River of Grass - Spring 2023

RiverofGrass

Welcome, dear reader, to the first issue of River of Grass, Keiser University’s literary magazine that features literary works and artwork of students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Our mission is to promote and document contemporary culture and art in our global community, and the magazine is produced in digital format by the English, Humanities, and Speech Department. We are pleased to present to the Keiser global community our inaugural issue of River of Grass. Like the Everglades, the life-sustaining body of water that nourishes much of our state’s population and wildlife, we hope our magazine will reach and inspire many.

Cover art – Japan (mixed media) by Jorge Stadthagen - Business Administration Student - San Marcos Campus

Otherside - Gallerias Valle Oriente; Monterrey, Nuevo Leon, Mexico

Photo by Anthony Celis – Alumni - San Marcos Campus

River of Grass is published twice a year by the English, Humanities, and Speech Department of Keiser University. The magazine features original literature and artwork of Keiser students, faculty, and staff. Submissions are accepted on an ongoing basis. Contact: Riverofgrass@keiseruniversity.edu.© 2021 by River of Grass, Keiser University. All rights revert to the authors and artists

River of Grass

Editor-in-chief

Cynthia Watkins holds a BA in English, an MA in English Education, and an MFA in writing. She has worked on a number of publications as a journalist and editor Cynthia has taught English, literature, professional writing, and creative writing at the college level for more than thirty years and is the university department chair of the English, Humanities, and Speech department.

Associate Editor

Chanta Bussell, a Champlain, Illinois native, has been Keiser University Sarasota Campus’ Writing Studio Writing Consultant for the last 10 years. She is a graduate of Southern Illinois University at Carbondale where she obtained her undergraduate and graduate degrees in English, with a specialization in creative writing. During her time at KU Sarasota, she co-created and co-edited Keiser’s first print Literary Journal, Writer’s on the Ranch. Ms. Bussell is a fiction writer currently working on a collection of short stories.

Poetry Editor

Teneice Durrant is a Midwest writer with an MFA in Poetry and an MA in Literature. She is the author of four chapbooks and one full-length collection, Glass Corset, published in 2019. Her poem Nectar won the 2013 Kudzu Poetry Prize and she was the managing editor of Winged City Chapbook Press and Argus House Press from 2008-2020.

Fiction Editor

Airin Miller is a composition and creative writing instructor based in Portland, Oregon. Her short stories have appeared in Blackbird, Epiphany, and the Little Patuxent Review. She is a 2015 Oregon Literary Fellowship recipient, as well as a recipient of a Zoland Poetry fellowship with the Vermont Studio Center. She is an alumna of Hollins University and Bennington College.

Creative Nonfiction Editor

Zahra A. Belyea holds a BA in English from Boston University, an MEd in Secondary Curriculum and Instruction from Boston College, and an MA in Theatre Education from Emerson College. She has taught and tutored in both writing and literature and currently, she is the Writing Studio Coordinator at the Fort Lauderdale campus. As a teaching artist, movement performer, and playwright, she has worked with or for numerous venues, artists, art institutions, and theatre companies such as the Berklee Performance Center and the Rhode Island Convention Center.

Table of Contents

Competence

The ability to blossom is not a single event, But a series of trials testing one’s commitment. Rooted in experience, education, and wit, Competence determines if the flower is fit. Although challenges and change may mark the day,

The competent flower always finds a way. To grow, to blossom, and spread new seeds, In the garden of life where many have needs.

The Summer at Camp Galila: A Memoir

I spent my first summer at sleep-away camp at Camp Galila, an Orthodox Jewish camp in South Fallsburg, NY. I had not wanted to go. I was eleven years old, and terribly immature, a real mama’s boy. My mother quietly but persistently forced me to go: there were no day camp options in the city, she informed me, and besides, I wasn’t going to hang around all summer and drive her crazy.

I was a bookworm who did not enjoy sports neither watching nor playing them. I did not enjoy being a child; I loathed and despised all athletic endeavors. All I ever wanted to do was to sit and read. Oh, and eat, in large amounts.

From the moment that I boarded the bus to camp, things started to go wrong. I was going to camp for the second half of the summer, the month of August only. Consequently, the bus was barely half full. I didn’t do well on the bus trip I had foolishly chosen the back of the bus. Hoping to be jounced I was only eleven, after all, and my powers of judgment were poor I picked out the seat on top of the rear wheels, assuring me a rough ride. In addition, the windows were open, providing me with a steady flow of diesel fumes. My mother had thoughtfully given me a large bag of Pretz’l Nuggets to keep my mouth and belly quiet, and I nervously kept chomping on them all the way out of the city, up the old Route 22, and high into the upper reaches of NY State. Eventually, I got nauseous and had to throw up, which made the back of the camp bus a redolent place, and hardly endeared me to my fellow campers. It was not a good ride.

Finally, we arrived. While getting off the bus in downtown South Fallsburg, I failed to notice the other three or four kids getting into a shiny black Ford with GALILA on a card in the front and rear windows. Instead, an alert young cab driver, toothpick wedged into the corner of his smiling mouth, pack of Marlboros expertly rolled up in his T-shirt sleeve, walked right on up to me, standing forlornly on the curb, clutching the remains of my Pretz’l Nuggets bag like a security blanket, the last vestige of my mother’s concern.

“Where you need to go, Chief?” he asked, rolling the toothpick around in his mouth and steering me towards his vehicle, a fire-engine-red Chevy Impala with chrome highlights.

“Camp Galila,” I whispered, through vomit-smelling lips.

“Hop in,” he said cheerfully, hoisting my suitcase into the trunk.

And so I arrived at camp in style. My mother later told me that, when she phoned the camp office to check on whether her dear little David had arrived unscathed, she was amazed to learn that I had, apparently, flagged a cab and ridden into camp like a gentleman, and that she would have to pay the fare.

The Boys’ Division Head, known as the Boys’ D.H., an officious fellow named Naftali, escorted me to my bunk a converted Catskills Mountain hotel bungalow, where I met my counselors, Sid and Aygee. (I later found out that his name was Aaron Gottesman, but he (Continued on page 18)

Birthday Grief, Birthday Gift

For Gladys and her son Elvis, the walk inside Priceville Cemetery was far from a leisurely stroll. The boy would tense up, always taking the lead a few paces ahead of mama. No pebbles would ever get slick enough to sneak up on her again. That last tumble she took put a bruise on her hip that took weeks to heal. All she had to do now was follow his measured steps.

She studied her child from behind on these sessions in the somber ceremony Elvis was another piece of her being, a few feet tall and a few feet ahead. He was so proud to visit his older brother. She taught him about respecting elders ever since he mouthed his first sentence. Though Jesse came stillborn only minutes before him, he was still the elder. He would have been a protector and guide, made out of the same flesh and bone. But Elvis was too much bone and precious little flesh.

The challenge of raising him would mean that whatever he lacked in material gain, she’d make up for with plenty of attention and affection. He’d inherit her best, keeping it with him long after she’d rest with the Lord.

The boy glanced down at his spiffy, brown overalls. The ones he only wore on special occasions. Then he dragged a palm over his blond head a few times since the wind had picked up and mussed up his hair.

He caught a glimpse of mama and smiled at her green dress fluttering about her knees. Her make-up held up fine, but her jet-black hair could’ve used some sprucing up too. She had lost her last pocket mirror a while back and told him she wasn’t planning on buying another anytime soon.

“Elvis, just you remember: Whatever your little heart desires is twice as likely to come true. There’s two lives you’re carryin’.”

“I know, mama. We’re almost there.”

“You’re so grown, turnin’ eleven today.”

Once at the gravesite, they locked hands in prayer.

“Amen,” Gladys concluded. “Now, tell your brother everythin’. And don’t talk so serious like you been doin’ lately. We’ll sing happy birthday after ”

It tore her up at how his voice would crack whenever beginning a conversation with Jesse. He’d be fine a few sentences later, but start-offs were tough. He’d apologize for daddy not being there and send his love. He was always working and there was no getting around here at night. Elvis offered a recap of church service. How he was also looking forward to going to Forrest Bobo’s Tupelo Hardware Store with four dollars.

All the while, Gladys would busy herself tending to Jesse’s resting place. She’d stoop a lot, tugging up the weeds that made the site so unsightly.

Whenever Elvis would pause to clear his head for a new topic, Gladys would chime in and say a few things. Sometimes it even revolved around the local gossip. Elvis didn’t like that much, but never complained.

Gladys gauged her son’s body language to decide on the proper time to go.

The swaying. Lifting himself high on his toes and falling back on his heels. This tipped her off the cold was becoming too much.

Summers were a different story. They’d go sun-up to sundown sometimes. When Gladys opened the store door for the birthday boy, he stepped inside two feet and halted. She paid him no mind and exchanged pleasantries with the owner. Forrest had been chomping on a bologna sandwich behind the counter, forgetting to remove his black jacket upon opening that morning. His red flannel shirt peeked out from underneath as he relayed to her how doing inventory to start the new year had kept him so busy, he’d neglected to take his lunch until just before closing the day before.

When the conversation between Bobo and Mrs. Presley hit a lull, she turned to find her child still glued to the same spot.

“Elvis? Whatcha waitin’ on, darlin’? Look around!” she instructed, turning back to Bobo: “Where’s all them new goods you told Vern about the other night?”

“Well, ma’am you and the boy will have to come out back. Ain’t had a chance to shelve and price ‘em yet.”

“Hear that, Elvis?”

She motioned her boy get a move on not once, but twice. Still, he wouldn’t budge. Now, Mrs. Presley had more love in her person for Elvis than she knew what to do with. But if she lost patience, her temper would take its place fast. And Gladys was not beyond disciplining him up to and including a whipping, even in public.

When Elvis finally waved her over, he gulped, realizing her face had reddened. It was one of them fear-swallows that hurt going down.

She stomped over, punching fists into her sides and holding them firm along her hips when she got within striking distance. Her moves had been so forceful, her bluish green purse slipped off her shoulder and nestled within the crook of her elbow.

Elvis watched it dangle and sway, hoping hard that if it went still, mama had calmed herself enough to hear him out. He knew her better than anyone. Even daddy. And though he loved them both, he knew darn well she’d really hate what was about to exit his mouth. Yup, even on his birthday.

“I see what I wanna get, mama. So uh we don’t gotta trouble Mr. Bobo.”

Gladys crinkled her nose, ballooning her cheeks full of air. Then, parting her lips slightly, let out a long wheeze.

“I really want it. I’m pretty much all grown.” Elvis insisted. He flashed a pleading look at Mr. Bobo, hoping he might support his cause. He’d have even winked at the shopkeeper had mama looked away, but she hadn’t. He would have to be dumber than a rock on a still day to conspire against her with anyone.

Especially for a rifle.

“It’s behind where Mr. Bobo’s standin’,” Elvis announced.

Gladys cracked a smile, tickled at how delicate he’d been in trying to explain himself. It was a birthday present, after all, and she knew she’d be unable to say no to him no matter

“What in the tell me I ain’t seein’ what you’re seein’, Elvis,” she bellowed; startling Mr. Bobo into dropping his sandwich on the floor. The shopkeeper cursed the inconvenience under his breath.

(Continued on page 22)

Southern Shopping and (Unintentional) Eavesdropping

Over the years, I’ve overheard some unexpected and sometimes funny exchanges while shopping. Having lived most of my life in various southern states, I’ve discovered people are all basically the same, and a good unintentional listen is sometimes well worth the effort. For example, a number of years ago when I was a graduate student at Louisiana State University, I often haunted a particular discount store in Baton Rouge, where I could find cute clothes and shoes at prices that were in sync with my student-on-a-stipend budget. One sunny afternoon, I wandered in and found myself happily rooting through a mini mountain of assorted lingerie on a big table. Immersed in digging through a bazillion bras and panties in a wild array of colors, styles, and sizes, I was totally focused. The “table dig” method of shopping, my preferred approach since nearly the Industrial Revolution, never failed to amaze my dear friend, Vivian, a New Yorker who adored mercantile organization, bless her heart. After about five happy minutes of up-to-my-elbows table digging, a young mother with two children approached. The bespectacled little girl appeared to be about six years old, and her energetic munchkin brother seemed around four. The mom promptly set her eye on something not too far away, but before embarking on her shopper’s mission, she instructed her big-eyed daughter to watch her brother. While I continued my perusal of the frillies, things proceeded as normal . . . until a foghorn voice across the table from me suddenly blasted to the store at large, “Byron’s diggin’ in the panties! Byron’s

This proclamation immediately ceased all activity in the store, upon which the mom instantly materialized beside her wild-eyed daughter. Byron, however, remained unfazed. Continuing to paw through the pretties, the spellbound boy exhibited the beginnings of a male fascination destined to blossom in adulthood. The girl’s underage baritone increased in volume and urgency . . . until the frantic mom yanked Byron’s chubby little digits out of the pile, simultaneously clamping a hand over Sister’s open mouth. Somewhere in the fray, the dad appeared, grinned broadly at his son, and calmly led both children out to the car.

is a professor of Speech at the Jacksonville Campus

Crows

In a pageant of feathers murder lines the fence as a black crow with one eye waits for the dead to riot.

Tina Steele, Staff, Lakeland Campus

Causa Perduta

Inflames the embers and makes the stone to shudder. The spirit of the stripped off gameis stalking you. The battle is congealed, but the memory is still haunting you. Your anger hurls into shivers. The power of the axeis not enough to separate the two of youCausa Perduta entirely belongs to you!

*Causa perduta :(Latin) lost cause. Valentina Tsoneva, Faculty, Lakeland Campus

Mirror Lake

Daddy was never much of a fisherman, but Momma would fish just about anywhere there was water, ponds, creeks or even rivers. My grandparents had taught her how to fish at an early age, and she fell for the sport, hook, line and sinker. However, there was one fishing hole that Momma loved more than all the others: Mirror Lake. It’s nestled deep inside the Ozark Mountains in rural Northwest Arkansas and named Mirror Lake because of the way the towering trees around it reflect in the glassy green water. The lake has always been special to me because of Momma, and now it helps me keep the memories of her alive in my heart forever. I sometimes took for granted the time we spent there because all my life I had thought my family was immune to the sickness and tragedy that struck other families. I still possessed that innocence of youth that has yet to be scarred by tragedy, but shortly after my thirty-first birthday, I found out that my family was not invincible.

I had just been promoted at work and had moved to Atlanta. My sister had recently been married, and Momma had complained at the wedding that she was bloated and having issues with her stomach. Over the course of the summer, Momma’s stomach issues continued to worsen. I urged her to see a doctor, but Momma was stubborn and hated doctors. One day, she called me and said that Daddy was taking her to the hospital. It was obvious she was distraught. I tried to comfort her and tell her everything was going to be okay, because in my heart I believed that. Little did I know that a silent killer was about to strike my family and change our lives forever.

Momma was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer that day. I will never forget that phone call, nor will I forget the terror in her voice when she said to me, “They think I have cancer.” She said they were going to run some further tests to confirm, and she would know more when the results came in. That night, I cried and drank more than I should have to dull the pain I was feeling. The next morning when I woke up, my mouth was as dry as the Sahara Desert, my head was pounding, and I couldn’t seem to drink enough water to quench my thirst. I called my sister, Gwen, and she confirmed what my heart already knew. Momma had cancer, and they had sentenced her to death with a single diagnosis.

I was flat broke, and I didn't think I even had enough money for gas, but I had to go. I set out that day in my beat-up, old, red Ford Focus, and started the long ten-hour drive, praying the whole way that I would not run out of gas Somehow, I made it, and when I arrived at the hospital, the gas light had just turned on. I had a dollar left to my name, and I was stiff from the drive, but I was thanking God for delivering me safely to that hospital. I walked into the room and held my family tight. We all cried, and I had never been happier to see them. Momma started chemotherapy shortly after and pursued alternative therapies. She went to a holistic treatment center in Tijuana, drank all kinds of tinctures, tried different diets, and at one point ate bugs that were supposed to cure cancer. She was determined and willing to do anything to stay alive.

Momma had been visiting my aunt and uncle in Southern California, and while receiving holistic treatments in Tijuana, she suddenly fell ill. A few days later, she was

admitted to Hogue Hospital in Newport Beach, California. I immediately flew there to be with her and Daddy. When I arrived, she was heavily sedated and had just had surgery the day before. A week went by before they were able to wake her from her medically induced coma. A few days later, they took the breathing tube out, and she was finally able to talk. The first thing she said was, “I love you,” and the second thing she said was, “I want a coke.” I chuckled a little at hearing this; it lifted my spirits and made me believe she was going to be okay. However, shortly thereafter, when it became obvious that she was not going to recover, the doctor suggested comfort care for her. She wanted to stop giving Momma the treatments that were keeping her alive and instead only give her medication for pain to make her as comfortable as possible in her final moments. I was vehemently against it. I cried to the doctor, “Momma would never give up, and I can’t give up on her!” I was sobbing, and even the doctor became choked up and shed a tear. Later that day, Daddy and I went to the cafeteria to have lunch. We sat in silent reflection for a while, until Daddy said thoughtfully, "Sometimes it's not about giving up, it's about giving in." I let those words soak in and realized the significance of them. He then said, “No one wants to die, Son, but sooner or later we all do.” His eyes filled with water, his voice cracked with tears, and I began to sob. Later that day, we told the doctor that we opted for comfort care. They moved Momma to a beautiful room with a view of the ocean, and she passed away peacefully a day later on November 20th , just before Thanksgiving. That day changed my life forever. Six years later, I still sometimes feel the all too familiar grip of grief. It happens randomly, and I never know when it’s coming. It feels like someone punched me straight in the heart and is trying to rip it from my chest. My eyes fill with tears, and memories of her fighting for her life in that hospital flood my mind. In those moments, I try to remember the good times we had at Mirror Lake. I remember all the fish we caught, the memories we created, and the laughter we shared. I have returned to Mirror Lake many times since she passed, and when I’m there, I feel as though I am wrapped in a warm blanket that still smells like her. I can sense her spirit in the air, I can see her smiling face, and I can hear her laughter echo in the trees. At that moment, she is still alive, with me, comforting me. Many people visit their loved ones at grave sites, but when I want to spend time with Momma, I head to the spot where I know she is resting Mirror Lake.

My Religion

Maxo Marc, Alumni, West Palm Beach Campus

Got your name on my mind

And I’m never deleting

If my love is the seed

You are the garden of eden

To you I get closer

Yes I’m never retreating

This love ain’t a game

Can’t you feel my heart beating?

Love won’t let me wait

I know the moment fleeting

I let you borrow my smile

Now I wait for your greeting

I was born for this moment

The first time we are meeting

I was lost without you

But I can see where this leading

Got me playing your game

What’s the reason you cheating?

I’m a soldier of love

I was never defeated

Your heart turned cold

Guess I’m here to reheat it

My story’s beginning

You must be here to complete it

Build me again

The Summer at Camp Galila: A Memoir

(Continued from page 6)

thought his initials sounded cooler.) They introduced me to my friends-to-be, the other boys of Bunk 5, all of whom, it seemed, were named Al. I was assigned to share a room with one of the Als, who wasn’t happy to have a roommate. We were not to get along.

While I unpacked, the other boys came in to “check out the new guy’s stuff.” They were disappointed my things didn’t seem in the least exotic, until I took out my most precious possessions in the world at the time: five paperback copies of “The Best of Mad Magazine,” which at the time was far holier than the Bible for us fifth-graders.

I met my counselors, Sid and Aygee. (I later found out that his name was Aaron Gottesman, but he thought his initials sounded cooler.) They introduced me to my friends-to-be, the other boys of Bunk 5, all of whom, it seemed, were named Al. I was assigned to share a room with one of the Als, who wasn’t happy to have a roommate. We were not to get along.

While I unpacked, the other boys came in to “check out the new guy’s stuff.” They were disappointed my things didn’t seem in the least exotic, until I took out my most precious possessions in the world at the time: five paperback copies of “The Best of Mad Magazine,” which at the time was far holier than the Bible for us fifth-graders. With my bunkmates crying out, “Can I borrow these?” my books instantly disappeared, to my dismay. I was never to see four of them again, but a counselor later presented me with one ragged copy he had found lying on a floor of the building. Pages were ripped out, and the book looked as if someone had driven a steamroller over it.

Over lunch in the dining hall some kind of tuna casserole, heavy on the noodles, light on the cheese, lighter still on the hot tuna my bunkmates informed me how they were going to stage an initiation that evening, one in which I was to be either the guest of honor or the sacrificial victim. I shuddered both inwardly and outwardly what strange new hell was this? but Aygee, who was rapidly becoming my hero, assured me that it was just talk, and he would make sure that no one would lay a hand on me. For me, it was just another proof that young boys were essentially wild animals, which was why I much preferred the company of books. Camp days went by during which it became clear to my bunkmates that I sucked (their word) at basketball, baseball, volleyball, and frankly any sort of team sport. I did learn to dive off the low board that is, I did it once, but had such an uncomfortable feeling, jumping into the water headfirst and feeling it close over my head and the odd sensation up my nose, that I never did it again. I also learned how to do a racing-dive, which is really a controlled belly flop, and painful. I did enjoy boating, preferring canoes to the heavy steel rowboats which were hard to maneuver and whose oars were difficult to lift. During Rest Hour, I would escape the overheated bunk and help myself to a canoe, steering out into the middle of the lake a swamp, really and diving into a book.

There were embarrassing times, as well the time that another boy (named Al, of course) and I were roughhousing in the bunkhouse hall, and he pushed me, hard, into the wall. The wallboard was so old and flimsy that my ample backside bashed out a hole in it. Al and I couldn’t believe it we stood for a moment surveying what damage I had wrought and he immediately ran off to squeal on me to the counselors. When they arrived and asked, “How did

you do that?” I simply shoved my hefty hindquarters into the wall again, bashing out another hole. Al’s parents had to pay; he had pushed me, after all.

Parents’ Visiting Day came and went: all the other campers except me had their parents drive up to visit them at camp. My parents, living in the city, had neither driver’s licenses nor car, so I spent the day loafing around the bunk and reading. On another occasion, my mother took the Greyhound bus from the Port Authority of New York all the way up to visit me. For a treat, she brought a few boxes of Stella D’Oro cookies, which were better meant for little old Jewish or Italian ladies to eat, preferably with a cup of tea. I gobbled up about half of the “Breakfast Treats” and stashed the remainder in my cubby. The next day, when I went for a snack, I found that a colony of red ants had discovered the open packages and were devouring them. Grieving, I threw the offensive cookies into the garbage: the Law of the Jungle had triumphed over Stella D’Oro

Finally, there came the high point of the camp season: an overnight in the woods, nestled in sleeping bags around a campfire under the stars. I had never done that before, nor did I have even the slightest interest in doing it. The camp nature counselor, a somewhat manic sort named Earl Vinecor nicknamed “Vinegar Joe,” of course planned out the entire expedition. We were told to pack enough clothing for an overnight, but I brought only one pair of clean underwear. Eleven-year-olds are not capable of too much future planning.

Slogging through the underbrush in our US Keds sneakers, toiling up hill and down dale in the hot sun while Vinegar Joe/Earl prattled on about various flora and fauna lulled me into a sort of topor, not unlike the sweaty, marching British and Australian POW troops I had seen in Bridge On the River Kwai. I imagined myself a sort of Alec Guinness, misled into serving my Japanese captors.

I will never stop resisting these villains until we return to Old Blighty, I thought, falling into a daydream. I never noticed that we had come to a river, there in the middle of the woods. Suddenly

“SNAKE! Cottonmouth! It’s poisonous! Run across the river hurry up! Don’t worry about getting wet—MOVE!” Earl shouted at us

Following the other Als, I plunged into the stream and stumbled over the submerged, smooth-edged pebbles, doing my best not to fall, as we raced to escape the snake that we didn’t see, emerging on the other side with soaking-wet jeans, soggy socks and sneakers. The other boys had no shame: after the counselors rigged clotheslines to dry out their pants, they shucked off their wet jeans and slung them over the lines. Shy and embarrassed, I kept mine on, shivering through the night in wet pants and underwear. I slept fitfully: it was a miserable night.

The next morning, I awoke from a night of tossing and turning on the forest ground, to find that my pants had finally dried while I was wearing them. We had cold dry cereal for breakfast, and Earl announced that it was time to return to camp. First, we had to re-cross the stream only this time, we could hop from rock to rock, keeping our pants dry, as long as we walked carefully and studied the water’s depth. I didn’t feel very certain of my acrobatic abilities but then, it didn’t matter, because as soon as we began to cross, there it was again:

“SNAKE, DAMMIT!” (this, from our Nature Counselor, Earl) “Into the water! Move, move, move!”

Again, like the obedient Jewish children we were, we splashed across the stream, me resoaking my pants and chafing my delicate thighs. By the time we got across, our valiant Vinegar

Joe had trapped the offending snake beneath his boot, and chopped off its head with a camping hatchet gory, but effective. He was a hero. And my pants were wet, again. We left the horrid cottonmouth, now headless, writhing on the riverrocks.

I was certainly not made for roughing it.

That was the summer at Galila. Before the next summer’s arrival, my mother did more camp research, and decided to send my sister and me off to a different camp—this one, run by a man who peddled socks in the winter, but ran Camp Eton in Red Hook, NY, in the summer. Despite having a forbidding mien, he genuinely loved kids, and did his best to make me, and all the rest of us, comfortable. I didn’t get any better at sports, but, as I got older, I learned how to survive in an all-male bunk, despite not being athletic. I improved my dramatic abilities in camp musical productions; I even got a chance to write and edit the camp yearbook. It was a good experience, after all.

Birthday Grief, Birthday Gift

(Continued from page 9)

“Aw, I’m eleven now, mama. I’m careful enough, too.”

“You know full well they don’t sell toy guns in here. And no way you’re gettin’ no real one You’re liable to kill all your playmates.”

“But I’d only use it for huntin’ with daddy. He can ."

“Whatcha aimin’ on shootin’? Some baby ducky so it’s cryin’ mama can drown herself after?”

Elvis drooped his head, face flushing for the scene they were making in front of Mr. Bobo. “Well. We could just hunt squirrels.”

“Oh, squirrel killer it is then! Squirrel killer it’s gonna be!”

As was the custom when her anger peaked, she grabbed Elvis by the wrist and dragged him wherever she saw fit. This time it was before Mr. Bobo, the rifle prominently perched above its owner.

“Look it, Elvis,” she pointed, finger aquiver. “See the size of that thing?”

“C’mon. It ain’t so big, mama right, Mr. Bobo?”

Forrest’s eyes went wide; his fallen sandwich was still undisturbed near his feet. That is, of course, until Gladys threw him a look that drew a jerking movement resulting in his squishing his meal with the sole of his freshly polished shoe.

“Leave him be, Elvis. You ain’t answered me.”

The boy stood his ground as Gladys roared on,

“You got any idea what a gun that big would do to an itty bitty squirrel?”

Elvis pursed his lips but gave no reply.

“Them poor things would splatter worse than a skeeter on a smacked neck,” she railed.

“But ma-ma,” Elvis pined, throwing another desperate look Bobo’s way to no avail. “He ain’t even showed it proper or told us if anybody like me ever got one with their folks’ okay and all. If we just .”

When Gladys turned her back on him mid-sentence, he hushed. He was flustered and thwarted as he took in Forrest’s gentle, sympathetic smile.

“Fine, let’s have a look, Mr. Bobo,” Gladys relented. “But only I get to hold it.”

After getting around to scooping the remains of his sandwich off the floor, Forrest fetched his step-stool and pulled the gun off the wall rack.

“Figure we’ll humor my boy till he sees there’s no humor in an eleven-year-old outlaw armed to the baby teeth,” she reasoned.

“Please stop, mama. Stop it.”

She eyed the long Remington rifle in Bobo’s outstretched hands.

Gladys wasn’t sure how to hold it but firmly took hold.

Mr. Bobo wouldn’t let go at first, wanting to make sure she could get a full feel of its weight. Had it dropped, it could have damaged the glass countertop.

Once he let go, Gladys tucked it to her bosom and turned for her son so he could get a good look and take in the horror on her face.

Elvis refused to meet her eyes at first. The rifle was so new, it sparkled. But then his mama’s grip on it tightened to where her knuckles went bone-white.

Elvis only faced her for an instant; he had a very low threshold for pain when it afflicted mama. He turned to Bobo instead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gladys take an uncertain step toward him. Then she held the gun out to him

In a movement so swift it made Bobo flinch, Elvis snatched the rifle with his right hand and thrust it toward its owner without so much as giving it another look.

Scrawny kid had some muscle.

Bobo let out a long, deep breath. Had to quell his guilt. The child had an accusatory, wronged expression aimed at the shopkeeper.

Sure, he felt for the child. Forrest sold guns to parents on behalf of their young ones before. Couldn’t quite remember if the age had been similar to that of Elvis Presley, but it wasn’t far off in the least, give or take.

Turning in angst, the boy approached a red bicycle. Just as sparkly as his first choice. He could get around anywhere on a bike like that.

Gladys broke the awkward silence as her dejected son dragged his fingers along a handle bar before giving it a strong squeeze to take the edge off his lingering disappointment.

“Rifle sure was heavy, Mr. Bobo,” Gladys chirped. “How much for it, anyways? Elvis saved up four dollars, sixty-two cents.”

“Oh, lots more than that, Mrs. Presley,” Bobo confirmed, registering the concerned look on her face which belied her tone of voice. “Twenty-eight dollars, I’m afraid.”

“See, Elvis? Rifle ain’t for us.”

“Twenty-two calibers come pricey, ma’am,” Forrest seconded.

The boy still sulked, mounted on the shiny bike. The conversation from the other two turned to a few items in the display case.

The child appreciated how well the bicycle suited his frame. But the crushing feeling from losing out on his initial choice gnawed all resolve to settle for anything else.

Resting his chin between the handle bars, he let his eyes wander from the chatty twosome. Three stacked, unlabeled shell boxes blocked his view of a few products, and his curiosity compelled him to abandon the crimson cycle to see what else would try to get away from him today.

“Look at you, look at you,” he excitedly exclaimed, just above a whisper. It was standing upright, begging to be grabbed It was dark brown. He loved the way he could just make out his reflection in the wood. It could even serve as a mirror, combing his hair while looking straight into it. Could it be his? Would it be his? Oh, it just had to.

Bobo caught sight of Elvis peering over his boxes. They hid a bunch of goods he hadn’t been able to sell for some time. The boy gravitated toward a section he figured would hold no interest for someone his age.

Gladys rambled off a few more sentences to Forrest before his attention fully diverted to her son.

Holding the remains of the squashed grub he’d recently folded into a napkin, Mr. Bobo made the decision not to pitch it in the receptacle next to him. Venturing around the counter instead, he walked the length of his store to drop it in the bin a few feet from where Elvis stood

Birthday Grief, Birthday Gift (continued)

coveting a certain something.

“Anythin’ you like, son?”

Though the boy heard him coming and wanted to ask to hold it and wanted to know its cost, Presley dreaded the answer. So much, in fact, he chose to ignore him outright, despite knowing it was downright rude. He just took it for granted he’d be out-priced. It was likely he’d never see it again. Never see himself holding it. Though it did lack a strap. Maybe that would bring down its cost. Maybe he’d be able to buy it somehow, make it happen so it wouldn’t be just mama and Mr. Bobo to ever see him holding it. Playing it?

“Elvis!” Gladys growled. “You lose your manners, best send a search party. Mr. Bobo’s good and tired of your backside, hon.”

Turning on command, Presley found himself doing two things he’d been unaware of at first. He just kept nodding as if only a yes would do now. There couldn’t be another no. Maybe by doing it non-stop, he’d convince them to do likewise. Also, he wrung his hands. Gladys bit her tongue upon seeing that. It made her fret, because nine times out of ten, his doubt was justifiably the money kind. And there was never justice in that constant.

Gladys ultimately took a breath and casually strode over, head high. She had to be confident in not denying her son twice on one birthday. Not this birthday.

“Mr. Bobo, sir I see you got a brown guitar back here.”

“Sure do, young man. Stand aside. Let me through to get you two better acquainted.”

Elvis’s eyes never left Gladys’s. Even as he spoke to the seller. He recognized her uncertainty too and those nerves. When nerves got ahold of mama, they always squeezed hard. And there were few things he hated more than when they squeezed on his account.

So it was the birthday boy who took a long step back when the eager gentleman presented the guitar, temporarily blocking the view of his fretful parent.

The seconds ticked mighty slow thereafter. It was only when Bobo’s bad arm started giving off some discomfort that he began pulling away and that was when Elvis pounced. His left hand grabbed the neck frets while the right tucked under the round base of the bottom curve.

“Picked yourself a real beauty,” Bobo observed while rubbing his surgically-repaired right elbow. Had to break his fall somehow when his ladder gave out stocking a high shelf three months back.

“How do I look, mama?”

“Like an angel done traded in his harp for a guitar. How much, Mr. Bobo?”

It was only when young Presley glided a thumb over the length of the strings and made music for the first time that Forrest scratched his head, crunching the numbers on what he wanted for the thing.

“Mrs. Presley, Elvis here’s got about five. But I can’t take less than seven seventy-five for it.”

“I’ll pay up for you,” she told her boy.

“Oh, mama,” he said, overcome with joy.

“Happy birthday, Elvis,” Bobo winked. “Should I box it up for you?”

“No, sir. Thank you very much. I’d rather hold her, if you don’t mind.”

RIVER OF GRASS

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

River of Grass is seeking submissions of poetry, short fiction, creative non-fiction, and visual art. Submissions are open to all students, alumnae, faculty, and staff of Keiser University. The editors are particularly interested in writing that presents a unique perspective and authentic insight.

All entries should include a cover page with the title(s) of works, author's name, major (student) or department (faculty/staff), campus (e.g., Ft. Lauderdale Campus), credentials earned (i.e., degree(s), if any), and the name of all other institutions that the author has matriculated from, as well as contact information, such as email and/or phone number. Name and contact information must NOT appear on any pages of the submission (except the cover page).

Each page of the submission should be numbered and include a header with the title (or shortened version) of the manuscript.

All entries must be submitted electronically via (Keiser email) and should be contained in files (Microsoft Word, PowerPoint, WordPerfect, PDF, HTML, RTF, OpenOffice [ODT], Google Docs, JPG, TIF, PNG, GIF, etc.) attached to an email. Submissions should not have been published previously in any form, whether in print or online. Multiple submissions are allowed but should be submitted separately. Simultaneous submissions are permitted; please withdraw your work through email if it is accepted for publication elsewhere. If chosen for publication, selectees will be notified by email.

POETRY

All types of poetry are encouraged. Up to five poems per submission are accepted. Poems should be submitted together in one file with titles or page breaks to separate poems. We are looking for poems that affect and move us, make us laugh or cry, inspire and motivate, or teach us something new. Free verse and traditional forms are accepted. We are seeking well-written, unique, musical, and insightful poems full of rich and colorful imagery of any style.

FICTION

We are looking for polished, thoughtful stories that take us on a vivid journey, that move us, that change us, and that makes us see and understand the world differently. We seek work with resonant characterizations, powerful dialogue, and a thought-provoking plot. We welcome finely crafted work from most any genre.

We would be interested in a broad range of genres: timely works, humor, science fiction, fantasy, thriller, mystery, dystopia, detective stories, magical realism, western or historical fiction, and any literary fiction that challenges our perspective and allows us to engage with creative form and imaginative expression. While we are open to a variety of story structures, tones, ideas, and subject matter, we do not want gore, erotica, graphic sexual depictions/porn, or any extremely vulgar work including, racism, hate speech, or other offensive material.

Submissions should be between 1000 and 2,500 words in length. Submissions longer than 2,500 words, with very rare exceptions, will be returned unread. Please send us your strongest work, the work that you are proudest of, the work that you have edited and proofread so many times that you can’t see straight anymore.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

The creative nonfiction genre employs literary conventions, techniques, and styles to create documentable topics, events, and subject matter shaped to read like fiction. Each author should take a tale from life making use of narrative techniques such as description, figurative language, scene, dialogue, setting, etc., to create literary prose that explores the dynamics of the varied experiences within the human condition. We encourage authors to create perspectives and characters that are seen to grow, change, and evolve. Creative nonfiction narratives are generally created in first person point of view, but non-conventional, experimental structure and writing styles are not discouraged. We welcome work that might be described as literary nonfiction, narrative nonfiction, imaginative nonfiction, literary journalism, lyric essay, personal essay, personal narrative, travel writing, food writing, or memoir. River of Grass is looking for inspired artistic expression, and we encourage authors to craft works of nonfiction utilizing literary conventions and techniques that contain round, well-developed characterizations. Each creative nonfiction submission must be a true story and based in fact. Submissions may be up to 2,500 words maximum.

VISUAL ART

Artwork and photography in all media and all subjects are accepted. Up to five visual art submissions may be made at one time. Artists may include a brief description of each work.

Publication Rights

We want to be the first publisher to present works to the public. We require First Publication Rights and Non-Exclusive Electronic Rights. All rights revert to the authors upon publication. Authors retain all rights to their work.

Response Time

Response times may vary, depending on volume and production schedule, and can take anywhere from one to six months, or longer. Please do not query; we reply to every submission.

Revisions

Please note: it is not possible to revise a poem while it is being considered unless we make a specific request. Please proofread and edit your work prior to submission. Take advantage of the Writing Studio at your campus for assistance with revision and editing. Send submissions to: RiverofGrass@keiseruniversity.edu

Lake Beauclair, Mount Dora, FL