The Bluestone Review 2020

The Bluestone Review 2020

The Bluestone Review

Spring 2020

Editors: Hayley A. Moore Carrington J. Hawthorne Sidney E. Smith

Layout and Design: Clara Blevins & Allen Roberts Faculty Advisor: Dr. Robert Merritt

Cover Art: “Across the Valley” by Paula Childers

Artist’s description: This was a beautiful day to take my mother on a road trip over Route 16, the Back of the Dragon. The view off the overlook is across Thompson Valley. It was sufficiently captiviating to attract more than a few burly bikers to pause and enjoy that day!

© Bluestone Review 2020

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Dear Readers,

We are so excited to unveil to you the 27th Edition of the Bluestone Review. The 2020 Review is comprised of many fantastic art and literature pieces that ring true to the creativity of our community. Our goal this year was to convey our love and pride for our home – a goal that could not have been achieved with- out your shared appreciation. With that being said, we want to sincerely thank you for your incredible contributions. The wind that flows through our South- western Virginia trees are aweing at your praise, and our mountains are singing with joy.

Revel in this shared love, for it is warm and welcoming.

Your Friends,

— The Editors of The Bluestone Review

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Table of Contents

Prose

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“Bridge to the Unknown” by Tanya Pinette Brother Time

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By William Bailey Life: A Three-Part Story

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By Ashley Bauer What It’s Like to Love a Firefighter By Ashley Bowman Immigrating to the Beach Town

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By Veronica Casanova Stress By Taylor Cramer The Right One By Riley Eaton That Was Close

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By Linda Hudson Hoagland Odessa

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By Mary Jones The Fog

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By Maddison Miller Cathead Biscuit

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By Fred M. Powers The Collapsed Tunnel By Hannah Reeves When the Sun Gave Up

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By Tessa Saiia A Child’s Salvation

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By Ivy Shelton Boredom By Brent Shelton

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Drama

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“The Corner Alley” by Carrington J. Hawthorne Mothboi

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By Noah Jennings

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Interview with Vince Lewis Interviewed by Hayley A. Moore Interview with Ellen Elmes

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Interviewed by Sidney E. Smith

Artwork

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“Dark” by Jack Shaver Poppy By Kaleigh Compton Bluejay

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By Brandi Feher Sunrise By Faith Pike Dandelions By Brandi Feher New Growth By Emily Carlisle Arpillera By Noel Saunders U.S. Air Force

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By Brandi Feher Maritime Museum of the Atlantic

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By Walter Shroyer Blue-Haired Woman

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by Kassidy Brown Let Me Fly By Staley Lyle Brazilian Flag

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By Walter Shroyer Photography

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“Snowy Sundays” by Dana Draughn Witten Valley

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By Karie Turley Bike Nite at The Raven

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By Paula Childers Field of Dreams By Carrie-Anne Moss

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Into the Mist by Paula Childers Golden Sky by Urwa Choudry Mermaid by Dena Monroe

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Poetry

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“Striped Plants” by Faith Pike On This Crisp Fall Morning

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By Averie Buaron Hour of Shadows By Dr. Rick Farmer The Mother By Dr. Rick Farmer My Dad By Dr. Rick Farmer Beauty By Destiny Furrow Timepieces By Hannah Griffin Margo By Reagan Hardy Dodge By Noah Jennings Windlord By Laura Kimzey The Riddle By Jeffrey A. Moore Heritage

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By Monty Gilmer A Day in a Teacher’s Life

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By Delilah O’Haynes At Some Distance and Years Later

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By James Owens Breathing Late in Winter

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By James Owens

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Letter to Erin from a Winter Dawn

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By James Owens Salty Air

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A song by Dr. Charles Priest Composition By Audrey Raden Jumping in the River

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By Audrey Raden In the U.S.A.

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By Noel Saunders Under the Cherry Blossom

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By Ella Sekkor The Killer of Love By Walter Shroyer Burdock (for Peter) By Matthew J. Spireng False Target By Matthew J. Spireng Fire

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By Taylyn Strange Liquor and You By Taylyn Strange The Ocean

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By Taylyn Strange Autumn Meditations

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By Debi Swim Study in Grey

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By Debi Swim Thinking of Death

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By Debi Swim Autumnal Cannibalism

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By Alysia Townsley Every Night I Dream of You

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By Alysia Townsley Habitat of Longing

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By Alysia Townsley

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You Can Love Demons

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By Onnika Turley Lenny’s Sunset By Karen Byerely Simplistic Nature

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By Dustin Barker Editors’ Contributions

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“Column Depths” by Clara Blevins Conquest of Cupid

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By Carrington J. Hawthorne Why Do I?

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By Sidney E. Smith Wishing

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By Hayley A. Moore Authors’ Notes

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“Mountains of Hope” by Amber Cordle

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Prose

“Bridge to the Unknown” by Tanya Pinette

The Bluestone Review 2020

Prose

Brother Time By William Bailey

Summer was almost gone when my brother arrived late one afternoon last year. He had been in medical school all summer. He was stressed and irritable after many days and nights of studying for exams and presentations. He called and asked if I would meet him at our farm for an evening of fishing and frog gigging. I was delighted. Luke had been so busy with college, his wedding, and then medical school, that I rarely ever saw him. I was excited to finally get some time relaxing and fishing with my older brother. We met at the pond buried deep in the woods alongside the edge of our family farm. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, but the heat and humidity of the Alabama summer was sweltering. Luke had come prepared with bait and beer. I found the gigs and reels in the barn along with a basket for our catch. I ran to meet him in a sweaty hug. We tugged the small flat-bottom boat into the green water and hopped aboard while balancing the gear and the beer as we wobbled. We had spent a lot of our time at this pond when we were younger; skipping rocks, climbing trees, and shooting snakes. We fell into a silent, but comfort- able, paddle around the dark water. Luke drank his beer and cast his line while I paddled and looked for cool spots under the hanging branches. The frogs seemed to be anxiously awaiting the arrival of the evening darkness as they croaked and sang and watched us from the bank. I watched Luke as the beer and the calm of the afternoon washed the stress from his face. He grinned at me. The sun slid away, the night sky filled with stars, and the frogs continued to sing to us as we wobbled in the little boat. Time stood still for me. I listened to his stories. He listened to mine. Although it was just an afternoon fishing trip with my brother, the time spent… just two adult boys in a boat; continues to make me hopeful for many more afternoons with him in the future. Life: A Three-Part Story By Ashley Bauer Silence The chest was not moving. The heart was not beating. The body was failing in total silence. The pierce of the ambulance siren, the sound of people yelling to start CPR; but still silence. Three daughters crying, a worried husband, frantic medical personnel whose only hope was the silence going away. The slam of the ambulance doors, the medical equipment coming alive with the roar of engines; but still silence. Her shirt was ripped off as if it was burning her skin. Tubes, stickers, breathing tubes, IVs, were all pushed into her failing body. Still silence. She had been dead for ten minutes. The heart monitor was plugged in. Men were pushing on her chest as hard as they could to try and kickstart what was gone. Silence. “God, save this woman,” an EMT whispered. Beep. Beep. Beep. The chest rose. Beep. Beep. Beep. The silence was gone.

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Happy Birthday in the Saddest Place on Earth The family sang happy birthday to her. Beeps and the hum of a ventilator were the background music that filled the song. Instead of a birthday cake, she had liquefied mush from the hospital cafeteria. Her daughter made her a special present, but her Mommy’s eyes wouldn’t open to look at it. The family came to celebrate another year of life, but what kind of life is it to be constantly losing yours? She woke up for a few minutes. They took pictures. “Happy birthday, Mommy,” her daughter whispered as her mother’s eyes started to close again. She celebrated her birthday that year unconscious in a hospital bed. Perhaps in her dreams she was in a happy place. Miracles Don’t Only Happen in Fairy Tales She grew up watching fairy tales on TV. She saw miracles happen all the time, but TV wasn’t real. Now she was lying in a hospital bed watching her daughters play while her life was draining from her. They told the family she had a few weeks to live. They said goodbye. She wrote letters to her daughter for their wedding day. Tick. Tick. Tick. The days were flying by. But then she woke up and felt different. She felt alive. She wondered if she was in her new body in heaven, but she could still feel the prick of the IV in her chest. They sent her home, not to die, but to live. Miracles don’t only happen in fairy tales. What It’s Like to Love a Firefighter By Ashley Bowman Being a girlfriend, fiancé, or wife to a firefighter isn’t what people think it’s cut out to be. It’s not this romantic love story where he is this big hero who always saves the day and you think it makes you look cool to be with them. It comes with a lot of struggles. It’s both of you waking up from a dead sleep because the pager went off. It’s having to stop in the middle of a movie you just started to get into because there’s a house on fire. It’s sitting alone for hours, when he promised y’all were going to spend quality time together that day because a fire alarm went off somewhere. It’s not getting to finish a conversation that’s important to the both of you, be- cause someone wrecked and needs help. It’s him dropping you off at the house alone because they need backup at the station. It’s having to eat dinner alone, because y’all rode to the restaurant together, and as soon as the food is brought out, he has to leave because someone is having a heart attack. It’s plans that are being changed because as soon as you get ready to walk out of the door together, the fire department shows up to your house needing his help rescuing people from flood disasters. It’s him coming home from a long, horrible call, but won’t talk to you about it. It’s him having bad days because he’s thinking about the person that he was trying to save that died on the last call. It’s non-stop things like that. Loving a firefighter is hard. But, it’s also the most rewarding and blessed

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feeling in the entire world. So, to all of my sisters out there who understand, and to the ones who don’t understand yet, just hang in there. We are all in this together. Always love and support your firefighter. Hold him close on his bad days. Be there for him during his worst times. We don’t know exactly what they go through. Just try to understand, and sit back and let God handle things. Immigrating to the Beach Town By Veronica Casanova She’s walking along the sidewalk; her mother’s large steps are far too great for her small ones. She needs to run to catch up, the wind catching on her small dress which seems to have a large stain. Her small coiled curls bounce around her face, which allows me to catch a glimpse of her small, button nose with large, almond-shaped eyes. But, her face looks hollow at that moment. The sound of her tiny leather Mary Janes squeaks, but only for a second, before being replaced with the sound of her buckles clicking together, showing the tiny cat design on the toe of the shoe. The woman is walking faster now, almost turning into a sprint. Her face seems mixed with emotions, her eyes puffy and her nose red. The little girl keeps mum- bling something I can’t quite make out. “Mommy.” It is faint, but I hear it. The woman runs faster now; the little girl begins to run, her entire appearance becoming broken and static-like, her feet vanishing. She is hovering now. The woman is now engulfed in a crowd of people, surrounded with officers and questions. Suddenly, she falls to the ground, sobbing. In front of her lay a sheet covering someone way too small, and at the foot of the sheet, a small leather shoe with a gold buckle and a cute little kitty on the toe. It was once white. Looking back now, the little girl began fading with the last words, “Mommy, I’m sorry.” Stress By Taylor Cramer Will I fail this math test? Will I make it on time to class? Do I have time to complete all of these assignments? I have practice in 10 minutes, and I haven’t even changed my clothes. Did I eat today? Of course not; when is there time? Stress creeps up on you like that monster under your bed. It eats away at your social life until the only thing you can think about is your mile long “to do list.” Stress is planning out your day to the exact minute, not because you want to, but because you must. If you don’t, you might forget something...and if that’s the case, then game over. No assignment left uncompleted, no practice skipped, no deadline forgotten, god forbid. Don’t fall asleep; leave the lights on. Don’t check your phone, or you’ll never put it down. Keep working. Just one more math problem, two more essays,

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three more worksheets. Your hands are tired; the lines begin to blur. You feel your eyes closing. NO, WAKE UP. Self-talk: you got this, finish it out, push through to the end. Stress wears you down, unless you put it on a leash. You control it. Don’t allow it to control you. How do I get it all done? It requires a strict regimen of energy drinks, count- less cups of coffee, many sleepless nights, and of course, determination. Stress is like wearing a backpack full of bricks around you until you physically can no longer move, waiting for the moment when your to do list for the week is fin- ished and you collapse from exhaustion...only to wake up the next day and begin the next list, write the next schedule, and drink the next glass of caffeine. Take a walk, read a book, keep a journal, schedule me-time. Battle the stress with positive reinforcement. Don’t allow it to consume you; your stress does not define who you are. It may not be easy, but you can overcome it. Take a day off. The “to do list” can wait until tomorrow. Consider the idea of letting stress off the leash and letting it run away, on its own. Let go of the leash. Separate yourself from the monster under the bed. Take a deep breath and remember, it’s only temporary. The Right One By Riley Eaton The sun’s hazy rays beat down upon the humming streets of a downtown city that summer day in 1954. Businesses closed in the afternoon as workers left for their lunch breaks. However, one business in the city’s shopping district kept open during that hour in hopes of drawing in more customers. The crude sign advertising Ward’s General Goods sat above the venue’s doorway, welcoming anyone brave enough to enter. The wallpapered panels of the open-floor room were a dull yellow, with multiple patches peeling up throughout, and cracks ran through the concrete floor. The building’s pipes burst at the most inconvenient moments while the air conditioning faltered on the hottest days. Indeed, Ward’s General Goods was a new establishment with an unfortunate venue that could hardly be helped on its budget, but its owner hoped to make up for its physical condition with excellent products and the diligence of its employees. On that sweltering day, the store’s AC unit broke down. Martin, the handsome man behind the front counter, fanned himself with a sheet from the morning newspaper. “Loretta,” he inquired of his co-worker, “when will Jonathan be here?” “I’ve been here for an hour!” cried Jonathan, the young repairman that often came to fix the shop’s broken machines and utilities. He wiped his sweaty brow with a rag before returning to his silent repair of the AC unit. “Jonathan’s a quiet one,” Loretta, a young lady who was idly rearranging items on a nearby shelf, said. “I don’t know if I should be flattered because I was stealthy, or offended be- cause you didn’t realize I came in at all,” Jonathan huffed. Martin merely offered him a grin. “Be flattered.” Mr. Gabriel Ward walked in from his office at the back of the store. “‘Ello,

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Mr. Ward,” Martin greeted in an exaggerated English accent to the middle-aged shop owner. “Enough, Martin,” Mr. Ward dismissed. “I need you all to listen—yes, even Jonathan. I’ve been looking over the budget—” “Oh dear,” Loretta muttered. “—and things aren’t looking well.” Jonathan looked indifferently upon Mr. Ward. “You don’t want me here today.” “No! There’s no budget! I can’t afford your service.” Martin chuckled nervously as Jonathan’s intense gaze burned into him. After all, Martin was the one who promised Jonathan money. With a pompous, “Humph!” Jonathan packed up his tools and stormed out of the store, leaving the AC unit dismantled. “We’ve been open for five weeks. How could we already be threatened with a shut-down?” Loretta asked. “You haven’t seen any customers around these days, have you?” Mr. Ward crossed his arms. “It’s these chain stores! We didn’t get a chance to build a decent clientele, thanks to those places stealing would-be customers,” Martin ranted. “You can’t get this neat yo-yo and laundry detergent in a single chain grocery, can you?” Martin showed the other employees a wood-finished yo-yo. “Actually, Martin, you can,” Mr. Ward deadpanned. “Oh.” “It could be our strange inventory.” Loretta leaned against a product shelf. “Also, this building isn’t exactly the living end.” The wrinkles on Mr. Ward’s face deepened as he scowled. “For years, I saved so I could open my own business. This building was the best I could afford on those savings. I don’t want my struggle to have been in vain.” The three fell into silence. Cars whirred by outside, and the sound of heels clicking against pavement drew near. The small bell on the door rang. All eyes fell on the poised woman who stood in the doorway. Before she walked in, she inspected every inch of the room. She never once looked at the employees, who stared at her, for they were stunned over someone entering the store. They dared not speak for fear of scaring her away. As if by magic—as if she knew by instinct where to look—the first shelf she drifted towards made her immediately exclaim in a curious accent, “You have this?” “Yes —that,” Mr. Ward blindly concurred. “I hadn’t found these in America until now,” she praised, holding up a candy bar labeled “Violet Crumble.” “Huh. I wonder why,” Martin remarked as he leaned against the front counter. Mr. Ward looked at Loretta with perplexed features; Loretta shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose you did know what you were doing when you ordered inventory that nobody wanted,” Loretta said. “It was the right inventory, but the wrong customers.” Mr. Ward gazed quizzically at Loretta. “I’m just saying maybe we do have a chance, Mr. Ward.”

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That Was Close By Linda Hudson Hoagland

Mama has always had a love for other people’s possessions. Sometimes she displayed that love by slipping something into her pocket or purse. Then, before long, she was stopped from walking to the car. It was usually a security guard that halted her progress, but sometimes a uniformed police officer was standing in front of her. “What did you do, Mama?” I asked harshly. “Nothing, baby, not this time,” she hissed back at me. The security guard followed us to the car and asked if he could check our bags. I guessed Mama’s reputation was the culprit that caused this happening be- cause I believed her when she said she didn’t do anything. “Sure, go ahead,” I said as I placed my bags on the ground in front of him, as did Mama. The security guard pawed his way through each bag and then looked up at Mama. “Hold your handbag open so I can see inside of it,” he said sternly. We both opened our handbags up for him to inspect. He wasn’t permitted to touch anything inside of each handbag, mainly because he wasn’t an official police officer. He glanced at each handbag and then asked, “Do you have pockets?” I held my cardigan sweater open to show him I had no pockets. Mama did the same, and he nodded his head and walked back toward the store. “That was close,” whispered Mama. “What are you talking about?” I demanded. “It is in the bottom of that bag right there,” she said as she pointed to a bag containing two boxed puzzles. “When he looked inside, he didn’t pull the boxes out. He just moved them aside, and what I had put in there stayed hidden.” “You lied to me, again. What did you take?” I demanded.

“Some earrings.” “Why, Mama?” “I wanted them,” she whimpered.

“Why didn’t you pay for them?” I said harshly. “Why should I when I could just take them.” “Mama, that’s against the law.” “Only if you get caught.” ***

That was one of the many embarrassing moments I shared with my mother, but I would repeat that moment over and over again if I could have my Mama here on earth with me and not residing in the heavens. Of course, when I tell people about the antics my Mama would pull, they would conclude that she was an out and out thief. That was not true because if Mama stole anything, she would give it away to

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someone else. She just liked to see if she could get away with it. When she was caught, she paid for whatever she took, and no one pressed charges against her. After all, she was an old lady with an engaging smile. Odessa By Mary Jones A train whistle cuts through the still-misty air that hangs by the creek. The morning light slants through the quivering green leaves, the rays sparse. Roots dig into my back through a thinning quilt as I stare at the canopy of late summer leaves. I pull a cigarette to my lips and take a hit before blowing the smoke into the air, watching until the yellow tinted smoke mingles with the mist to the point that the two are indistinguishable. “That’ll kill you,” he says from his spot by my side before leaning over me to pluck the cigarette from my fingers and take a hit himself. “Like I care.” I turn on my side to look at him. He’s all ruffled-brown hair, a scruffy beard, and farm boy overalls. “Might as well keel over now. Your daddy is gonna kill us when he finds out I kept you out all night.” He flicks the cigarette into the creek. “He won’t care. He has no idea that the sweet farm boy from the other side of the mountain is a bad influence.” I turn onto my back again, and there is a moment of silence as I wish he hadn’t thrown away the cigarette. “Thanks...” Another pause. “.... For getting me out last night. I never felt so trapped.” “No problem. Life is scary. I sure don’t have any plans.” “You could stay here. Do something respectable like be a miner.” “Coal is not our only identity, ‘Dessa. Especially not mine.” There is a hint of anger in his voice, always simmering but rarely surfacing “Says the man who won’t even apply to college.” All my stress seeps into the words, and they come out harsh. “That’s your thing, not mine.” His eyes burn like coals. Well, maybe it’s not my thing, either, I think, biting back the words. There is more silence. The mist is nearly gone, the summer humidity rising. A cicada buzzes in the distance like blood rushing in my ears. “You don’t have to go, you know,” he says, voice softer but with the same intensity. “I can’t just not go.” I stand up. “We could go out west,” he says, plowing through my words, “to the desert.” I pull the quilt out from under him. “Like your truck would make it past Ken- tucky.” He follows the quilt and grabs my arms, the quilt bunched up between us. “I’m serious, ‘Dessa.” “I like it here; I’m not leaving.” “Well, I am.” He shoves me to the side a little and starts stalking into the trees. “Have fun in college without me. I’ll be under the stars in the desert. There won’t be any trees to hide in over there.”

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The bitterness in his voice stings. “Wait!” I almost regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. “I’ll come with you.” “I thought you’d come around,” he says and spins to look at me. “When should we leave?” If I go home, I’ll never leave. Ever. “Today. Now.” He holds out a hand, and I take it. I drop the quilt on the bank of the creek.

The Fog By Maddison Miller

As I looked ahead of me, a massive wall of fog stood before me. It seemed to give off this cold negative energy that made me dread walking through it. The aura that it gave off immediately made me think the worst. It brought my deepest fears into all of my thoughts. I just knew that if I tried to cross through, I would never find my way out, and I would die alone and scared of what was going to be around the next corner. If I didn’t try to cross through, I would be letting down everyone I loved, especially the ones who looked up to me. This wall was, what seemed to be, my greatest challenge yet. Finally, I shook myself out of the state of pure terror that I had allowed the fog to put me in. I took a deep breath and willed myself to move towards the wall. As I approached the wall of fog, I could feel the coldness seeping into my clothes, and I couldn’t help but to shiver. By then, I was just inches away from the menacing fog. It was so thick that I couldn’t tell what was on the other side. It could have been a cliff that was a straight drop to spiky sharp rocks; it could have had a hideous monstrosity on the other side; or it could have contained what everyone fears: a pitch black, empty void. A distant force seemed to resur- rect me from yet another fear-invoked trance. As I took a last longing look at the safety of my car, I took a step into the fog. Cathead Biscuit By Fred M. Powers That day I was making haste across the mountain ridges towards home. Hav- ing just passed the knoll of the second ridge, I spotted the top of the cinder block sand house that was at the far boundary of the small side-holler where we lived in a three-room shanty in a coal camp. I was almost eight, and this was the last year of the 1880’s. My ‘pap’ had warned my younger sister Thomasena and me never to go past it because of hidden dangers away from the camp... My parents were going to visit down at “Pee Wee’s house” on that Saturday, located beside Elkhorn Creek, then go on to the nearby company store to get groceries about two miles further down our mountain. They were usually gone for half a day, but Dad’s co-hand loader and friend was gone himself. They arrived home early. Dad had borrowed his brother Less’ mule to put the supplies

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in. Uncle Less was a carpenter for the mines and had made a contraption that fit on Old Pete’s back for hauling groceries and such. My older friends had told me about Thomas Edison’s new-fangled lightbulb that he invented recently and predicted that our whole camp would be lit up in the next ten years or so. They were so smart having also told me about a beauti- ful field of grain that shined like a gold coin three mountain ridges past the sand house at the head of the hollow. I was determined to go and look at it that sunny morning. At school on Monday, I was going to tell my teacher that I had seen the amber fields that we sang about in music class. The old animal path had been easy to follow across the forested ridges. My older brother had been there before and said the narrow trail was a warriors’ path from Indian hunting and scalping parties from long ago. He cautioned me about never to be caught there after dark as the banshee wailing of tortured souls that were scalped would send blood-curdling chills down your spine. A great day was at hand for a leisurely adventure. I took off as soon as my parents began leading “Old Pete” down the dusty mountain road. Dickie was watching over my sister while they were gone. She noticed which way I was headed. She knew I wasn’t going to play at the local sawmill with my friends as I normally did on a Saturday. That didn’t matter as the day was young. What a beautiful sight to behold after an hour and a half of quick walking. I spotted hidden ginseng plants to tell Dickie about as he liked to go hunting for the plants. Having reached the fields of grain, I sat down in the middle and enjoyed me one of Mama’s cathead biscuits crammed full of lightly salted bacon that I retrieved from my red bandana in my overall’s pocket. Kneeling on the damp grass, I cupped my hands and quenched my thirst from the cold mountain stream and gratefully smiled as I detected the presence of small forest animals watching me. My thoughts wandered. Why, I might even tell my Sunday School teacher about it, as well. She was so nice and knew the Bible frontwards and backwards. Her daughter Sandra was also as nice as the day was long. Noon hour came, and I knew to head towards home. Quickly, I came across the knoll of the second ridge on my return trip full of confidence that I had pulled my adventure off and had slickered my ‘pap.’ Crossing over to the last ridge, I heard… ”Come here, boy. What did I tell you about going past that old sand house?” I about choked on my spit when I saw him. “Augh, just that Thomasena and I might be a little young to be wandering out in the woods. I reckoned that I was grown enough now to do a little exploring on my own, even spotted some hidden ginseng plants. I would never put her in danger’s path, Pap.” “Got my behind tanned!” I squalled back to my siblings. “Dadburn it, it still stings.” I held back any sissy tears, but my red-looking eyes about betrayed me. “Buck, you knew better than to cross Pap,” my younger sister grinned like a possum eating “hockey.” My father always called poop this and never the slang word for it. Pap’s mining belt had put welts on my backside, and I probably deserved it. He hung the wide leather belt back on the nail on our back porch. The number three washtub that ‘pap’ took his bath in hung on the nail beside it. Mother always had a fresh pot of hot coffee and the water heated in the tub on

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the wooden kitchen floor near the ‘warm morning’ stove for his evening bath. He would be covered in coal dust while swallowing the steaming coffee and smile with his racoon eyes. At times, Thomasena would daintily help me pull his muddy boots off. We would never even touch the belt because that might jinx us or him. I couldn’t exactly remember if I had brushed against it earlier that morn- ing when I stumbled a little while putting on my brogan shoes with a light fog in the air. Boy, you could really make the sides of the number three tub sound off if you were gassy during your bath. “Bet you pay attention the next time when your daddy tells you something.” My older half-brother by three years Dickie just rolled his eyes and snickered. We shared the same mother as Dad had courted and married her a couple of years after her first husband was killed in the mines in nearby Mingo County. Looking around at Thomasena she stuck her tongue out at me. I just knew she had ratted me out. If she had just been a boy, I might have wrestled her down on the ground, but Mama Gertie’s wrath would be worse than my pap’s. I dared not try and rubbed my sore butt cheeks and smiled. The Collapsed Tunnel By Hannah Reeves July 20, 1900 This story is one that I have kept locked away in the deepest parts of my heart for a long time. After the incident, the town was shut down, and the mine closed, so I thought I had no reason to share this with anyone. But I realize now that I do, and after all of those years, the truth has been slowly eating away at my sanity. Survivors guilt, most will say. You see, fourteen men and one woman were killed that day. Who knew that only ten or so out of a few dozen support beams had been put up properly? Not those miners. Not anyone. Fifteen people died, and it was my fault. The miners watched as boulders fell from supposedly sound supports and crushed them. The woman in the mines was my daughter, and had it not been for Lewis, she never would have been in the mines that day. No one should watch as everything is falling around you, death everywhere, and yet you somehow survive. I was trapped underground for three days and three nights, staring at the corpses of my daughter and her lover. When a rescue team pulled away boulders blocking the way out, I shouted out to them that I would never, ever again pick up a piece of coal or be forced to go down a mineshaft again. When I was finally free of the prison of my own making, I took my distraught wife, and we moved away, to a place where I would never have to hear the words ‘mine’ and ‘collapsed’ again. Now that Eliza has joined Alice and Lewis in Heaven, I must come to terms with the fact that it was my fault that the tunnel collapsed that wretched day. I never laid the supports right.

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When the Sun Gave Up By Tessa Saiia

Once upon a time, there was a small run-down town in the middle of nowhere. The buildings looked their age, with graffiti on every building, as well as the train cars. It was so dark it looked like the sun had given up on the town. As you walked through the streets, it looked like a ghost town with all the doors shut, and all the shades were drawn. The townspeople all prayed for something to make the town come to life again. They wanted happiness and light, but they were so used to the boring dullness of the dark that they were afraid to let the light in. There was this little servant girl who every day would walk around town, skipping and singing to herself and whoever else would listen. She, like every- body else, had grown up with the same darkness, but something was unique and different about her. She had an unfamiliar glow to her that the townspeople had never seen before. It was something that has been missing in this town for a while. The townspeople could hear her singing, and they would look out the windows, but even the little glow that she emitted was too much for them. They would again draw the blinds. They saw her as an outcast. They were scared of her because she was different. They could see her, yet they were blind. They were blind to the fact that she was what they had been praying for. Even in all the darkness, her light showed. Even when all was dull and sad, she always had something to smile and sing about. Everyone had prayed for exactly her, and they treated her like she was a disease that they did not want to catch. Every day, she tried to make a difference, she tried to change this mel- ancholy town into something brighter. Every day spent with no success was draining. Her light slowly started to die, her skipping turned into a hopeless drag, and her song is now just a memory. She had no one to pass the light off to, so her flame had burnt out. She was the optimism in this unappreciative town of pessimism. She tried to make a difference, but without someone to receive, her giving meant nothing. She used to shine so bright, but then, like the sun, she had given up. A Child’s Salvation By Ivy Shelton My daughter was nervously dangling her legs off the edge of the hospital bed as I sat beside her silently praying this would soon be over. She had tried so hard to be brave, but now she couldn’t hide the tears that filled her eyes. I watched as they slowly trickled down her face and disappeared into her beautiful brown curls. A gray t-shirt probably wasn’t the best outfit choice because the tears had quickly soaked it, making her pain all the more obvious. We were both scared. At any moment, a doctor would walk through that door with a folder that con- tained her future. My darling girl had always been a fighter, but cancer? That’s a battle that someone her age had no business being in.

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“God, she’s only six years old. Please,” I whispered. I knew that I should say something to encourage her, but I couldn’t find the words. Finally, I took her small hand in mine and said, “It’s okay, baby. God is with us, and we just have to trust that this is His plan. No matter what the results are, He knows best.” “Are you sure, Mama?” She looked up at me with her beautiful brown eyes. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m positive,” I smiled and hugged her. She didn’t say anything at all for a moment. Then, I watched as she hopped off the bed, got down on her knees, and closed her eyes. “God, cancer is scary. My mommy says that you always know best. So, I trust you. I trust that you exist, and that you love me. I know you are going to be here for me, cancer or no cancer, because you sent your son to die for me. I’m sorry for all my sins, and I know that you will forgive me. Lord, I give you my life. Please, make me and Mommy strong enough to fight cancer and help us remem- ber this is your plan.” I was speechless as she got up off her knees and pulled herself onto my lap. Now, I was the one who was crying because my own daughter had just been saved right before my eyes. I wrapped my arms around her tightly, and I asked her where she had gotten that idea. “I heard it in church, and I’ve thought about it for a while. I just wanted God’s salvation.” “I’m so proud of you!” I said as I held her tighter. That’s when the door swung open, and the doctor walked in. We took a breath and nodded. We had found a new hope, and I knew that we could do this. The doctor smiled and said, “I just looked over your results. You can dry those tears now because you are going to be just fine. There’s not one sign of cancer!” As I carried my daughter out of the hospital doors, she looked up at me and said, “Salvation and prayer change things, Mama.” “Yes, baby girl, they do!” Boredom By Brent Shelton In the silence, I wait. In anticipation, I watch. I can hear his footsteps. His heavy breathing crescendos as I brace myself for his arrival. “Today will be different,” I think to myself. “Today, I will overcome him.” Boredom bursts into the room. With violent force, he grabs hold of me. My energy is drained as I stare into the abyss that is his countenance. I try to shake him off, but his grip is too secure. I kick and flail about in futility. I question him. “Why are you here? Why do you always stalk me? What do you want from me?” He answers with silence, leaning forward as if to consume me. My determination atrophies. I am weak. My consciousness fades. I accept my fate.

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Drama

“The Corner Alley” by Carrington J. Hawthorne

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Drama

revealing a young man and his friend filming him on an iPhone out- side a wooded area. VAN (CONT’D) Two couples were trav- eling outside the TNT area, five miles from the town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, the home state of yours truly. From what they could see through the windshield of their car was a brown, mon- strous, bat-like crea- ture with glowing red eyes! They drove away quickly, but the monster chased them by flying with its massive, feathered wings! They escaped, but the creature didn’t disappear. Sightings of the creature continued through- out the town of Point Pleasant. The town later named the beast “The Mothman,” which was widely reported in the local newspapers and later in John Keel’s novel, The Mothman Prophecies, which con- nected the creature to the collapse of the Silver Bridge, citing it as an omen to the tragedy. So today, I-uh… I-umm… We are here and-erm… I-I-I plan to… Dang it! Cut! FRAN continues filming

as VAN tries to find his words. FRAN What’s wrong? VAN Nothin’. FRAN You want to try again? VAN Just give me a minute… Short pause. FRAN It’s gotta be today, buddy! All sixty of our viewers can’t wait. VAN Don’t give me all that sh— FRAN (stops filming) Language! You better watch your mouth or we’ll get demonetized, boyo! VAN (rubbing his face in frustration) Fran, can you take this paranormal investigation seriously for fifteen min- utes so we can get all the footage we need? FRAN I dunno, Van! Can you stop stuttering and talk about the weird moth monster? VAN

Mothboi By Noah Jennings CHARACTERS: VAN - a college

drop-out and part-time paranormal investigator from Beckley, WV. FRAN - Van’s friend from New Jersey and camerawoman for their paranormal YouTube channel. The McClintic Wild- life Management Area, also known as the “TNT Area,” a notable his- torical place during the second World War, five miles outside of Point Pleasant, West Virginia. It is very late at night as the farmers and wildlife have turned in for the day. What can only be seen are trees, wet grass, and the pitch-black darkness surrounding the area. The current date is December 16th, 2018. Two figures with bright lights illuminating from their phones appear in the night, crickets fill the audible space. One of the figures speaks: VAN November 15th, 1966… LIGHTS COME UP, SETTING:

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Listen, I know you had a long drive over here, but— FRAN Oh, you mean my over six-hour drive from Morristown, New Jersey to the middle of no- where? I could be eating Christmas ham with my family, but noo! I’m with my idiot friend, filming a dumb Youtube video in Country Bump- kin, West Virginia! VAN Okay, you’re putting bad vibes out in the air and that effects my perfor- mance, so can we take a five? FRAN Ugh! Fine! VAN Do you want me to get water from the car? FRAN No… Let’s just start again. VAN What? FRAN Three, two, one. Action, Van! FRAN points her iPhone camera at VAN again and turns the flashlight back on.

VAN No, I’m not ready. FRAN Action, Van! VAN Quit it, Fran! FRAN C’mon, before the

gate conspiracies, ghost stories, and folklore. FRAN We have a channel called Spookbusters! We’re not actual inves- tigators, okay? I thought you didn’t even believe in ghosts anyway. VAN HEY! Don’t get that on camera! You better delete that right now. FRAN Why should I? Our videos might get more viewership if they knew you were a hack fraud. Maybe I should just post it right now, I doubt there’s much editing to do. VAN Fran, don’t! FRAN VAN Fran! FRAN (tapping on her screen) Uploading… VAN snatches the phone away from FRAN’s hand, he cancels the the upload and slides his thumb across the screen. VAN This is out of your hands, buckeroo.

spooky mothboi shows up and eats your eye- brows! VAN (chuckling) You’re not funny. FRAN What are we doing here again, Van? Looking for some monster that likes to chase meddling kids and their dog, too? VAN WE are investigating the whereabouts of the Mothman. FRAN Is it like a Batman, vigi- lante thing? VAN No, didn’t listen to my introduction? It’s a mon- ster from Point Pleasant. It’s like the Jersey Devil or celebrity ghosts? FRAN Is that our next video? Celebrity ghosts, Van? VAN I mean, we do investi-

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Deleted. FRAN Gimme my phone, Van! VAN Actually, I’m not going to do that, but I would love to go through your search history. May I? FRAN You wouldn’t— VAN Sike, you gremlin! I’m gonna do it anyway because I already have your phone and you are powerless in stopping me! FRAN I swear to God, I’m gon- na stab you in the name of my sanity! VAN Whatever, kid. FRAN VAN! An animal-like screech echoes in the distance, making FRAN and VAN jump in fear. VAN drops the phone to ground and jumps into the arms of FRAN, like Scooby and Shaggy in the classic Hanna Barbera cartoon. VAN What was that? FRAN (struggling) Get off of me.

it haunted this small town long ago. FRAN Wait, wha— VAN My camerawoman and I have just heard an unusual scream coming from the woods behind me. I plan to follow the noise and see if we can uncov- er the mystery of the Mothman. FRAN Absolutely not— VAN And cut. Let’s go! FRAN There is no way in the seventh circle of Hades that I’m walking into that forest. VAN I didn’t take you for the cowardly type. FRAN Can we just go back to car? VAN What are you afraid of? FRAN Nothing, I’m just really

VAN No, seriously. That wasn’t an animal. FRAN

I’m actually gonna stab you if you don’t get off. VAN Hold me? FRAN No. FRAN drops VAN to the ground. VAN gets up and brush- es himself off, staying very attentive of his surroundings. VAN Roll camera. FRAN Roll camera? VAN Start the video! FRAN Oh, okay! (holds up iP- hone for video) Action, Logan Paul! VAN ignores the insult and gets into character. VAN (to the camera) Tonight, I plan to discover the mysteri- ous whereabouts of the mythological Mothman and investigate the cir- cumstances of why

cold. VAN You’re full of it!

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FRAN I wasn’t the one who jumped into my friend’s arms like a scared dog. VAN You’re exaggerating. FRAN You were quaking in your little spooky boots! VAN Midget! FRAN If you call me a midget again, I’m gonna turn this paranormal investi- gation video into some- thing you would find on Liveleak. There is a pause. VAN Touché. FRAN Can we go? VAN How about we shoot some b-roll. FRAN B-roll? VAN Secondary footage. Some stuff for the title card. Here. VAN takes off his backpack and pulls out a strange, black robe with red roundels stitched

on. He throws the robe to FRAN, who fumbles catching it. VAN (CONT’D) Put that on. FRAN looks at the robe closely, finding it to be some sort of Halloween costume. FRAN Why do I need to wear a costume? VAN Gimme your phone and we’ll shoot some stuff with the woods behind you. FRAN (sighs) If this thing has asbestos in it, you’re paying my hospital bills. FRAN slips into what is revealed to be a Moth- man costume with the red roundels serving as the creature’s eyes. The costume covers FRAN’s entire face, so VAN helps her walk to the place she needs to be shot. FRAN Where do I need to look? VAN Towards me. FRAN … I can’t see you, Van.

VAN To the left, Fran! TO THE LEFT! FRAN (muttering) I am so sick of your shizz. VAN (pointing the camera) Just do it. FRAN Do what? VAN Act… Like a mothman. FRAN Act like a mothman? VAN Yeah, do you know how to do that? FRAN I don’t know, Van. You’re the theatre major, show me! VAN And action! VAN presses the record button and FRAN snaps into a weird trance that makes her sway from side to side like a con- fused ghost. She stares into the lense intently. VAN More spooky. FRAN (continuing her ghostly movements) How can I be more

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spooky? I’m in a black sheet in the woods with some idiot filming me! VAN Just do your job. FRAN Alright. Ooooo! Look at me, I’m the spooktacular mothboi who likes to make a fool of herself in the woods with a college dropout. Oooo— VAN YO! VAN puts the camera down and gives FRAN a look indicating that she has crossed the line. FRAN eventually stops swaying and tries to muster up an apology. The two share in silence as they look for answers in each other’s eyes. FRAN Too far? VAN A little… FRAN Do you wanna go back to the hotel? VAN I just— FRAN C’mon, let’s go. The bushes behind them rustle. Something is

lurking in the darkness. FRAN takes off the costume and goes to investigate the noise. VAN What are you doing? FRAN You heard that, didn’t you? VAN Yeah, it was probably a fox or something. FRAN I want to check it out. VAN Weren’t you scared earlier? FRAN Well.. I was scared be- fore, but now… I guess, I’m not so scared. VAN Let’s call it a night, Fran. FRAN Hold on, I just want to check out what’s behind the bushes. FRAN slowly sneaks towards the woods, a slight buzzing noise comes from behind the trees, but not a noise from the likes of an animal or something remotely connected to anything human.

VAN Fran, don’t go. FRAN Why? VAN It could be dangerous. FRAN Dangerous? VAN Yeah. FRAN Van… Everything’s fine. FRAN exits and dis- appears into the dark forest. The sounds of her stepping on fallen sticks and branches disappear into the absence of light. VAN picks up the Moth- man costume and shakes the dirt off the black cloak. He makes his way back to the car. He is halted by a loud scream coming from the woods, the scream of his friend, FRAN. VAN calls out for her. VAN Fran? The screeching previ- ously returns. VAN Fran, where are you?! VAN gets out his phone and starts recording himself.

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VAN (to the camera) I’m here in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, where my friend and camerawoman, Fran has been possibly kidnapped by the supernatural creature, the Mothman! I just heard a scream coming from the woods, followed by an unearth- ly screech! I’m going to tread slowly into the woods and rescue my friend from the myste- rious moth humanoid. VAN creeps his way to the trees with his phone flashlight. Crickets cry in the night as VAN steps closer and closer, snapping twigs on the dirt ground. VAN runs and exits towards the forest. VAN (OFFSTAGE) Fran! The screeching gets louder. The shadow of a headless creature with red circles on its shoul- ders is overcast on the stage. The moth human- oid raises its wings. BLACKOUT.

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Interview with Vince Lewis

Winter Festival 2015

The Bluestone Review 2020

Interview with Vince Lewis

A Feature with Vince Lewis Interviewed by Hayley A. Moore

Not many people are aware of all of the art and music that Bluefield holds. Jazz guitarist and professor at Bluefield College, Vince Lewis, however, was able to see the beauty of Bluefield rather quickly upon moving to the area. He has come to love the area and his students and even goes so far as to say, “I love [Bluefield College], and anything I can personally do is great by me.” He even went so far as to offer up his own time and talent to the publication reception for this edition of the Bluestone Review! I got to sit down with Mr. Vince Lewis, professional guitarist and professor, and learn some of the things that brought him to music and to Bluefield. Here is what he had to say. “My greatest joy is seeing students love and enjoy the guitar as much as I do, regardless of what level they attain.” This was part of the response when I asked Mr. Lewis how long he has been teaching and playing guitar. He definitely cares about his students and nurturing them and their love of music, rather than pushing them to be perfect when they wish to learn for fun. This is a quality that more music teachers need to adopt. So long as the student is having fun and enjoying what they are studying, music is music! Who needs to be perfect? Mr. Lewis also said that he started guitar lessons at the young age of 5 years old. Even more, though, he started teaching in a music store in Charleston, WV at only 14! This shows that Mr. Lewis had lots of experience playing and teaching guitar by the time he started teaching at the university level in 1973. He is still teaching at the university level today, to the great appreciation of his students and the Bluefield College music department. This love and care for both music and the individual always show through his performances and the perfor- mances of his students and jazz band. I also asked Mr. Lewis about some of his musical influences and some of his favorite performers to perform with. He noted that he has very many musical influences, and he has also had the opportunity to play with a number of big jazz artists, including a couple of his childhood influences. Some of his biggest musical influences are guitarists Wes Montgomery, Herb Ellis, Charlie Byrd, and Mundell Lowe. What a group! He grew up listening to these artists and said that he even got to meet and work with both Herb and Mundell later in his career. “They were a thrill to be around, both musically and personally.” Some of Mr. Lewis’s favorite guitar performances were actually with a num- ber of major acts. Some of these acts were Bob Hope and Don Rickles. Howev- er, these types of acts were not the only ones that Mr. Lewis had the opportunity to play. He also played guitar with the Cab Calloway Orchestra and Les Elgart Orchestra. He even was an opening act for B.B. King, Dave Brubeck, Lou Raw- ls, and many other major stars. He also co-headlines jazz festivals with a few of them! One of the most difficult questions that I asked Mr. Lewis was what his favor- ite piece of music to play is. He said, “My favorite piece is difficult to pick, as I love playing tunes from The Great American Songbook, and the composers were all so terrific, and the music so timeless.” He was able to give a few pieces that

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