirt farms they grew up on, how their people made moonshine to sell, put milk and meat on the table.

They didnt tell how they sat on porches in the long summers, listened to their

old people tell about the war, the only war, how Shermans army stole their last cow,

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burned the fields black

Now, night after night, we sat in the cool indoors, watched our black and white, two-channel tv, hardly spoke at all.

We watched variety shows, commercials, until it became too cool, even cold, by the time the test pattern came on.

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Walker Percys Grave by Dr. William Miller

My girlfriend and I parked beneath a live oak, hung with green strands of Spanish moss.

The young monk in the gift shop gave us directions, told us the grave was hard to find.

A snake was tattooed on his neck, a girls name on the knuckles of his right hand.

I asked if hed be ordained a priest, and he said in six years, maybe more. He was a biker who sold

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crystal meth, did nothing but sin

His directions were bad, or we were bad at following them, my girlfriend forced to cool off in the shade.

I walked by myself for the longest time until the sun was stronger than my need to kneel and touch the writers names and dates.

We drove away, and I thought the man was elusive like his own grave:

the son of suicides, a convert to dawn masses,

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teller of dark parables with a warm, gentle humor

Are you disappointed? my girlfriend asked.

I was about to say yes, when we passed the monastery where I pictured the young, ex-biker monk at prayer.

Walker would have loved him, might have written him into the pages of a novel:

a drug dealer who one night suddenly realized there was God or nothing, made the leap.

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Typing Moms Letters by Barbara Brooks

The black lamp hovers over ruled papers and blue ink, all 70 years old. Wrapped in paper, the rolled up letters were dated 1941 to 1942. A Websters International Dictionary sits on top of them to straighten them out; then I iron them. To keep them flat as I transcribe them, I read through her Pyrex baking dish.

Shining onto a college life of Physics, German, Sunday movies, the lamp reminds me of a giraffe: neck curved over the letters, its beam a tongue of light.

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Cemetery Robberies by Tom Sheehan

Somewhere along the line it had all gotten out of hand. Somebody was robbing graves at Memorial Cemetery, sitting just above the Neuse River on a flat rise a few miles from Raleigh. Stealing coins, too, strange as it seems. Thats the kind of thing can jerk a town right off its feet, even if the spread of the cemetery was closing fast on its capacity and a new site required.

From my perspective, I figure it started more than half a century earlier. Thats when Mr. Crockett, on the side of a steep rise on Main Street, began placing coins into the wet cement of new steps rising from the street, 72 steps in all, to his front door. Never gold, never precious or collectibles in their own right, but often copper pennies and now-and-then silver and knurled, they became midnight targets for us, four kids of the neighborhood as tight as a gamblers wad. We never knew he celebrated his kinship with old Davey, though Davey was born over in Greene County, Tennessee.

Wed bring our tiny hammers and cold chisels and tap away Friday midnights for coins for Saturday theater visits, The Lone Ranger or Buck Jones calling for us. We slipped out of bedroom windows silent as nighthawks or footpads. Often I thought Mr. Crockett sat on his screened-in porch listening to us, miners in our own right, giggling at our clumsy thefts, enjoying the cheap

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comedy. Oh, there were small curses galore and pinched fingers aplenty and knees that cement left bruised, and it only recently occurred to me that he was henchman and plotter along with us. Kind of a Santa Claus in reverse gear. On good days we knew he sat there looking out over the Neuse River; you could smell his coffee.

Now, a half century later, someone was robbing the graves at Memorial Cemetery, also stealing coins, among other items left in memory. Some of the coins had been set into small cement additions on the stone bases (Oh, we had some hard labor artists in our town) and these had been chipped away from their eternal banks. Probably with little hammers and cold chisels, clinks and pings never heard, but someone, I figured, who knew about Mr. Crocketts steps. Our inlaid treasure trove of the old days.

Dirk Edmunds, one of us tight-as-wad four, out of a long and imposing silence since his sons death, had come to the police station, yelling at Chief Clembeck. I leave coins on Sonnys grave. He was a coin collector. Every time I find something he never had, I leave it on the base of his stone. Not for long, but to let him know Im thinking of him. Now, someones stealing them! He was a big man, deeply browed, and his arms loomed like separate chassis coming out of a short sleeve shirt. Anger was hiding just out of sight when it came to Dirk. I leave them on the rim of the stone. Now Ill put them down with epoxy, you can bet your sweet ass on that. Son of a bitch, Ill kill

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the guy I ever catch him! Down the steps of the station he went, gargantuan, head big as a beehive, red suspenders wide on that massive chest, his fists doubled up. Just through talking more than he talked in a year.

Not a chance his being the brightest apple in the barrel, old Dirk, but he had been one of us. Early on we had noticed that he always squinted his eyebrows at every part of a conversation going on around him, as if he were measuring each word said. It took us some time to realize that behind his dark brown eyes was a space like a huge garage that had gone out of business, and all the stalls were empty. In most of those conversations, he kept quiet, squinting, being himself. Of course, we never really got to know him. Silence takes some people out of normal orders, and into strange sanctuaries. But he had been a boyhood chipper, one of our pals, though time had long since dropped its veil between us.

I wondered how deep that old bond would find itself these days, lots of spilt milk along the way.

The runner, Mary Appolinaire, came the very next day to the station, her voice raucous and strident coming out of such a slight frame. To me she was mostly a stranger in town, becoming nothing more than a slim shadow in local road races, an apparition loping alongside the Neuse River.

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Theyre grave robbers! Nothing but grave robbers! I want that known! Oh, that lady had a voice.

A fifty-year old school teacher, she had retired early, and now ran long distance races. Her twin sister was buried at Memorial after a horrible accident, and Mary had spent the better part of three years in the cemetery, clinging to the old days, a bag of woes. Running, initially away from her problems, had given her a new liberty, a new outlook. But her little gifts left for sister Margaret were stolen in the night. Simple things, like Margarets first harmonica found in the attic, an old collection of Quaker Oats paper dolls wrapped in Cellophane or Saran wrap, a white-metal penny from World War II, a small but highly understood page from a dance book three times holding the name of a boy who never came home from some war, things that made Mary ache all over again. I want the police down there every night! Truth is, Mary knew a couple of cops met their quick dates in the dark cemetery, but decided to leave well enough alone. Some of the cops wore stripes. Some of the ladies she knew.

The new chief was an old patrolman who had slowly and methodically climbed the ranks, like a mountain climber learning on the job, at The Matterhorn or K27 itself, a long haul. His name was Tutor Clembeck and at a rather boisterous meeting with some of the victims had made a promise. Ill have a patrol car in there a few times every night. No schedule, just a random kind of visit, so as

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not to frighten away the thief until hes in our sights. That place is going to be full up before we know it. His patrolmans eyes, long used to measuring intensity or danger or doubt or incredulity in faces, scanned the audience. His round face had a big mouth, bigger ears, and a nose once clubbed into near submission in a small riot. He had no trouble in being unpleasant.

Clinton Mobley was surprised at that dictate. Clint, like Dirk, was one of the old four. Chief, he said, I dont doubt that you mean well. You do have our respect. Everybody in the room knew he was saying, Even if you are slow as hell in most things, we respect your determination. After the modulated pause, Clint continued. Never has been a sighting. Never has been a light seen in the cemetery to show this crud where hes going, what hes at. Does that strike you as odd, chief?

Just says hes real careful, to me. Maybe uses one of them pocket kind of flashlights. Could be a number of things. The chief leaned toward the audience, which Clint knew was one of his learned but crude reactions, a ploy the man tried to employ.

Clint waved one hand and bounced it off the side of his head in subtle exasperation. Ever think, chief, that we wont get a look at him at night at all, because he goes in there during the day and sees everything he wants to see and needs to see and knows exactly where to go in the dark. Without benefit of

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light. Not a single match struck in the outing. Plots his time and target, he does, right under everybodys eyes.

What youre saying, Clint, is that he could be one of us in this room right now.

Youre damn right, Clint threw back at him. Could be any one of us. Weve all seen what the hell kind of stuff has been ending up as mementos, and all the time the character of the cemetery, right under our noses, has been changing. Thats not news to any of us. The town is changing. Old, sedate Memorial is no longer sedate. Its about had its day, and we better face that sooner than we thought.

Mary Appolinaire came right up out of her seat, her voice reaching the rafters. What do you mean, the character of the cemetery has been changing? I think thats ridiculous. My sister is there. Its the only place left for me to visit her. What are you talking about character for? I think its crude and gruesome.

Clint was not offended, but you could tell he was ready for her. Mary, just hear me out. Have you noticed what has happened lately in the cemetery around Halloween time? Just in the last couple of years?

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Of course, I have, Mary said, the look on her face saying she thought Clint wouldnt believe she had an answer. Thats when the pumpkins started showing up. I think its beautiful. Its a lovely expression of a time that might go unnoticed in the cemetery, if it wasnt for some thoughtful individuals.

Let me tell you what happened, Mary, Clint said. One day Im down at the cemetery, a couple of days before Halloween, and I come on my parents stone and I see a beautiful pumpkin right on their grave. Nothing carved, no face, just a healthy pumpkin, and a decent-sized one to boot. In the whole cemetery, just that one pumpkin. One pumpkin! At supper that night, right at the table, I mentioned how nice it was seeing the pumpkin there. I said it had given me goose bumps, and I thought perhaps my cousin Emily had put it there because she highly favored my mother who made Halloween very special for us. My daughter coughed, and looked at me with her thirteen-year old eyes kind of shaded and said, It wasnt Em, Dad, it was me. So I asked her where she got the pumpkin ,and she looked me square in the eyes again and said, You dont want to know, Dad. Just like that, and he snapped his fingers, I knew she had swiped it off someones front steps. It was the thought that counted, not the gesture. A week later there must have been a hundred pumpkins down there.

What the heck are you trying to say, Clint? Mary was shrugging her shoulders and looking around at everybody. What she was broadcasting was the thought that Clint was different than the rest of them. He wrote poems,

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didnt he? They all knew that. Give us poor folk a clue, Clint. The thin runners frame was upright in the aisle, like a sign pole at a bus stop.

Im saying whoever is doing this stealing has a different agenda in mind. He has another purpose in mind. Clint Mobley looked around to see if an y of it had sunk in. He was thinking it might be the argument about the new cemetery.

Mary finally broke free of herself. You poets sure have a strange way of saying things and stranger ideas. What are you talking about? I swear, Clinton Mobley, you throw me right off my stride. She shrugged her shoulders again in the universal gesture.

Chief Tutor Clembeck was nodding at Clint. You mean the group whos trying to close up Memorial sooner than later and start another cemetery someplace else, like in Harry Gnoshs property, also over against the Neuse River? Harrys not been out of the house in a year or more. Never goes to the cemetery, though his Wilmas there. It sure isnt him. How would this thieving help in that regard, being three sites under discussion? Looks like a deadender to me. His stern look swept over the crowd. Nothing new here but some swift objections and more noise. You know what Im going to do about this mess, and all I ask is that all of you keep your eyes open.

**

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Two mornings later the cruiser passing through the cemetery came across two dozen stones smashed into ungainly pieces. The word spread around town and a hundred people gathered at the cemetery. The chief came down with a couple of sergeants. One stone was that of Margaret Appolinaire, Marys sister. Another stone was that of Dirk Edmunds son, Anthony. The method of damage looked purposeful, as if having direction.

The next morning there were two dead dogs and a dead cat right in the middle of the Veterans Section. Nearly the whole town went ballistic. There were meetings at the VFW and the American Legion.

Clint was pretty damn certain there was a hidden reason behind the whole situation at Memorial. He came by the house the next evening. Ive got to talk to someone about this, Max. Nobody stealing pennies or nickels or dimes, like we used to do at Mr. Crocketts steps, wants to get rich. Shoot, we only went to see the movies, cowboy films mostly, Roy or Gene or Hoppy getting more bowlegged all the time. We didnt even realize they never kissed a girl. All that was beyond us. And who the hell out there wants an old harmonica or damn paper dolls even if they are collectibles? Or Syd Wellings out-of-tune trumpet for Gods sake? Old Syd never finished a tune in his whole life. He couldnt carry a note in a briefcase. Something else is going on here. I can feel it in my bones.

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I didnt really know what Clint was getting at, but I knew this much: that whatever idea he had, whatever lurked in the back of his mind, and I was sure that something had cemented itself there, Clinton Mobley wanted that idea to come out of my mouth and not his. He wanted me to be aware of it, as if it were first-hand with me. It was now painfully obvious to me that he had a severe suspicion of someone in town. All his life Clint had worked that way. And he was good at it. I had never undertaken a study to find out why. It was just his modus operandi. I knew I had to watch carefully as the whole thing might unravel itself, right there in front of me.

We pitched ideas back and forth, nothing spectacular or seemingly possible came out of the dialogue. Then, in one sweep, Clint made a move. He said, Do you have one of those maps of the town that the Celebration Committee had printed?

The one with all the businesses and municipal locations shown? The green map?

Yah, Clint said, thats the one. Damn, I could see something in his eye, the way he so offhandedly said, Yah.

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I got a copy from the den and laid it out on the kitchen table. Everything that was anything in the way of business or municipal was shown. That included cottage industry stuff and home quarters for landscapers and whatever you could name. They all had paid a piece of the cost in getting the map done.

Clint leaned over the map, studying it, but I noticed his eyes almost involuntarily zipping back at the Gnosh property, near the Neuse River, where some people said a new cemetery should be located. His eyes were like the platen on a typewriter, going back to the beginning all the time. There was room enough at Gnoshs for a new cemetery, though it was only one of three sites that came up in discussions. He started pointing out places that I knew as well as he did. I was sure he was being coy about his suspicions to the very end that would be my saying, with some kind of start, What about this!

And there it was, what he was trying to get me to say, smack dab at one end of the Gnosh property, Beau LeBlancs florist shop and nursery. Beau had also been one of us four for the movies. And right there I knew that Clint knew. He knew what I knew, that Beau had the mind and the attitude to do what had been done at Memorial to try to get the new cemetery near his place of business. Hed be way ahead of the other florists if he did. Hed always managed to come out on top, by any means he could. And I suddenly heard his voice, all those years in the past, saying one dark evening as we sat in Ollie Leanders field watching the fireflies, I think we ought to get a hammer and chisel some

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night and get some money from Crocketts steps. He probably sleeps all night long and wouldnt even hear us.

Three nights later, they caught Beau LeBlanc stuffing toy mementos and pictures left for the dead into an old gunnysack. In the trunk of his car they found a ballpeen hammer, an eight-pounder, he had probably used to smash the stones, and some of Dirk Edmunds coins were in a small leather pouch. They found Margaret Appolinaires old harmonica and some other doo-dads Mary had left. Beau went that one step beyond, like the old days, figuring how to get Mr. Crocketts coin free of cement.

After lots of noise and Dirk almost beating the hell out of his old boyhood pal, and Mary instituting a suit against Beau, the town selected a new site for the new cemetery. It was not near the Neuse River, and not near Beau LeBlancs Parisian Nursery. And none of his thousand hours of imposed community service could be performed anywhere near the cemetery, new or old.

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Fever by Diane Thomas-Plunk

It sounded like a gang of hooligans was surrounding the house and throwing pebbles on the roof and that the assault was growing. But as Opal Pratt lay in bed, she knew the truth. It was late January in Warren County, Mississippi. It was sleet. The sound was too dainty to constitute hail, but the dit-dit-dit was heavier now and it would likely graduate into a full-out ice storm. The electricity would go out when the coating of ice on electric lines thickened until they snapped. The telephone would go out, too. Her little bedroom space heater would be inoperable. Good thing she had ample wood for the living room fireplace. She should move some from the outside pile to the porch for protection from. Wet wood wont burn, and it would be impossible to retrieve logs as the ice piled up. She needed to take care of the animals, too. She needed to get up. Opal was not a woman to lie in bed in the middle of the day. If momma were alive, shed call Opal a lazy girl. But momma had been gone for several years and the bed was the only place where Opal could ease the pain in her side. Or was it in her belly? Her chest? It seemed to move around. Maybe it was the entire middle of her ample body that hurt. This ache was more intense than it was yesterday, and that hurt more than the day before that. Opal wasnt one to run to a doctor for every little thing, but today it didnt feel like a little thing. Her forehead sizzled with heat and her mouth felt sandy dry. I have to get up. Nobodys going to do this for me, Opal said to no one in particular.

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She threw back the coverlet and pushed up, sucking in a gasp of pain. Too late now to go into town in the sleet. Shed go to the doctor tomorrow for sure. Right now, there were things to do. Opal walked carefully into the living room that had already grown cold. She struggled into her quilted car coat and pulled a flannel headscarf from the pocket and tied it under her chin. It didnt take long to find her dog. He was sitting at the front door anxious to be admitted. Goldie didnt wait for an invitation. He brushed by Opal nearly knocking her down and started shaking off the sleet clinging to his golden coat. Stepping onto the porch, Opal saw a snow-globe world. A light veneer of ice already skimmed the surface of everything in sight. It would be beautiful if it werent so dangerous. A car moved slowly out on the highway. Everyone else must have stayed home. Sleet continued falling and she knew conditions would worsen quickly. The porch steps had a slippery sheen. So did the first few inches of the porch. Cautiously, Opal made her way to the steps, gripped the upright post and fearfully stretched a foot toward the first of two porch steps. Her foot flew out from under her. Opal held so tightly to the post that her shoulder nearly wrenched out of socket as the rest of her dropped hard off the side of the step. She yelled and leaned against the porch rail cradling her left arm and trying to catch her breath that came in short, cold gasps. The rough landing also created a painful eruption in her belly. She wanted to cry, but thought her tears would freeze like the sleet. Her nose ran and she wiped her face on her coat sleeve. Holding the porch rail for support, Opal walked gingerly to the end of the porch, each step crunching through the icy coating on the ground. It reminded her of the cash

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register toting up her bill at the Piggly Wiggly. She saw the woodpile about fifteen feet ahead and maybe six feet out from the house. The pile leaned against two posts that daddy had hammered into the ground many years ago. Ten or so feet beyond the woodpile was the little chicken coop and yard. One of her chickens obviously had enough sense to go into the coop. The other stood stupidly in the yard becoming a pint-size ice sculpture. Cant do anything about you, chickie, Opal said out loud. Even if you go to the coop, youll probably freeze to death tonight. Im sorry. But now there was wood to get into the house. Despite the cold, Opals head swam and burned. She tried to focus. There was a large piece of cardboard, perhaps four feet by three feet, leaning against the house. Where did that come from and how long had it been there? She couldnt answer either question, but this might be her wood sled. Moving again, Opal edged down the side of the house to the soon-to-be-sled. She grabbed a corner of the cardboard and laboriously walked the top edge away from the house so the icy side would end up on the ground. It would slide better that way. With nothing to hold onto, she stepped ever more carefully toward the woodpile. She had to get this done and she couldnt afford to fall out here and not be able to get up. Finally at the pile, Opal dropped the cardboard alongside the wood. She gratefully grabbed the closest post and went around to the far side of the stack. She took a breath and then pushed the top layer of wood with both hands. Firewood tumbled onto the cardboard. For the first time today, Opal smiled. Her plan worked. She pushed another layer of wood onto the makeshift sled and decided that was all she could pull. It hurt more than she ever expected to lean over and grab the edge of her sled again, but, if she

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didnt get wood to the shelter of the porch, shed be a big, fat ice cube by morning. Opals hands were red, stiff and painful from cold and their own coating of sleet. Shed been too woozy to remember gloves. The load was unstable and some logs toppled off. The return trip to the porch was precarious. An increasing volume of sleet pelted Opal. Winded, hot and cold at the same time, sliding on the treacherous ground, she finally reached her destination. She gratefully dropped the cardboard next to the porch steps, grabbed the porchs roof support post and lowered herself to the top step. She told herself it was almost over and started throwing firewood onto the porch as close to the door as she could get it. With the post to steady her, Opal rose and cautiously climbed the steps. She no longer cared if something burst in her gut. She just wanted to be warm again. She opened the door and kicked several pieces of wood into the living room. Goldie was waiting. Not now, doggie boy. I cant help you yet. Out of her scarf and coat and with two logs on the fire, Opal fell more than sat on the davenport. She covered up with the afghan and gave herself permission to cry. She was shivering with cold and she hurt all over. Goldie padded across the room to his mistress, but in the world of Opals fever, two golden-coated dogs came to her. She wasnt puzzled for long. She slipped into a deep sleep.

The first thing Opal noticed when she woke was that it was dark. Dark outside the window, but also dark in the house. She was certain that lights had been on. In a moment of clarity, she understood that the power was out and the fire was dying down as well. No matter, she thought. She was too hot anyway.

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The second thing she noticed was the figure sitting in the stuffed chair in front of the picture window. Opal closed her eyes and opened them again. Her eyes burned and felt gritty, but the figure was still there. You gonna lie there all day and all night, too? Opal blinked repeatedly and strained to see the woman. Momma? Well, who in tarnation did you think would be sittin here? Aint you supposed to be smart, Miss High School Gra-du-ate? Momma, you cant be here. Dont you know that? Its my dang house, aint it? Bought and paid for. I have as much right to be here as you do, daughter. Maybe more so. But, momma, you died, Opal said groggily. You had a stroke right out there on the porch, sitting in your old rocking chair. I never did no such thing and never thought Id hear such lyin words from my only child. You imagined that or you wished it, and thats worse. Im imagining this right here. I know I am. Opal closed her eyes again and thought she could see their burning redness through the closed lids. Im sick, momma. Of course you are. You went out sleddin with the other children, didnt you? I told you it was dangerous, that youd break your fool neck or catch the pneumonia or the polio. But you were willful and sneaked over to crossroads hill with the Braden boys. Came home wet to the skin, your face all ruddy. Thats why youre sick, girl. Its from disobedience.

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Opal strained to sit and then stand. Tears flowed again, but they cooled her eyes. Im grown up, momma. Nearly old. I havent been sledding and youre not here anyway. I wont listen, cant listen when theres no one there. Disappear, you old haint. I need water. Opal shuffled into the kitchen, turned on the faucet and drank from her cupped hands. Goldie joined her. There was blessedly only one of him this time. One dog and a ghostly mother were all she could handle right now. She located a bowl on the counter, filled it with water and half-dropped it to the floor so the dog could drink. She gulped more handfuls for herself and splashed some of the cool water on her face. Now, she had to lie down or fall down. She turned for the living room, barely able to stand upright. Oh, God, she whispered. With eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw the apparition sitting at the kitchen table. It wasnt shaped right for momma. Then she smelled the whiskey. Daddy was sitting at the table sipping his Jim Beam as he did most Friday nights of his life that Opal remembered. He looked at her and nodded his head to acknowledge her presence. As was his fashion, he didnt speak. Opal staggered toward the sofa, whimpering. You have to put logs on, girl. The fires going out, momma told her. I dont need fire. Im already burning alive. Thats the fever tormenting you. You can still freeze to death even if you have a fever. Mind your momma, child. Stoke that fire. Theres a good girl. Yes, maam, Opal said with resignation.

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Every step was tortured. When she opened the front door, frigid air rushed into the living room like an unwelcome guest. Opal managed to get more logs inside from the porch and onto the fire. She kicked extra logs next to the hearth and collapsed on the davenport again. Do you know that daddys in the kitchen, momma? I always know where your daddy is, and I can smell his Jim Bean from a mile away. You dont always know everything. I knew everything about you, little girlie, momma snapped. You pushed my rules wantin to do risky things. You wanted to go sleddin with those ragamuffins like you did today to get sick. Gettin sick was the easy part. You were likely to break your fool neck. Then you wanted to ride a bike. There aint nowhere to ride a bike except out on the highway where youd get run down dead by a car or the Trailways bus. You wanted to go swimming too at the creek over by Patsys. Theres snakes in there, and you didnt even know how to swim no how. One way or tother, youd be dead by snake or drownin. The Fosters youngun -- was her name Mae? Well, she drowned in that creek when I was a girl. I saw her body all swole up and floatin there. Her long hair spread out, lying on the water like a spider web. I saw where snapping turtles had fed on her legs and arms. Its a sight that once seen, you cant shed. Then I had you and, I vowed that I werent going to ever see your body swole up like that. I had to keep you from your risky ways.

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Oh momma, I never swelled up. Nobody else ever swelled up. That was in your time or your imagination or your excuse. But you still wouldnt let me go, would you? Its too late now, anyway. Leave me alone. Well, it was a Lord-given blessing that you settled down listening to me and readin your Bible by high school. That kept nasty boys away from you. You never woulda guessed what those ruffians wanted or what they were up to with other gi rls. Boys just want one thing from girls they aint gonna marry. You just needed to stay home where youd be safe under your mommas wing. Oh yes, momma. I stayed home. Stayed here all my life. Under your wing even after you were gone. Now Ill die here. That shut up momma at least for a bit. Tears slid down Opals face and evaporated from the heat of her skin. Her scalp prickled like sparks from the fireplace. Youre not gonna die here. Not for a long, long time. Momma seemed to be quite sure of herself on that point. Opal dropped like a cinder block into sleep. She awoke to the sound of Goldie whining. The dog sat protectively next to his mistress, but he was staring across the room at daddy who now stood next to mommas chair. It was daddy for sure, but he looked taller and wider. He loomed over the chair and his voice was so loud that she could almost see it. Leave the girl alone, he said. Husband, you were a good, steady man, but now you should just go back to your Friday night bottle. You aint needed in this here conversation.

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Old woman, dont go telling me when Im needed or not. Im the one who put a roof over your head and food on that table. In return, you squashed me into silence most of my life and you squashed Opal, too. She was just wantin to be a kid, to have some fun, and you held her too tight. You never let go, easy like, so she could grow up. If shed been a bird, your grip would have killed more than just her spirit. Now leave her be. It was the longest speech Opal ever heard daddy make, and it was the first time hed ever stood up for her. And to think, he waited til he was dead to do it. Opal laughed crazily at the irony. Mommas eyes appeared to glow red, but it was only the smoldering behind Opals own eyes. Dont listen to him talkin so disrespectful to me, daughter. Stop it, both of you. Youre not even here. I know youre not. Leave me be. Another chill hit Opal, shaking her til she thought shed break. She pulled the afghan closer and looked toward the fireplace. Long fingers of yellow and red flames sneaked their way out of the fireplace and up the wall. Their journey left sparks in their wake and soon the west wall of the house was engulfed. Opal watched it all and didnt care. Her eyes closed. She couldnt hear her parents any more.

She woke to the sound of pounding somewhere. Surely, the roof was about to cave in from ice or fire or both. Goldie barked at the door. Images swam into focus when she opened her eyes. It was daytime and the brightness forcing itself through the window made her cringe. It wasnt the roof; it was the front door. Miss Pratt, Miss Pratt. Its Deacon Broadworth here.

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The younger man accompanying the deacon walked down the porch toward the picture window. Dad, look here through the window. Shes on the sofa and looks mighty sick. Miss Pratt, were coming in, the elder Broadworth called out as he opened the door. Oh no. One look told the deacon that she was very ill. One gentle touch to her face told him that she had a raging fever. She was covered with a heavy afghan, but the fireplace had gone cold. Miss Pratt, dont be scared now. My son and I are takin you to the hospital. Brother Markov sent us to check on you, but wed have come sooner if wed known you were so sickly. Youll be all right now. To his son he said, Richard, help me. No, first pull another blanket off her bed. Opal efforted to keep her eyes open and make sense of what she saw. She moaned as they stood her up. The Broadworth men wrapped the afghan, then the blanket around her like a papoose. Were goin to the truck now, but well go slow, said the deacon. Let us hold you up. Youre gonna be fine, just fine. Ice, mumbled Opal. Dont you fret, missy. My truck can take me anywhere. The men nearly carried her out the door and carefully down the slippery steps. It took both of them to hold her. Momma. No, lil lady. Your momma aint here right now. Lets gentle on to the truck.

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Opal twisted her head around toward the porch. Shes right there in her rocker. Momma smiled and waved good-bye.

end

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THE PHYSICS OF FIDGET ENERGY OR A PRIMER ON BACK RUBBING by Tom Hooten

Dad, can airplanes fly bottom-side up? One by one, his mini-thoughts request parental guidance. Yes, some can. Why? Wistful turning sound of another universal page. Well, because its fun, I guess. Dad, when I get big, can I? All the needing, restive questions must be tucked away under a comforting answer in this sidereal tranquilophoresis that emends broken day dreams into the real thing. His nocturnoff ritual begins like clockwork down around a quarter past a bedtime story. Dad, can you come rub my back? I cant go to sleep. When the days mundane busyness is still annoying, or the novel is not, his interrupt requests seem unwelcome. Sometimes I stall: Im busy, son. Please go back to bed. But an obedient ten minutes later, I will again be summoned, this time by sad, inquisitioning eyes. In the damper old days, that Pamper-walking sound always leaked the news of his return, but now, under ruse of silence, there is only a squatting-by-the-potted-plant vigil that cannot fail, a little Disney vulture witheringly waiting for my impatience to die. He is the best in the business at being almost five. Okay, for a little while, I answer, wondering how much longer I can postpone his losing lessons. Have you tinkled yet?

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Before Mom readed my story, he decrescendos as he about faces to the hall. He is tired, but acts tired, too. Head sagging on shoulders drooping dangling arms, taking full advantage of each step as if still skeptical of gravity, he paces me down the cool tile to his toy-storial lair that denies him sleep when his bed is lonesome, or when the unravelling mysteries of the day are knotted. As we settle into his too-big and too-little bed, on my giant, fancy-framed graph of Knowledge, with newborn nescience at one extreme and the wisdom of old death at the other, I visualize the first five-year increment. His smoothly accelerating curve is beginning to show characteristic, timorous oscillations and contractions that will become discernment. Earlier, his needs for oxygen, food, and space exceeded the capacity of his hostess. Now, hungry for information, he struggles forth from my confining prenoetic care, leaving placentimental residues of paternal pride and sorrow. Im consumed in supplying him with heuristic regimens for treating dogma bites, and colostral software for cushioning future hard knocks, but racing through instinct, he is unaware that he is in a generational relay the finish of which he will never see. The illusion that he can win will sustain him until he has passed on his magical double-helical baton, but as he ages across my two-scored abscissa, he will be awed by how nave he was, and how slow he has become, and with grave tenderness and confusion, he will reach down from his notordinary ordinate and rub my retired back in consolation. Back rubbing, incidentally, is an eclectic activity. It may actually be tummy rubbing or top-of-the head rubbing, or even bottom patting. Sometimes it is spread-eagled, sometimes cuddled close (ole Kool-Aid breath). It may even include humming or whistling. Technically speaking, back-rubbing rubrication is a child-guided exercise that

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requires a little lambency, and although it is never written, it is often encrypted in goose bumps. Dad, do I have a good rememberry? (another golden egg from my Malpighian word layer) You certainly do, now stop rubbing your eye and go to sleep. I sense tiny, coruscating neural plexuses in his reticular activating system see-sawing closer and closer to some threshold detour level at which he will turn off and leave me for that evanescent, one-noise-away world that is understood with equal clarity by neurophysiologists and four-year-olds. No matter what, though, certain prerequisite homages are little mandatory. There can be no sand between the toes. The dextrous skills of finger snapping must be practiced. After fingernails are checked for the Play-Dogh color of the day, esoteric, incantational access codes must be digitally stylized on the sheets. And, of course, the questions. Patience comes with an understanding of the physics of fidget energy. The dissipation of this energy is regulated like light; i.e., you can slow it down, but you cant speed it up. Using my impatience as a training aid, he keeps teaching me teaching with a subtile, toddling, algorithmic iteration of the inevitability of things. Little Socrateaser. I look into the genetically time-shifted mirror of his face. I know it cant glow, but it does. As actinprofessor of electromagical genetic radiation, he specializes in lecturing about sonbeams. He uses an information transference of binary simplicity. In the introduction, he honors me to watch him as he falls asleep. Then, in the last teeter-totter twinkling between the worlds, like the heavy canvas sides of a circus tent being stealthily lifted by two kids seeking a peek, the reluctant little lids lift to open a channel, and retina

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to retina, the one bit is shared: Hes still here, and I am glad. Glow. Its wavelength is proportional to the distance between the hearts, and its frequency is not often enough. Gently rocking on systolic waves, he drifts alee of realitys griefs, abandoning me with my impatience, but if I wish to delay his entropical sonset, the fetch is short. Handto-back pressure differentialplus or minus two intercostal excurvations. Lullaby modulationbrighten the leitmotiv. As a final back-up, pick a ticklely spot. In backrubbing calculus, the first derivative of such tensor functions is a bearing for a wakecrossing, reciprocal course. It is, after all, the changes, not the sames, that animate us, and a child is change incarnate. Sometimes, he rubs back. The little apprentice practices for the future when he, too, will knead sleep while impatiently learning his lessons from my grandchildren. Time warps and stops as the big hand and the little hand achieve unison. Together, echoing each others yawns in tandem comfort, we fall asleep. From equal parts of impatience and loneliness, he mixes a powerful potion that glues dreams together. He simply takes me along as his copilot on an upside-down, snoring fantasy with rainbow wings. Occasionally, I bail out too early. In slow motion pantomime, I sneak from his bed, and checking each step for little plastic soldierly sole injurers, Lego arch rivals, and other impedimenta of the playing field, I try withdrawing without a trace. With a premature flea in his ear, he always asks, Dad, where are you going? I thought you were asleep, little man, I always answer, minimizing disruption with consistency. He accepts two alternatives at this impasse. Either go back to back and finish the job, or make a promise. Im going to fix the coffee maker for in the morning, but Ill be back

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to check on you in a minute. Okay? The preambling is unimportant, but payment for delaying his trip to Nod must be made with a promissory check. Okay. Good night, Dad, he always mumble grumbles, but he rests assured, because he still doesnt know about the crumbliness of promises. When I return, he will be asleep. A final check-rub on his still unrelaxed back will release the residual tension in the offspring, spurring nirvanic impulses over glistening, mylenated drawbridges into his peri-palace mind to treasure the final parity bit: He came back to check on me, just like he said he would. Then, the nights errand done, I, too, the sigher of relief, can sleep. Soon though, Ill hear, Aw, that stuff is for liddul kids, Dad. At a quarter past bedtime, Ill be strangely impatient to hear his plaintive request to share the closing of his day. Only the humor in the thought, Son, can I rub your back? I cant go to sleep, will soften my sadness. The books and bills will endure, but he is my last childhood. His feelings unread and accounts unreceived are as gone as the ticks of a clock. So, until we exchange bedtimes, Ill continue to check on him, and he will always feel my hand, because the final impulse for his escapement has been programmed and synchronized through countless hours of redundant ritual played out in twilighted bedrooms on three continents. But he will never again glow as he glowed when he was almost five. He is compelled to follow the primal pattern that directs him to replace me, and he cannot do it without losing glowing thingsthings that allow him to vacate the heart room that is a little brothers or sisters birthright. But he is the last, and I am the only one pretending. Confected of the vital parts of meskill, curiosity, optimystical hope, vigor, brightness of eyehe will leave only my hollow image when he grows away. But the more of me I give him, the happier I am, and the emptier Ill be when hes gone. Just below my hand, in the

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heart of this pajamaed miracle snuggled so warmly to my sidejust inside his tiny spiraled preteen protein cradlesare nestled the eternal molecular memories of the billions of atoms of myself that I have cast out of paradise in wanton desire for the fruit most forbiddenthe knowledge of immortality. The amphitheater for this Aesopian tragedy is arrayed in tiers. Soon, if able, Ill have to climb high into the gallery where, with noisy inattention, the invasive audience of reality masks its fear of times fateful passages. But for the time being, I choose to stretch out in the bottom-bunk, front-row orchestra seats where only the duramen boards of our sleepy duologues exist, and every nights opening line seems to turn back the clock. From there, for as long as I can, Ill revel in the joy of watching him learn to solo his dreams.

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Contributors/Authors
Road into White Poppies - Issue Cover Art Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Texas. To learn more about Christopher Woods, please visit his website. Window Unit, 1962 and Walker Percys Grave Dr. William Miller lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He has published five collections of poetry, twelve books for children and a mystery novel. Typing Moms Letters Barbara Brooks, author of The Catbird Sang chapbook, is a member of Poet Fools. Her work has been accepted in Chagrin River Review, The Foundling Review, Blue Lake Review, Granny Smith Magazine, Third Wednesday, Shadow Road Quarterly, Indigo Mosaic and on line at Southern Womens Review, Poetry Quarterly, Big River Poetry among others. She currently lives in North Carolina with her dog. Cemetery Robberies Tom Sheehan served in 31st Infantry Regiment, Korea, 1951-52, and graduated Boston College, 1956. Poetry books include This Rare Earth & Other Flights; Ah, Devon Unbowed and The Saugus Book. He has 20 Pushcart nominations, 350 stories on Rope and Wire Magazine, work in Rosebud Magazine (5), The Linnets Wings (6), Ocean Magazine (8), and many internet sites/print issues/anthologies including Nervous Breakdown, Eskimo Pie, Faith-HopeFiction, Subtle Tea, Danse Macabre, Best of Sand Hill Review, Best of Frontier Tales, Wilderness House Literary Review, MGVersion2Datura, Literary Orphans, Eastlit, and Nazar Look, etc. His work has been published in Romania, France, Ireland, England, Scotland, Italy, Thailand, China, Mexico, Canada, etc. His latest eBook, an NHL mystery, is Murder at the Forum, released January 2013 by Danse Macabre-Lazarus-Anvil Fiction in Las Vegas, which treats of the Boston Bruins-Montreal Canadiens long-time rivalry in a distinctively new slant. Two mysteries are scheduled for 2013; Death of a Lottery Foe and Death by Punishment. Other eBooks at Amazon or B&N or Smashwords include the collections Epic Cures (with an Indie Award); Brief Cases, Short Spans, Press 53; A Collection of Friends and From the Quickening, Pocol Press. His newest eBooks from Milspeak Publishers are Korean Echoes, nominated for a Distinguished Military Award, and The Belle Rve Literary Journal 38

Westering, 2012, nominated for a National Book Award by the publisher (with 7 collections completed and in the publishers queue). Now in his 86th year, Sheehan writes 1000 words a day. Fever Diane Thomas-Plunk was born and raised in Memphis, TN and, after many years in California, she and her husband have returned home to their roots. Thomas-Plunk has a degree in journalism and English from the University of Memphis. After a professional writing career in public relations and print journalism, she turned to fiction. NPR recognized her work last year when her entry was chosen as a favorite in their Three-Minute Fiction contest. Thomas-Plunks publication credits are primarily non-fiction, many of which are in trade publications. THE PHYSICS OF FIDGET ENERGY OR A PRIMER ON BACK RUBBING Tom Hooten is from Alabama, an Auburn grad, and is currently living in Niceville, FL. He has published a science fiction novel, Hollytime, and his essay, "The Physics of Fidget Energy," was first published in Collected Words From Writers of the Southern Coast. His poems, Blocked and The Guitarist have been included on Belle Reves website. He is currently at work on the sequel to Hollytime, which has the working title Alicetime.

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Editors
Vanessa K. Eccles is the founder and executive editor at Belle Reve. She has had a writer's spirit since early childhood, winning her first short story contest at the age of six. She has devoted years to developing her skill and love for writing. Her captivation with literature inspired her to create the journal. She has an English degree from Troy University, and her work has been published by Deep South Magazine, Suite T (a blog by Southern Writers Magazine), and Wisdom Crieth Without. She is the author of Psalms of Me and is currently working on a YA novel. She blogs at The Writer's Block.

Emily D. Wood has been a lover of stories and books since before she could even read. Her mother, also an avid reader, read to her often. Her love of reading is deeply rooted. She has an English degree from Troy University and is currently pursuing a Master of Arts in Writing at James Cook University in Queensland, Australia. She has had work published in Troy University's Literary Journal The Rubicon. She has also written articles for Deep South Magazine and The Local (a local newspaper in Dothan, Alabama). She blogs at Quill and Parchment.

Elizabeth Ploss is an enthusiast of the English language and a lover of all things fantastical. Her passion for literary exploration bloomed as a young child with the first book she checked out from her local library, A Wrinkle in Time, and has since ballooned into an outright love affair. She has received a degree in English from Troy University and has been published in Troys Literary Journal The Rubicon. Elizabeth is continuing her rewarding life-long journey of writing and hopes to soon release a collection of short stories.

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