Ink-Filled Page

Cover Art: Reeds by Peter LaBerge

The youth issue of Ink-Filled Page is always a breath of fresh air, showcasing the talents of up-and-coming writers and artists. Drawing from deeply personal places and creating new realities, these bright youth, well beyond their years in insight and ability, are sure to capture your attention with their words and pictures.

IFP is proud to present authors, Morgon Horton and Tessa Bolsover, and featured artists, Peter LaBerge and Tessa Bolsover.

Fiction

Our Tree

by Morgan Horton

Chapter One

I look down at my bronzed hand tipped with professionally manicured nails grasping the knob. I shudder. I feel wrong, detached. My eyes trail the line of my arm to my torso. Taking in my Egyptian cotton T-shirt, the buttery softness feels like sandpaper. Designer romper and leather boots complete my façade. What a joke. What was I thinking coming back here dressed like this? I deserved the high-eyebrow amused looks from Gram and Pop. I haven’t returned here with my family or seen my grandparents for eighteen years. Going from overalls to heeled boots, it’s no wonder I feel so foreign here. My hand falls from the rusted knob and drops to my side. I plop onto the dusty step and lean back against the heavy wooden door.

I lift my gaze to the sky. New York City Olivia compares the piercing blue sky to MAC pigment #13, Robin’s Delight. Liv, my eight-year-old self, would have found the outrageously pure sky a delicious cotton candy hue. I feel so out of place here, yet I know that I am home. Truly home. Coming back to the farm is like dusting the cobwebs off of an old favorite book. Nostalgic, but somehow new.

Standing up, I turn once again to the makeshift playhouse that served so many hours of entertainment to me and my brother. Pop did a spectacular job building this little house, this little world just for us. About the size of a small shed, it could sustain every one of our imaginary lives. I pry the door open against protesting creaks from the ancient hinges. The little shack is flooded with sunlight and dust, illuminated by the foreign rays, twinkles in the air. I step carefully and lodge the door open with a large stick from the playhouse.  Dead wheat straws are tied to the end of the stick.

I smile, remembering our broom. I miss the innocent plots and creativity, believing that anything was possible. When I was eight, Mom was perfect. When I was eight, Dad would do anything for me. When I was eight, Conner was alive.

In the kitchen I pick up a filthy rusted pot. It jangles when I bring it to my level and I peer into the brownish-red confines of the hand-me-down dishware. A single plastic sheriff badge sparkles in the sun despite the thick coating of dust covering the surface.

My vision blurs. I lift my chin to the rafters, trying to persuade my tears to retreat. I can’t let my emotions darken this happy place. Conner and I always escaped here. We could be whoever we wanted to be, our futures indefinable and our pasts unimportant.

I pocket the metallic badge and replace the pot, exiting the playhouse. Force of habit draws me across the acreage and to our tree. The stickers and twigs crunch under my ridiculous boots, reminding me of my artificial presence in this place. Olivia doesn’t belong. I reach the gnarled trunk of the oak and place my hand on the scarred bark. Gram always used to tell us about the times when our tree was struck by the lightning storm of ’72 and again from a stray bolt in ’98. Conner and I used to call it Oaky Jack after our uncle who was known for getting into and surviving numerous bar fights. He too had scars. Now we all have scars.

My mind rewinds to the moment everything changed.

The headlights of Jack’s Ford pickup blind us as we look up from our circle of lawn chairs where, as a family, we spend our evenings. I run to the vehicle with a grin as Jack slams his door, head hung so low, it is almost touching his chest. Then I see the sickened look on his face. I peer into the rusty passenger door looking for Conner, only to find an empty seat. My young, confused eyes scan his face in horror as he explains what happened. It was too late; he had already been rushed to the hospital and passed from complications. The burns were too severe…

I didn’t understand the half of it back then. Those scars were anecdotes, told to warn. Now the thought of calling our tree by the name Oaky Jack causes bile to rise in my throat and those salty drops to fill my eyes again.

Suddenly I’m aware of the piercing pain in my left hand. I slacken my grip on the badge and withdraw my hand from my pocket. I kick off my ankle boots, one flying into the nearby bush, the other bouncing off the trunk and landing a foot away from the spindly roots that burst out of the uneven ground. I wrap my arms around a thick branch and attempt to pull myself into the tree, my bare feet unsuccessfully running on the trunk. I loosen my hold, step back, and size up the tree. This time I burst forward and plant both arms on separate branches; I heave my body forward. Despite the cuts and scrapes on my palms, thighs, and the soles of my feet, I feel a childlike rush of excitement for my accomplishment. I pause for a moment, my torso stuck in the crook of the tree. Then I regain my composure and push my body into an upright position.

I smile. This tree always had an ability to shelter me, giving me a feeling of absolute security, despite its rocky past. I always admired the tree for weathering every storm. I wish Conner could have made it through his storm. I swipe my hand across my T-shirt, the blood from the scrape probably ruining it. Shakily, I straighten my legs and begin to pick my way through the convoluted twists of branches.

Minutes later, I am perching on our famous lookout branch, my legs dangling fifteen feet from the patchy grass. I take another look at the infinite, cotton candy sky, gaining strength from its wide-open presence. I shift carefully on the branch so that our carved initials are right by my face. It was our branch on our tree; we claimed it. Those were the days when it was yours if your name was on it. I run my fingers over the markings, remembering our precise effort for perfection. We spent an entire hour etching ourselves into our tree. My fingers trace the letters C.L. & L.L. ’92 adoringly. A smile creeps onto my face, thinking how Conner made sure I signed L for Liv, not O for Olivia. He never called me Olivia; he said it sounded prissy. He was twelve and I was eight, so of course every word he said was prophecy.

My fingers stop abruptly at J.L. My hand jerks back to my side and I turn away from the branch, facing the opposite direction to the opening between the leaves. My heart pounds, demanding release from my ribcage.

I scramble back down the tree, ignoring the fresh cuts I acquire. I jump to the ground and grab the nearest boot. After a few seconds of frenzied search, I abandon its pair. I’ll come back, but right now I have to leave behind the evidence that an Oaky Jack ever existed. He ruined it. He ruined my life, his life, our lives. My world and my family. I dart across the lawn to the ranch-style home. As I reach the top step of the entryway, I glimpse back across the split-rail fence and weedy grass. I clutch my shoulders, apprehensive. Our tree looks so lovely. Bursting with leaves, it is a brilliant green. The intricate branches map out my childhood; the ocean of a sky contrasts with the leaves and depicts a natural compromise. A fire burns within me. The tree should have died, caught a disease, or gotten struck a final time and burned to the ground, as did my sense of family—of trust.

-§-

At dinner that evening, Pop notices my absentmindedness while they discuss this season’s rainfall. When Mom nudges me with the bowl of mashed potatoes, the sudden heat snaps me back into focus. I wrap my hands around the bowl and pass it down to Pop.

As I place the steaming dish into his hands, his quizzical look catches my eye. His blue-gray gaze searches me, discovers my inner thoughts, thoughts I haven’t begun to form in my mind. He gives me the look and I know I’ll be in for a talk after dinner. I begin to assume the worst, the conversation disastrous. What if he’s disappointed in who I’ve become? Pop could always diffuse me. He had that way with everyone in this small Kansas town. Marshall Lankford of the Lankford farm. Peacekeeper. Conner dubbed him the Gandhi of the Midwest. It seemed so official. But can we connect on that level anymore? I don’t believe I even want to come to peace with what happened. It isn’t right, and I can’t let Pop think that what Jack did is forgivable.

It’s been eighteen years since I’ve been to the farm. It’s been eighteen years since I’ve gotten that close with anyone. I am still unsure whether returning here with my parents was a good idea. They decided that they should remember, but move forward. I already tried to move forward. Coming back here made me think that maybe I shouldn’t have. I pushed Conner to the back of my mind. He deserves so much better. Here at the table, his memory is as strong as ever, especially looking at the spread of hearty food and remembering his ability to clean a plate better than Pop. Although I know Pop has made a special connection with me, the table is still tense, the conversation barren.

“So the crop has been gettin’ better,” Pop mumbles, speaking to his plate as he shovels in a heap of mashed potatoes.

“Oh…good,” my dad answers lamely. After a silent minute, the only conversation between silverware, Gram clears her throat and smiles.

“It’s so lovely having you all back here. It felt so lonely and bare without the whole family…” she trails off. “But all that is important is that we’re together again.”

Not all of us.

“Absolutely, Sheryl,” my mom smiles weakly and pats Gram’s hand, trying to throw her a lifeline.

“Olivia, why don’t you tell your grandparents about life in New York?” my dad prods.

I don’t want to talk about New York. I want to talk about something that will connect me back to the farm, to how life was before the accident.

“Yeah…it’s great!” I say with false enthusiasm. “Hard work, bustling, but definitely the place to be. It’s great to see new faces. Find authority figures that show maturity, responsibility, and common sense.” My voice is dripping with sarcasm and not-so-subtle implication to Jack.

“Olivia! More potatoes?” my mom presses, shooting me visual daggers. Dad clears his throat and Gram’s eyes are on her plate. Pop is looking straight into my eyes with a calm expression. I realize this is not the time, nor the place, and stuff food into my mouth to prevent any more outbursts.

-§-

Gram has apparently forgotten that I’m a vegetarian.

“You’re too skinny, Liv,” she says as she forks more roast beef onto my plate.

She means well, but I feel like she is feeding me they way she did when I was eight, not twenty-six. Nevertheless, I compliment her cooking and thank her for the meal. Then I creep away from the table to avoid Pop. Or at least delay the talk even though I know it is inevitable. My stomach jolts with nervousness, but surely I have solace in at least one family member!

Pop holds the possibility of relapsing into my childhood. The rest of them are a toss-up. My childhood after Conner is blurred, rushed by the need to escape the trap of my parent’s suffocation. Once I left my hometown in Michigan for the Big Apple, I barely talked to them. I didn’t want to. I tried so hard to block out that horrible portion of my life and severing the ties of family seemed like the only thing that made sense. Dad should have gone with my uncle and Conner to the bonfire. Mom should have called to check on Conner to see how everything was going. Sure, Conner and Uncle Jack had a bond that was undeniable, but Uncle Jack was known for his uncanny ability to get into trouble. What kinds of parents leave their twelve-year-old son with a man like that?

After I settled into the city, I tried going to a therapist for a couple of sessions. I guess I felt like I needed to let someone know how it really was, how I saw it. I couldn’t tell my friends; everything would change. They would be the type to tip-toe around my feelings. I already had too much of that—try every forced family gathering after the incident. Thankfully, we all gave up on those after a few failed attempts. Christmas the year after was awkward. Family vacation was a joke; we left two days earlier than planned. The winter holiday season two years later was pathetic. The whole affair felt scripted, like some writer with a power trip was forcing conflict. It just wasn’t fair.

I couldn’t tell my coworkers or they would see me as unstable. My parents didn’t try hard enough to prevent it, so why would I want to support them in the aftermath? I wanted them to see the trust they lost. After they lost Conner, they might as well have lost me too.

-§-

 I’ll never forget the time we ran to the ice cream truck that parked near our school every Friday afternoon. We were barely tall enough to see over the counter. Mr. Bradley always leaned forward, his eyes crinkling with friendship, a broad grin lighting his ancient face. Connor knew best so he ordered for us: two Drumsticks. We navigated through the lint and notes in our pockets to gather our loose change. Forking over what we had, Mr. Bradley, like always, counted it to himself, then passed the remainder back over. Connor always suspected he wasn’t charging us enough. But we were kids so we kept what he gave us and thanked him.

We were walking home along the sidewalk, counting cracks and seeing who could eat all the toppings off first. Connor always let me win. We hit the thirty-sixth crack and turned left onto our street. As I went for another taste of my cone, the sun had melted  it enough so that the whole scoop slid off. I was distraught. Connor frowned, picked it up, and licked off the dirt before placing it back on the cone.

I laugh now about how grateful I was. He licked dirt for me. That’s when I knew he wasn’t just my big brother; we were best friends too.

© 2011 Morgan Horton

***

Poetry

Scar Tissue

by Tessa Bolsover

To pierce the gelatin skin of a Vitamin E capsule

With the point of a Ralph Nader pin

The vitamin excrement

Forming an almost solid droplet

On my fingertip,

To gloss over these mosquito-marred legs

With the hope that some scars

May yet still fade.

What does a girl like me know

Of scar tissue?

What could I know, but of wounds

That bleed monthly

The soft skin of a swollen peach

That has yet to be broken.

I am still a girl, raw and scabbing

But I feel the ache of womanhood—

Scar tissue saran-wrapping my heart,

Razor-edged memories tucked away safely

From recollection

Until pierced by the point

Of a Ralph Nader pin

To form an almost-solid droplet of pain

Once as pure as water

Now too viscous to apprehend.

© 2011 Tessa Bolsover

***

Author Bios

Tessa Bolsover, a high school senior in Portland, Oregon, is also an artist, a writer, and a musician of various instruments including guitar, banjo, and ukulele. A vegan of two years, she enjoys soy lattes and playing with her cat, Professor Shnuggles. Next year she plans to attend the University of Redlands, where she will enroll in the creative writing program with a dual emphasis in visual art.

Morgan Horton is a senior in high school and planning to study journalism and business in the fall. She believes that there is simply too much reality as it is, and therefore prefers to create a world, situation, or character. She gained her passion for writing through creative exercises in class and a love for reading. Morgan grew up visiting her grandparents’ farm and lived on one herself for her early years. This is where she found her inspiration for Our Tree.

***

Artist Bio

Peter LaBerge is a sixteen year old up-and-coming writer/photographer. Though he was only introduced to photography recently, several of his photographs are featured or forthcoming in many different publications, including Burnt Bridge, Leaf Garden, This Great Society, and Otoliths. He is also the founder and current editor of The Adroit Journal (www.adroit.co.nr), a literary journal dedicated to charity.

Ink-Filled Page Youth Spring Issue 2011 copyright © 2011 Indigo Editing & Publications

Cover Design: Jon Wise

Cover Art: Peter LaBerge

Coeditors: Martha Byrne & Kori Hirano

Publisher: Ali McCart