The Ghost in My Eye
by Rachel Rohe
The University of Wisconsin-Stout
by Rachel Rohe
The University of Wisconsin-Stout
The day I was born, an old lady died just one town over. I remember asking her years later how it happened, but Old Granny Maybelle refused to go into detail. She would only tell me that her eyes closed, her breathing stopped, and suddenly she found herself a resident of the “Other Side.” Apparently, there’s not much to do there, so the old woman decided to take a jaunt over to the Blue Creek hospital where her three-year-old granddaughter was recovering from a broken ulna.
“I floated up the stairs and through those depressing white hallways,” Maybelle told me. “You can’t blame me for being a bit turned around, with being newly dead and all, but I suppose I got the wrong room number. Ended up in your mamma’s birthing room ‘stead of with my granddaughter.”
I didn’t remember what happened next (because I was about an hour old), but Maybelle says she heard a whoosh and a fwoop and got really dizzy for a minute. Then, when her head stopped spinning, she found herself stuck inside my right eye.
Now, I can tell you that growing up with a ghost in your eye isn’t the most pleasant experience. She was transparent, but looking through her as she floated across my field of vision gave me a migraine. The eyepatch I wore to resolve this problem also gave rise to endless nicknames and pirate references. Children can be quite juvenile, as Old Granny Maybelle always muttered in my ear. Although Maybelle’s wisdom and knowledge were invaluable during history classes, her Christian fundamentalist ideology led to a staunch denial of my pansexuality and an unhealthy skepticism of contemporary scientific discoveries. This caused endless arguments between us. Arguments ended badly with Maybelle because she couldn’t exactly take a vacation from my right eye. I still shudder every time I think about our disagreement over global warming. That one never ended.
Of all the little annoyances, the biggest was probably Old Granny Maybelle’s fixation on her granddaughter. I suppose most grandparents don’t have the luxury of seeing their grandchildren from a child’s viewpoint, but Maybelle quickly became obsessed with following Rhea’s progress. I liked Rhea well enough, I suppose, for an older girl, but talking to her was a bit off-putting with her grandmother whispering conversational prompts in my ear.
When I turned eleven, I invited the whole school to my party, and Rhea was one of three people who showed up. The four of us had a grand old time stuffing entire pieces of cake in our mouths and making war with confetti. Rhea stayed longer than the others, and we laid on the lawn blowing bubbles into the sky. Maybelle remained silent for once, as a birthday gift to me.
When I was fifteen, I attended Rhea’s high school graduation. Maybelle begged me to go. I shifted the eyepatch to one side so the old woman could peek around it and watch the ceremony. She cried when Rhea walked across the stage in a baggy blue gown, and her tears ran from my eye, soaking the eyepatch. Maybelle wanted me to speak with Rhea and her mother after the ceremony, but I was shy and small, and they looked like royalty with their cheekbones sharp enough to cut and chins held high. Even in her gown, Rhea’s reflection in my left eye was regal as a cat.
When I was eighteen, I decided to attend UCLA (not because Rhea went there and Maybelle begged me, but because after so many years of hearing the ghost bemoan the Great Depression, I was reluctantly interested in pursuing a career as a historian). I didn’t see Rhea for quite a while, until one day I walked out of a classroom and she was just there.
I stopped and stared. She was more beautiful than I remembered, with her hair dyed purple, my favorite color. She had discovered winged eyeliner, and she looked more like a sharp-eyed cat than ever. Her coffee-colored skin was practically glowing. I turned and walked quickly in the other direction. I could absolutely not ask out a girl whose grandmother was still stuck in my eye. I didn’t even want to imagine Maybelle whispering in my ear as I did the things people do in romantic relationships.
For the rest of my freshman year, I dated around. Maybelle and I came to an understanding early on about boundaries, but Maybelle wasn’t great at keeping her opinions to herself. I kissed boys and girls and people with no gender or two genders. I often had to tune out the whispered “back in my day” and “absolutely scandalous” and “young lady, are you even listening to me.” I wasn’t surprised that these activities never seemed to lead anywhere. Or rather, they always led back to Rhea. I’d seen her around a bit, and everything I learned about her made me like her more. Apparently, she had a pet jellyfish stashed in her apartment against the house rules (“Ridiculous choice of pet,” muttered Maybelle. “In my day we were happy with a good dog”), and her senior thesis was about pre-Socratic African philosophy and how it informed post-colonial African-American writings (“Useless topic,” Maybelle whispered as she wiped proud tears from her eyes. “Interesting, but completely useless”). I don’t think Maybelle would have been happy with the direction my thoughts had taken regarding her precious grandbaby.
Everything came to a head at Rhea’s college graduation ceremony. Again, Maybelle talked me into going, although I took significantly less convincing this time. I sat in the stands, watched the crowd of weeping parents, and smelled the body odor of too many sweaty people crammed into one already-sweaty gymnasium. Rhea’s purple hair stood out amongst the army of folding chairs arranged in strict lines below. I barely heard the band playing the school song. I certainly didn’t hear the dean’s address slithering in one ear and out the other. Maybelle and I sat together in silence and wondered the same thing. Now that Rhea was leaving, when would we see her again?
At some point, the dean began calling names. Rhea Coleman was near the front alphabetically, so we didn’t have to wait long. I could hear Maybelle sniffling as her granddaughter marched across the stage, back straight and head high.
“I always dreamed of this moment, you know.” Maybelle’s voice was tiny and wistful in my head. “I always wanted to make that walk, but my father said it wasn’t proper for a young lady to go to school, and we never had the money for it, besides.”
Watching Rhea return to her seat, I replied, “You wanted to go to college? To study what?”
“Anything! Everything!” I could feel Maybelle shifting around in my eye. Her movements became more and more agitated, and I felt like the eye was going to twitch its way out of the eyepatch. “I just wanted to learn. I just wanted to see what the world had to offer. But then I met Henry, and we settled down and that caused its own mess of scandal, what with him being white and all. After that, I just didn’t have it in me to fight another battle against everyone’s expectations. And then my daughter never got ‘round to it either.”
Maybelle swirled around my eye faster than she’d ever moved before.
“That girl is gonna be just fine,” she said. “Just you watch! She’s gonna show ‘em all how a woman can break down walls. My little girl is gonna be a star.”
As suddenly as it began, the rushing movement in my eye was gone. So was Maybelle.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think she is.”
I’m twenty-eight years old now. Looking back on everything, I might have to reevaluate my opinions about destiny. Unfinished business brought Maybelle to me, but I think only fate could have tied me to her. Only fate could have brought me to a girl with purple hair and a fondness for jellyfish. Maybe we’ll name the next one Maybelle.[RD4]
“I floated up the stairs and through those depressing white hallways,” Maybelle told me. “You can’t blame me for being a bit turned around, with being newly dead and all, but I suppose I got the wrong room number. Ended up in your mamma’s birthing room ‘stead of with my granddaughter.”
I didn’t remember what happened next (because I was about an hour old), but Maybelle says she heard a whoosh and a fwoop and got really dizzy for a minute. Then, when her head stopped spinning, she found herself stuck inside my right eye.
Now, I can tell you that growing up with a ghost in your eye isn’t the most pleasant experience. She was transparent, but looking through her as she floated across my field of vision gave me a migraine. The eyepatch I wore to resolve this problem also gave rise to endless nicknames and pirate references. Children can be quite juvenile, as Old Granny Maybelle always muttered in my ear. Although Maybelle’s wisdom and knowledge were invaluable during history classes, her Christian fundamentalist ideology led to a staunch denial of my pansexuality and an unhealthy skepticism of contemporary scientific discoveries. This caused endless arguments between us. Arguments ended badly with Maybelle because she couldn’t exactly take a vacation from my right eye. I still shudder every time I think about our disagreement over global warming. That one never ended.
Of all the little annoyances, the biggest was probably Old Granny Maybelle’s fixation on her granddaughter. I suppose most grandparents don’t have the luxury of seeing their grandchildren from a child’s viewpoint, but Maybelle quickly became obsessed with following Rhea’s progress. I liked Rhea well enough, I suppose, for an older girl, but talking to her was a bit off-putting with her grandmother whispering conversational prompts in my ear.
When I turned eleven, I invited the whole school to my party, and Rhea was one of three people who showed up. The four of us had a grand old time stuffing entire pieces of cake in our mouths and making war with confetti. Rhea stayed longer than the others, and we laid on the lawn blowing bubbles into the sky. Maybelle remained silent for once, as a birthday gift to me.
When I was fifteen, I attended Rhea’s high school graduation. Maybelle begged me to go. I shifted the eyepatch to one side so the old woman could peek around it and watch the ceremony. She cried when Rhea walked across the stage in a baggy blue gown, and her tears ran from my eye, soaking the eyepatch. Maybelle wanted me to speak with Rhea and her mother after the ceremony, but I was shy and small, and they looked like royalty with their cheekbones sharp enough to cut and chins held high. Even in her gown, Rhea’s reflection in my left eye was regal as a cat.
When I was eighteen, I decided to attend UCLA (not because Rhea went there and Maybelle begged me, but because after so many years of hearing the ghost bemoan the Great Depression, I was reluctantly interested in pursuing a career as a historian). I didn’t see Rhea for quite a while, until one day I walked out of a classroom and she was just there.
I stopped and stared. She was more beautiful than I remembered, with her hair dyed purple, my favorite color. She had discovered winged eyeliner, and she looked more like a sharp-eyed cat than ever. Her coffee-colored skin was practically glowing. I turned and walked quickly in the other direction. I could absolutely not ask out a girl whose grandmother was still stuck in my eye. I didn’t even want to imagine Maybelle whispering in my ear as I did the things people do in romantic relationships.
For the rest of my freshman year, I dated around. Maybelle and I came to an understanding early on about boundaries, but Maybelle wasn’t great at keeping her opinions to herself. I kissed boys and girls and people with no gender or two genders. I often had to tune out the whispered “back in my day” and “absolutely scandalous” and “young lady, are you even listening to me.” I wasn’t surprised that these activities never seemed to lead anywhere. Or rather, they always led back to Rhea. I’d seen her around a bit, and everything I learned about her made me like her more. Apparently, she had a pet jellyfish stashed in her apartment against the house rules (“Ridiculous choice of pet,” muttered Maybelle. “In my day we were happy with a good dog”), and her senior thesis was about pre-Socratic African philosophy and how it informed post-colonial African-American writings (“Useless topic,” Maybelle whispered as she wiped proud tears from her eyes. “Interesting, but completely useless”). I don’t think Maybelle would have been happy with the direction my thoughts had taken regarding her precious grandbaby.
Everything came to a head at Rhea’s college graduation ceremony. Again, Maybelle talked me into going, although I took significantly less convincing this time. I sat in the stands, watched the crowd of weeping parents, and smelled the body odor of too many sweaty people crammed into one already-sweaty gymnasium. Rhea’s purple hair stood out amongst the army of folding chairs arranged in strict lines below. I barely heard the band playing the school song. I certainly didn’t hear the dean’s address slithering in one ear and out the other. Maybelle and I sat together in silence and wondered the same thing. Now that Rhea was leaving, when would we see her again?
At some point, the dean began calling names. Rhea Coleman was near the front alphabetically, so we didn’t have to wait long. I could hear Maybelle sniffling as her granddaughter marched across the stage, back straight and head high.
“I always dreamed of this moment, you know.” Maybelle’s voice was tiny and wistful in my head. “I always wanted to make that walk, but my father said it wasn’t proper for a young lady to go to school, and we never had the money for it, besides.”
Watching Rhea return to her seat, I replied, “You wanted to go to college? To study what?”
“Anything! Everything!” I could feel Maybelle shifting around in my eye. Her movements became more and more agitated, and I felt like the eye was going to twitch its way out of the eyepatch. “I just wanted to learn. I just wanted to see what the world had to offer. But then I met Henry, and we settled down and that caused its own mess of scandal, what with him being white and all. After that, I just didn’t have it in me to fight another battle against everyone’s expectations. And then my daughter never got ‘round to it either.”
Maybelle swirled around my eye faster than she’d ever moved before.
“That girl is gonna be just fine,” she said. “Just you watch! She’s gonna show ‘em all how a woman can break down walls. My little girl is gonna be a star.”
As suddenly as it began, the rushing movement in my eye was gone. So was Maybelle.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think she is.”
I’m twenty-eight years old now. Looking back on everything, I might have to reevaluate my opinions about destiny. Unfinished business brought Maybelle to me, but I think only fate could have tied me to her. Only fate could have brought me to a girl with purple hair and a fondness for jellyfish. Maybe we’ll name the next one Maybelle.[RD4]
Rachel Rohe is pursuing a major in Entertainment Design-Animation along with minors in English Writing and Art History. She is the Events Coordinator for the Special Interest Group on Computer Graphics and Interactive Techniques, as well as a tutor in the Writing Center.
Desert Poppy
James Frye
The University of Central Florida
James Frye
The University of Central Florida
She said she was moving west, so I followed a poppy into the desert. Now, I’m stranded in this thirsty land, a relentless star beating on this dusty neck. My small wagon cast a pathetic shade. I’ll bury my horse at dark. I consider digging a shallow grave and placing a small marker so the bandits who would eventually scavenge my wagon will know I existed. I don’t know if they’ll care enough to say a prayer. Not sure I much deserve a prayer anyways.
“Too much work.”
Hearing my own voice after so many weeks with nothing but wind and wolves made me jump. Gooseflesh rippled up my arms to my back, causing an involuntary shiver. The crack and whisper that was my voice sounded hoarse, as though I’d been yelling into a thunderstorm. It was just as dead as the animal who’d carried me to this grave on its back.
The sun is high now — no shade to speak of. I crawl under the wagon where it’s darker, if only slightly so. Dragging myself underneath, the cooling effect from the shadow counteracts the blistering heat coming from the bleached soil.
“Shamus, please.”
The echo in my head brings visions. Red hair matching red lips spilling down a pallid complexion. I once thought she was angel Irish. I’m not so sure now.
“Let’s go west, I want to find God in the sunset.”
“Mary, we’ve got a living here in New York. Can’t you just be happy we can get by with food and a roof? Why do you always talk about going west, like what we have isn’t enough? Don’t you want—”
She stopped listening. Her head never hung low, no shame in those green eyes. No fear either. A chin held high with wild hair braided tight in flutters across her shoulders.
She said she was moving west. I watched her go, one blood-stained cough at a time. She wanted to see what the world looked like at the other end.
“So few people get to see the whole world, I think we’re close Shamus—”
I stopped listening.
Between my boots dimmed with fading daylight, the poppy stood a dozen yards off, full bloom in the desert. I first saw it at the funeral. When I lay Mary to rest with her last words ringing loud. She looked at me with real love. With real pity.
So I followed her. I followed the poppy I thought was her spirit to the edge of the world. I thought about throwing myself off when I reached it — see where I’d fall to.
It seems I won’t have to worry about that decision anymore, though. It’s dark now, the dust comfortably warm beneath my wagon. I slide out and stand, my bones making an audible crack. I brush the dust from my clothes and hear a howl echoed by others.
The poppy is gone. Mary is gone. It's just endless stars, the wolves, and me.
“Too much work.”
Hearing my own voice after so many weeks with nothing but wind and wolves made me jump. Gooseflesh rippled up my arms to my back, causing an involuntary shiver. The crack and whisper that was my voice sounded hoarse, as though I’d been yelling into a thunderstorm. It was just as dead as the animal who’d carried me to this grave on its back.
The sun is high now — no shade to speak of. I crawl under the wagon where it’s darker, if only slightly so. Dragging myself underneath, the cooling effect from the shadow counteracts the blistering heat coming from the bleached soil.
“Shamus, please.”
The echo in my head brings visions. Red hair matching red lips spilling down a pallid complexion. I once thought she was angel Irish. I’m not so sure now.
“Let’s go west, I want to find God in the sunset.”
“Mary, we’ve got a living here in New York. Can’t you just be happy we can get by with food and a roof? Why do you always talk about going west, like what we have isn’t enough? Don’t you want—”
She stopped listening. Her head never hung low, no shame in those green eyes. No fear either. A chin held high with wild hair braided tight in flutters across her shoulders.
She said she was moving west. I watched her go, one blood-stained cough at a time. She wanted to see what the world looked like at the other end.
“So few people get to see the whole world, I think we’re close Shamus—”
I stopped listening.
Between my boots dimmed with fading daylight, the poppy stood a dozen yards off, full bloom in the desert. I first saw it at the funeral. When I lay Mary to rest with her last words ringing loud. She looked at me with real love. With real pity.
So I followed her. I followed the poppy I thought was her spirit to the edge of the world. I thought about throwing myself off when I reached it — see where I’d fall to.
It seems I won’t have to worry about that decision anymore, though. It’s dark now, the dust comfortably warm beneath my wagon. I slide out and stand, my bones making an audible crack. I brush the dust from my clothes and hear a howl echoed by others.
The poppy is gone. Mary is gone. It's just endless stars, the wolves, and me.
James Frye is pursuing a major--and career--in literature. First Place Winner in the 2016 FCHC poetry competition, he is an avid writer who secretly doubles as a full-time father, husband, and state employee.