A Scratch on the Record

Troy Lambert

Short Fiction

When Tony woke up, it was still dark outside. April was gone, but her clothes, still scattered across his bedroom floor, told him that she hadn’t gone far. When he found her she was standing on the front porch, wrapped in a small flannel blanket, smoking a cigarette in the company of Claire, Tony’s 8-year-old grey tabby. He had always thought that smoking was a filthy habit, but there was something about the way she did it. For him watching her smoke was an intriguing experience not to be missed. For April each cigarette was an illicit love affair. She brought each one up to her mouth with her lips pursed as if to kiss her lover. She squinted as she drew in. The embers danced off the tip like fireflies. The smoke crawled across her fingers like an early-morning fog crawls across the ground. He watched as the paper burned, in a spiral of slow self destruction. She exhaled with a sigh, knowing that it was a love that could not last.

“You coming back to bed?”

“Yeah, in a sec. I’m getting to know Lil’ Miss Claire”

He scratched Claire behind her ears.

Tony and April had recently met at a local fall music festival, where they ran into each other during a Digital Evangelist show. The eclectic gathering of young music lovers was jammed in “nuts to butts” trying to catch a glimpse of the four-piece punk phenomenon.

In her drunken nuvo-punk stupor, April had inadvertently head- butted Tony in the shoulder slurring, “Hey! Wash it asshole.”

“I believe the word you’re chewing on is ‘watch,’ said Tony as he eyed the curve of soft flesh revealed by April’s low-cut top “My apologies if I somehow caused our little collision. My name’s Tony.”

“April.”

“No offence, but you don’t look so hot. Would you like to squeeze up here by the railing to get some air?”

April slid in between Tony and the railing where she promptly disgorged a cocktail of booze and pain medication that could have staggered a mule. She hung there for a few seconds trying to collect herself. “Sorry, moderation’s never been one of my strong suits.”

“Are you going to be alright? Do you have someone close by I can get for you?”

“My friends left after the last band finished playing. I’ll be fi…” mumbled April as she hit the dirt.

“Shit- well, I guess she doesn’t look too heavy,” Tony said as he scooped April up, and rushed her to a nearby ER.

“Hello young lady. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“What the fuck?”

April squinted as she looked around trying to figure out where she was.

“You’re quite the lucky girl. If your boyfriend hadn’t brought you in when he did you could have died.”

“My boyfriend?”

The nurse pointed to Tony who was sitting in the corner with a sly grin on his face. He waved.

“I’ll let you two love birds talk. You know nice things like AA, Alanon, co-dependency and such.”

Embarrassed, April looked at Tony, “My boyfriend, huh?”

“It was the only way they would let me stay.”

“So, it looks like I might owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Tony wasn’t sure what it was, but he saw something in her piercing grey-eyes he’d never seen before.

“Why do you do that to yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“You nearly killed yourself today. Was it worth it?”

“You don’t know me man! Don’t sit there and judge me!”

“Whoa, wait up a sec. I’m not judging anyone; I’m just trying to figure you out. There’s something in there, I’m just wondering what it is, and I’m hoping you’ll give me the time to figure it out.”

“Sorry, I’m a little on edge.”

“No shit.”

A young intern driven more by caffeine than enthusiasm poked his head in the door.

“Knock-knock,” said the Doc “Ms. Carnaly, My name is Dr. Snow. The results of your blood work are back and it looks like you’re going to be fine. What happened today was a very serious situation; I hope this is an isolated incident. I’m going to release you into the care of your boyfriend. Take care of yourself Ms. Carnaly, and let’s not meet, like this, again.”

In Tony’s small house in the historical district, April crawled back in bed as had become her habit since moving her toothbrush and razor to the two-bedroom shotgun.

“Did Claire come inside? A cold front is supposed to move through the area tonight. We might get some storms.”

“Yeah, the last time I saw her she was in the den.”

Tony was in constant worry over Claire. As a kitten, nearly starved to death when he found her, she resembled something out of a cheap zombie flick. He never shook that image of frailty, even years after her complete recovery.

“What time is it?”

“4 a.m.”

“Sweet, I can get three or four more hours of sleep before I have to go open up shop.”

“Are you sure all you want to do is sleep?”

“My god, woman, do you ever slowdown?”

“Only when you make me,” she snickered, running her hand between his legs finding the object of her desire.

Tony owned a small record shop downtown called the Music Box. April had been hanging around the shop and helping out since their encounter at the music festival. She didn’t have a job. The two had grown very close in a short period of time. She was intrigued by Tony. He didn’t drink. He didn’t get high.

April would ingest whatever she came across as long as it wasn’t administered by a needle. It seemed like they were polar opposites, but they were the same in many ways.

They both loved punk music, but hated punk fashion. They agreed punk music and culture was a mentality not a look. It was something that was felt or bled out through the music, not something that could be worn, but they weren’t stuck up about it. Besides, those confused kids, with blue mohawks, looking like they had fallen face first into a fisherman’s tackle box paid Tony’s bills with the CDs and records they would buy.

Tony woke up about 8:45 that morning. April was a stone. He knew she wouldn’t get up to start her day for a few more hours. She had really tied one on the night before. Tony hated it, but he wasn’t going to alienate her for having a few too many drinks. He nudged her a little.

“Hey, make sure you don’t let Claire out when you leave. I’ll be at the shop til’8 tonight. Stop by if you get a chance.”

“Don’t worry Shep, you’re on my list,” she teased as she wiped the crust from her bloodshot eyes.

Tony shook his head and made his way to the door.

“Hey, Shep.”

“Yes, April?”

“Got any Crunchy 0’s?”

“No such luck. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

April rolled over and went back to sleep.

Later, around seven o’clock that night, April came stumbling into the Music Box, knocking over a promotional display on her way in. Luckily, there were no customers inside.

“Sorry I’m late Sheppy shep shep-1 had to make a stop at the Ole Limp Bistro.”

“The what!?”

“You know- the kezzle.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“C’mon, the ketters, the Kitty- uh… The Wonkey Donkey?”

“I’m completely clueless. What’s wrong with you April?”

“Oh god! I had to get some ketamine you big nerd.”

“Shit April, isn’t that an animal tranquilizer?”

“Well, it’s an April tranquilizer tonight! Hee.”

As she sat there in the floor where she had knocked over a display, April pulled a small clear bullet filled with white powder from her purse and nonchalantly brought it to her nose and gave it a good draw.

“What the hell is wrong with you April?” Tony said, as he drug her from the floor and pushed her to the back of the shop “You know you can’t do that shit in here. You’re worthless right now. How did you even get here without killing someone?”

“Give me some credit Shep, I took a cab, you big tit-sucker. You’re so cute when you’re mad at me.”

“Put that thing away and let’s get out of here. It won’t hurt to close a little early. We’ve had a horribly-slow day. Don’t bring that shit in here again.”

“Ooh ooh ooh! Can we go down to the river? I’m craving some Burger Barge.”

“April, you can’t even walk. We’re going to my place.”

The Ketamine and the motion of the car made April overwhelmingly nauseous. They pulled into the driveway where Tony, opened the door, and helped April out of the car.  April puked just a little into her mouth, but swallowed it back down.
“BAAAWWLLUGH!”

Tony turned to see April hanging over the railing of his front porch with a long stream of saliva dripping from her bottom lip. “Sorry Shep. I couldn’t make it,” she said as a second volley flowed from her gullet.

Tony pictured the day he met the dark-haired beauty that had turned his world upside down while at the same time filling a void that he hadn’t realized was so empty before she came along. There, seeing her hung over the rail like that he realized how much they really needed each other.

“It’s okay Ape. Let’s get you in bed.”

They got inside and got settled in. April got her bearings and started to feel a lot better.

“Hey Tony…”

“Yeah Ape?”

“Thanks. I don’t know where I would be with out you.”

“It’s okay April. Get some sleep.”

“No, it’s not okay. I acted like a complete idiot tonight. You saved my life Shep. I just want you to know I really do appreciate everything you do for me. I love you Tony.”

“I know, April. Now get some sleep.”

“I will. I’m gonna go have one more cigarette before I pass out for about a day.”

The next morning when Tony woke up the spot next to him was empty. The smell of fresh coffee meandered in and Tony went in search of its source. Tony found April in the kitchen.

“Tada! I hope you like your eggs scrambled. That’s the only way I know how to cook them.”

“Scrambled is fine,” Tony laughed. “Would you happen to know what happened to my girlfriend?”

“Oh shut up. I thought you deserved breakfast in bed, but you ruined that one by wandering in here, you big goof.”

“No, really, I thought you were going to pass out for about a day. I’m just messing with you. This is nice. Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome, kind sir.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“And you’re not?”

“Touche. Where’s Claire Bear?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her all morning.”

“That’s weird, she’s usually right underfoot when there’s food on the table.”

“I’ll look around. Enjoy your breakfast. Claire- come’re Claire Bear.”

April walked into the den for a quick look.

“April, you didn’t let her out when you went to smoke last night, did you?”

“I don’t think I did. I was still a little out of it though.”

“Uh oh, my poor girl probably had to sleep on the porch. She’s not going to be happy with you Ape.”

Tony walked to the door to let Claire in, but when he opened the door she wasn’t there.

“Huh? She’s not on the porch. Claire- Come on Claire.”

 Tony whistled loudly as he walked across the porch toward the steps.

“Claire Bear!”

As he reached the steps he saw Claire out of the corner of his eye. She was lying still just below the porch near the frozen puddle of puke that April had expelled the night before.

“Oh no, no no no no no no. Oh God please- no.”

April called from inside, “Tony. What’s wrong?”

She walked outside to see Tony locked in a blank stare. She followed his stare to the ground just below where she had been unable to hold her sickness in any longer the night before.

“Oh my God.”

April ran down to check if Claire was still breathing.

“Get away from her! Don’t you fucking touch her!”

“Tony, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up! That’s all I ever hear from you! You’re sorry! You’re right, you are sorry. Fuck!! Look what you did you bitch! She’s dead! Fuckyoul What the fuck are you!”

“Tony I…”

“No! Get out of here. I don’t want to see you around here again.”

Crying, she ran inside to gather her things. Tony wept at the loss of his pet cat and at the loss of his friend.

April walked outside. Silently, she made her way to the road and started toward the bus stop.

“April.”

She turned toward Tony still crying.

“I can’t bury her alone…”

The two embraced.

“I love you. I’m not giving up on you,” he said with determination.

“I know, Tony. I’ll get help… I promise.”

I Know Why the Caged Bird Screams

Julia Traylor

Note: This essay is one of the first place winners of the 2009 Walter F. Spara Writing Competition.

In today’s literary world, birds have become symbolic ambassadors of Romantic connotation. From the immortal freedom of Keats’ nightingale to the esoteric purity of Shelley’s skylark, students have been conditioned to view birds as the lofty representatives of a natural world that both sympathizes with and brings hope to the human plight. Thomas Hardy, however, introduces a new species of winged metaphor. Far from the idealism of a Romantic, Hardy does not cast his birds in such a sepia-toned hue. Rather, they resurface time and again in his works as acquiescent accessories to iniquity—so far removed from the ethical codes of humanity that they abandon the Victorian struggle for standards in favor of the Darwinian struggle for survival. Hardy’s birds are paradigms of naturalism, a literary movement that favors realism in its precise depiction of setting and character, yet casts the Darwinian theory of evolution as the catalyzing force behind each social and environmental phenomenon. Consequently, the birds that appear in Tess of the d’Urbervilles augment Hardy’s philosophy of naturalism by demonstrating Nature’s indifference to Man’s morality, paralleling Tess in her surrender to Natural Law, and foreshadowing the cruel consequence of Natural Selection in Tess’s demise.

Tennyson’s familiar depiction, “Nature, red in tooth and claw” (“In Memoriam, A.H.H”), is congruent with Hardy’s portrayal of a natural ferocity that harbors no sympathy for human suffering. The birds present during Tess’s rape, for instance, are not ruffled by the criminal incident taking place below them; they do not even offer an indignant coo to comfort the protagonist in her hour of trial. On the contrary, “Darkness and silence ruled everywhere around. Above them rose the primeval yews and oaks of The Chase, in which were poised gently roosting birds in their last nap … But, might some say, where was Tess’s guardian angel?” (90). After Tess retreats in dishonor and desperation to her home in Marlott, she seeks comfort in the company of woodland creatures, hoping that they will corroborate her innocence, yet even this small plea is ignored: “Walking among the sleeping birds in the hedges … she looked upon herself as a figure of Guilt intruding into the haunts of Innocence. But all the while she was making a distinction where there was no difference” (107). These indifferent birds, often presented as unconscious in keeping with their lack of conscience, are thus incapable of soothing Tess’s blighted integrity because they have no comprehension nor care for such a mortal concept.

Birds frequently appear in seemingly innocuous passages simply to provide contrast to Tess’s torment. In blithe disregard—and sometimes mocking antipathy—of her hardship, these birds seem to confirm Tess’s estrangement from happiness with every cavalier chirp. During her ethical quandary at the Talbothays, she walks the pastures in daily anguish over her moral right to marry the man she loves. Yet, the birds transcend the fog of her confusion to a world of clarity from which she (and morality) is forbidden: “Birds would soar through it [the summer fog] into the upper radiance, and hang on the wing sunning themselves, or alight on the wet rails subdividing the mead, which now shone like glass rods” (161). When she reaches her emotional threshold and can withstand no more, she again seeks shelter in nature, only to be scorned by its distant disaffection: “Only a solitary cracked-voiced reed-sparrow greeted her from the bushes by the river, in a sad, machine-made tone, resembling that of a past friend whose friendship she had outworn” (164). This sparrow makes a sad pantomime of Tess’s sorrow, though its tone is one of vague nonchalance rather than compassion. Even during her few moments of happiness in the good graces of her lover, the birds stand by with unflappable detachment: “They stood still, whereupon little furred and feathered heads popped up from the smooth surface of the water; but, finding that the disturbing presences had paused, and not passed by, they disappeared again” (234). Through the ostensibly insignificant appearances of these birds. Hardy creates a separate world, inaccessible to morality and convention, and detached from mankind in its misery and mirth alike.

The most moving examples of Nature’s refusal to be moved are the “strange birds from behind the North Pole[that] began to arrive silently on the upland of Flintcomb-Ash” (337). While Marian and Tess labor under the greatest duress and most inclement winter weather to exhume rutabagas, these “spectral” spectators watch their painstaking progress with the aloof hope that the girls will “uncover something or other that these visitants relished as food” (338). These pitiless animals are described as “gaunt spectral creatures with tragical eyes—eyes which had witnessed scenes of cataclysmal horror in inaccessible polar regions of a magnitude such as no human being had ever conceived … and retained the expression of feature that such scenes had engendered” (337). At first, these stolid sentinels seem jaded by experience with nature’s superior sadism, yet the reader soon finds that the birds are more indifferent than world-weary: “with dumb impassivity, they [the birds] dismissed experiences which they did not value for the immediate incidents of this homely upland—the trivial movements of the two girls” (338). Thus, these eerily exotic nomads epitomize Hardy’s notion of Natural Selection—a universal code of survival, impervious to the compelling voices of sympathy and morality alike.

Hardy’s use of winged fauna also serves to parallel Tess herself. There are many overt analogies that make direct comparisons between the protagonist and birds in general. In her anxiety, she is described “as a frightened bird, [which] could not leave the spot” (151); in her happiness, “they marked the buoyancy of her tread, like the skim of a bird which has not quite alighted” (235). Moreover, in times of uncertainty, Tess is most likely to seek shelter in places that suggest nests. When Angel gives her a deadline for acceptance of his marriage proposal, she flees to a thicket of pollard willows : “Here Tess flung herself down upon the rustling undergrowth of speargrass, as upon a bed, and remained crouching in palpitating misery broken by momentary shoots of joy” (216). After an unexpected confrontation with an aggressive stranger, she finds shelter in the foliage of holly bushes, where “She scraped together the dead leaves till she had formed them into a large heap, making a sort of nest in the middle” (324). Hardy also refers to Tess with aviary-inspired euphemisms, such as, “Tess was now carried along upon the wings of the hours” (243), and “as everybody knows, fine feathers make fine birds” (262). By creating such a distinct correlation between Tess and birds. Hardy prepares the reader for what such comparisons later suggest.

For instance, the congruent relationship between Tess and poultry is indicative ofTess’s corresponding captivity in a society of inflexible social doctrines. When she arrives atTrantridge as the “supervisor, purveyor, nurse, surgeon, and friend” to a “community of fowls” (71), a parallel is established between the chickens’ domestication and her own. Tess, like the poultry, has been bred in the captivity of convention and hypocrisy and is completely ignorant of alternatives to such domestication; she cannot yet understand a life beyond social expectation. In keeping, the arena in which the fowls live was once a garden—suggestive of the Garden of Eden before the knowledge of sin—yet this once-virginal paradise has been demoted to a hen-pen by human intervention: “The community of fowls to which Tess had been appointed… made its headquarters in an old thatched cottage standing in an enclosure that had once been a garden, but was now a trampled and sanded square” (71).

Similarly, Tess is a creature born into a fenced-in world, completely bereft of the untamed purity of an existence before the “trampling” of civilization.

Songbirds, once so suggestive of freedom and sanguinity, instead function to parallel Tess’s tainted liberty. Mrs. d’Urberville’s finches, for example, may be free to flit about the room, yet they are never truly unrestricted by time and space: “Mrs. d’Urberville slept in a large four-post bedstead hung with heavy damask curtains, and the bullfinches occupied the same apartment, where they flitted about freely at certain hours, and made little white spots on the furniture and upholstery” (76). Likewise, Tess’s ostensible freedom of choice seems to be the compelled product of social obligation, a constraint that does not allow room for the debate of free will. Even her choice to work at the Trantridge mansion is more obligation than decision, as the pressures from both her family and her social conscience coerce her judgment. In keeping, the result of such limited liberty is not worth much more than excrement.

After Alee violates Tess’s virtue, Tess’s insecure innocence is also compared to the insecure song of a bird whose nest is threatened by a snake. As Tess observes her native forest for the first time since her desecration, the narrator notes, “It was terribly beautiful to Tess to-day, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learnt that the serpent hisses where the sweet birds sing, and her views of life had been totally changed for her by the lesson” (95). Hardy’s analogy is inspired by Shakespeare’s The Rape of Lucrece: “The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing; / What virtue breeds iniquity devours” (lines 871-872). This subterranean allusion to rape is the only actual (though indirect) indication that Tess was in fact the victim of force rather than ignorance. Thus, in the same way that the songbird’s innocence is destroyed as the serpent silences its song, Tess’s integrity is destroyed as Alee silences her freedom of choice.

Hardy also makes a deliberate association between the heroine and herons. Herons, by definition, are solitary creatures noted for their remarkable ability to be completely still. They appear three times in the novel, and in each instance, they parallel Tess’s complete isolation and stillness of character. In the first case, a heron appears as the silent sentinel of the Talbothays dairy farm: ‘The sole effect of her presence upon the placid valley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which after descending to the ground not far from her path, stood with neck erect, looking at her” (131). At this point in the novel, Tess has been emotionally and physically alienated from the external world, and like the heron, her static spirit will not be moved by hope for forgiveness; she condemns herself to the immobility of guilt. In the second appearance, herons are the cautious observers of a dawn rendezvous: “At these non-human hours they could get quite close to the waterfowl… if already on the spot, [herons] hardily maintained their standing in the water as the pair walked by, watching them by moving their heads round In a slow, horizontal, passionless wheel, like the turn of puppets by clockwork” (160). These birds again represent Tess’s isolation and caution. Though she is in the company of her lover, she is still in exile from his ethical world, and her heron-like caution proves to be prudent indeed. The final emergence of the heron is perhaps the most crucial; ‘The Herons” apartments in Sandbourne (440), where Tess sojourns with Alee, is laden with symbolism. As the plural title suggests, we find that Tess is not the only heron in this final chapter—there are three. Alee, Angel, and Tess have all become isolated and immobilized by obsession: Alee with his fixation on Tess, Tess with her passion for Angel, and Angel with his mania for purity.

Though Hardy uses poultry, songbirds, and herons to parallel the relationships between his characters and their environment, the most vital bird of his flock is the harbinger of Tess’s demise. From the very beginning, we are unwittingly made aware of Tess’s transience: “The season developed and matured. Another year’s installment of flowers, leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral creatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had stood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and inorganic particles” (158). Tess, represented by such small, innocent songbirds, is as susceptible to the ebb and flow of life as her symbolic counterparts. Similarly, the family tomb reminds the reader of life’s brevity (and Tess’s in particular) with the reference to marten-holes: “Within the window under which the bedstead stood were the tombs of the family, covering in their dates several centuries … their brasses torn from the matrices, the river-holes remaining like marten-holes in a sand-cliff” (423). From the nightingales of tree tops to the martens of the shoreline, these small birds have no small significance in foreshadowing the fate of our ephemeral protagonist.

The cock is yet another notorious herald of misfortune. As the wedded couple Tess and Angel embark on their honeymoon, the crowing of a cock interrupts their journey to nuptial bliss, foreshadowing the chasm yet to come: “It [silence] was interrupted by the crowing of a cock… and his notes thrilled their ears through, dwindling away like echoes down a valley of rocks” (257). The cock crows three times directly at Clare, signifying the latent deception and imminent death of a honeymooner. In the biblical story of Peter (which also means “the rock,” as echoed in “a valley of rocks”), a cock crows three times to remind him of his triple denial of Christ. Peter later pays for this transgression with his life, nailed to an inverted crucifix. This scriptural allusion foreshadows the unveiling of deception at the farmhouse (as both Tess and Angel reveal their pasts). Angel’s denial of Tess, and Tess’s subsequent fatality, while creating a vivid association between Tess and martyrdom.

Perhaps the most obvious omen of Tess’s impending doom is illustrated by the pheasants. After a “well-to-do boor” (324) recognizes Tess as the harlot of Marlott and harasses her on the road, she flees to a nearby plantation and hides under the deciduous foliage. She spends a sleepless night in this comfortless nest, haunted by strange, macabre sounds in the surrounding forest. At the first light of dawn, she finds that a bevy of wounded pheasants has been suffering by her side throughout the long night: “Under the trees several pheasants lay about, their rich plumage dabbled with blood; some were dead, some feebly twitching a wing, some staring up at the sky, some pulsating quickly, some contorted, some stretched out—all of them writhing in agony, except for the fortunate ones whose tortures had ended during the night by the inability of nature to bear more” (326). In empathetic pity, she breaks the necks of those whose tenuous hold on life had not yet been severed, thus portending her own broken neck and reprieve from life’s suffering. The hunters that had wounded the pheasants for mere sport are also analogous to Tess’s antagonist. Alee: “She had occasionally caught glimpses of these men in girlhood … a bloodthirsty light in their eyes … she had been told that, rough and brutal as they seemed just then, they were not like this all the year round, but were in fact quite civil persons saver during certain weeks of autumn and winter” (326). Though in the camouflage of chivalry. Alee d’Urberville was also a ruthless hunter. He had wounded Tess beyond hope of recovery for the mere thrill of the hunt, and like the hunters. Alee would be the indirect cause of her untimely demise.

In the closing chapters of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, the prophesy of the birds is consummated. In bold defiance of Aloe’s advances, Tess is likened to a desperate sparrow—or a woman facing the gallows: “’Now punish me!’ she said, turning up her eyes to him with the hopeless defiance of the sparrow’s gaze before its captor twists its neck… ‘Once victim, always victim—that’s the law!’” (387). Soon enough, this inexorable law of unyielding oppression comes to claim Tess’s life. However, Tess is ready to face her fate. She remarks in a seeming offhanded manner, “the sight of a bird in a cage used often to make me cry” (456), yet she willingly succumbs to a social law that relegates her few remaining hours to “rows of short barred windows bespeaking captivity” (464). In the end, she trades a few moments of liberty, wrought by her own tiny grasp, for an ignominious death wrought at the rigid, ubiquitous hands of hypocritical justice. The one element of life that Tess controls completely is death, and by murdering Alee, she chooses her own corporeal demise over emotional and spiritual murder. In this way, Tess’s execution frees the bird from its cage.

Hardy effectively utilizes bird imagery to symbolize the philosophy of Naturalism, parallel the characters affected by its tenets, and foreshadow the consequences of its harsh reality. However, the birds do not apply to Hardy’s fiction alone; they characterize an era. The Darwinian theory of Natural Selection was a nascent element of literary thought in the Victorian Age. The law of Nature contrasted sharply with the law of Man and God, and many of his contemporaries were offended by the ostensible pessimism and atheism of its proponents. Hardy, for one, was harshly criticized for his works, from Tess of the cl’Urbervilles to Jude the Obscure, and eventually ceased writing novels altogether. Yet, his contribution to Victorian Literature has provided an analysis of social evolution that, in turn, inspired a social revolution. Though the readers of his day balked at Hardy’s suggestion of rape, the critics of today also balk at the suggestion of sexual hypocrisy—thanks to him and others who dared to name the elephant in the room, or bird in the cage.

Laughing at Them, Not With Them

Paul Smith

ENC1102

Note: This essay is one of the first place winners of the 2009 Walter F. Spara Writing Competition.

On November 16th, 1965, William F. Buckley’s influential conservative rag, National Review, reprinted the Kurt Vonnegut short story, “Harrison Bergeron,” as a prime example of where the ills of socialism could lead, and in 2007, John J. Miller, in a National Review article, named the story as one of the best pieces of conservative science-fiction ever written. These folks seem to have entirely missed the joke. “Harrison Bergeron” is the story of a dystopian-future America where equality is forced on the populace through a myriad of authoritarian laws which curb everything from beauty, intelligence and physical prowess in absurd and humorous ways, and how the titular character attempts to break free from these restrictions only to meet his ultimate demise. Many have suggested the story is a warning about the dangers of socialist and communist policies. The evidence suggests to me that “Harrison Bergeron” was not lampooning the ills of socialism as the pages of National Review would have one believe, but rather lampooning people like William F. Buckley. I submit that when considering Vonnegut was himself an admitted socialist, and combining this perspective while reading the text of his story, along with placing it in the context of the Cold War-era in which it was written, one cannot help but come to conclusion that “Harrison Bergeron” is not a satire on leftist policies, but, more accurately, a satire on the irrational fears of socialism.

Kurt Vonnegut never had any qualms about admitting and referencing his socialist tendencies and leftist political ideology throughout his works and deeds. He served as president for the American Humanist Association (a human rights organization dedicated to the ethical treatment of all people) and was a card-carrying member of the American Civil Liberties Union, whose stated mission is “to defend and preserve the individual rights and liberties guaranteed to every person in [America].” He named characters in his books after famous socialist leaders such as Eugene Debs Hartke in Hocus Pocus after Eugene Debs (a union leader and labor advocate who ran twice for president on the Socialist Party ticket) and Leon Trotsky Trout in Galapagos after Leon Trotsky (a Russian revolutionary and Marxist theorist). He endorsed the concept of income redistribution in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and championed the plight of striking workers in Jailbird. In fact, he was so far to the left, he once wrote in a non-fiction essay of George W. Bush, that, “The only difference between Hitler and Bush is that Hitler was elected.” So, why then, would someone so clearly identified with leftist politics write a short story decrying and ridiculing the very ideology he himself so vehemently supported? The answer, in my opinion, is: he would not.

When one reads “Harrison Bergeron” in the context of Vonnegut’s political leanings, the immediate question comes to mind: is Vonnegut really coming out against equality? A casual reading of the short story does seem to denote a satirizing of either extreme egalitarianism or socialist and communist policies. But considering Vonnegut was a supporter of such policies then one could perhaps safely assume he was familiar with the specifics of the framework and ideology behind the policies. And one could also assume that if Vonnegut was trying to criticize socialism, he would then at least accurately portray the basics of socialist theory. However, at one point in “Harrison Bergeron,” Hazel (Harrison’s mother) suggests the TV news anchor deserves a raise for his feeble efforts at broadcasting. Her statement makes clear that in this dystopian vision of the future, everything is forcibly made equal except people’s wages. Yet someone familiar with socialist or leftist ideologies would know that the very foundation for which every political platform rests concerns the economic structure. Income redistribution is the first and most important tenet of socialist and communist systems. So, for Vonnegut to exclude this concept from a lurid future where everything is equal, suggests to me the omission was intentional and telling. I would submit that Vonnegut failed to include income redistribution because the average American at the time of his writing this story was vastly uninformed about such a concept.

One should keep in mind that “Harrison Bergeron” was written during the heart of the Cold War, that era in the American Zeitgeist where students were ducking under their desks to shield themselves from the potential nuclear blasts of the “pinko commie Ruskies.” The fear of communism and socialism was an engrained part of American culture at the time, but comprehension of such policies was quite low and of the propaganda variety. What most people knew of communism and socialism, they learned from five minute newsreels. They were led to believe it was something only the nuclear-armed Russians and Chinese did, and that it would turn everyone into soulless clones with no individuality (regardless of the fact that America had income redistribution with its progressive tax plan along with many other socialist policies including Medicare and Social Security).

Suffice to say, Vonnegut, being well educated and having a devilish sense of humor, did not subscribe to the fear-mongering depiction of socialism and communism, and, in my opinion, sought to satirize what he saw as this irrational characterization and demonization of the policies which he himself admired. The best satire will usually take some societal truth and heighten it to the absurd; and “Harrison Bergeron” seems to spin the American misinformation of communism and socialism to the utmost comic preposterousness.

There are even moments in the story when this absurdity is raised to levels of sheer physical impossibility. For instance, it is suggested that in the quest for equality the seasons have somehow been eliminated; Vonnegut writes that springtime no longer occurs. And at the end of the story, when Harrison breaks free of his forced handicaps, grabs a ballerina and starts to dance, they begin to float into the air, defying the laws of physics. I feel these impossible moments were placed in the story to illustrate the utter ridiculousness of it all, to demonstrate that Vonnegut has created a scenario outside the realm of possibility. And in doing so, he suggests this vision of the future based on the irrational fears of socialism and communism is not a probable outcome.

Also worthy of note, during the story’s conclusion, once the titular “hero” has become free, he immediately declares himself ruler, saying, “I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!”

This suggests to me that Vonnegut saw the true intention of those living under a capitalist system was not the strive for healthy competition, but the aim to conquer all, that behind every high school basketball player is the longing to be Michael Jordan, behind every “mom n’ pop” store is the desire to become Wal-Mart. He seems to suggest the hypocrisy of the American ideal of freedom, intimating that inside each one is a little imperialist waiting to claw its way to the surface at the first opportunity.

No doubt the debate about the true intentions of Vonnegut’s story will continue, as it does for nearly every author’s work. However, I, for one, am uncomfortable with the fact that “Harrison Bergeron” has been hijacked by the right-wing as a fitting illustration to help perpetuate their disinformation campaign. Whether one believes in socialist policies or not, surely one must concede that Vonnegut, being a lifelong proponent of such ideas, most likely did not set out to ridicule them. And while Vonnegut himself never came out publically to set the record straight, I cannot help but think he had that November 16th, 1965 issue of National Review framed and hung on his wall, and would occasionally glance up from his typewriter to look at it and laugh. Whatever can be said about Vonnegut, he always got the joke.

Pre-Ivan vs. Post-Ivan Forest Conditions in the Upper Escambia Watershed

William Gilley

ENC1101

 

Note: This essay is one of the first place winners of the 2009 Walter F. Spara Writing Competition.

For those of us who grew up roaming the forest around the Escambia River in the north end of Escambia and Santa Rosa Counties, Hurricane Ivan was a life altering event. While a 20 feet tall wall of water was breaking on the coast, wiping houses off their foundations, lifting bridge spans off their pilings, and snuffing out the very lives of many who refused to heed evacuation orders, a killer wind was laying waste the ancient forest of the Upper Escambia River watershed. Majestic oaks, pines, hickories, cypress, and gum trees—many too big for three grown men to reach around—were blown over as if their attachment to the ground was never meant to be permanent. The massive trunks of some trees were snapped off 20 feet above the ground by unrelenting winds that may have reached 140 miles per hour. Folks my age will not live long enough to see this forest recover to its pre-Ivan condition. The pristine lowland forest that existed here before Hurricane Ivan now only exists as a twisted, mangled shell of its former self.

Though it resembles a war zone today, when I was a teenager, long before Hurricane Ivan came calling, I had never seen a more beautiful forest than that one which the Escambia River flows through. If I hadn’t discovered girls about that time, I could say my heart was fully given then to the beauty of the forest. The trees growing right along the river’s banks were the biggest in this area, with regard to both their height and the circumference of their trunks, and they were always healthy, creating their own rich moist humus to satisfy their thirst and hunger. During those days, there wasn’t much to keep a tree from realizing its full potential, and most did, taking on full shapes with respect to their type. The leaves always seemed big and glossy, growing in clusters right out on the ends of the branches where they’re supposed to be. In mid-summer the leaves in the canopy of that forest could blot-out the noon sun. Of course, in the wake of

Hurricane Ivan, there aren’t enough leaves left in the forest along the Escambia River to blot-out a dime-store flashlight beam, let alone provide enough shade to maintain the health of the soil on the forest floor. Unfortunately the leaves that are growing tend to just pop right out of the main trunk of the tree or along its main branches—indicating stress and disease—rather than out on the ends of the smallest branches, the way leaves grow on healthy trees. The standing trees that are still alive are full of mangled branches, many growing only on one side of the tree, giving the tree a hunchbacked sort of lopsided appearance. Many of the healthiest looking trees that survived the storm are leaning now, leaving them in a precarious position where the right conditions would send them crashing to the ground.

Another effect of Hurricane Ivan is that there are far more sick and dying trees now, even four years after the storm, than there were before. Because of the moist soil in the flood plain of the river, and the dense canopy that once shaded that moist soil and kept the moisture in, the forest along the river was virtually drought proof, so the trees were always healthy and beautiful, even in the midst of drought conditions. Since Hurricane Ivan, however, the canopy is mostly gone, exposing the once rich moist soil to the glaring sun and heat, causing extra stress on the remaining trees during hot, dry conditions. The result of this extra stress has been the slow death of many trees that survived the brunt of the storm. Sick trees are a common sight now, and they are fairly easy to spot because their leaves are scarce, while many of the branches are showing signs of rot and fungus. Before the storm, a rotten branch was fairly rare, but it was the only type of branch that had cause to break off and fall out of a tree. Since the storm, though, it is not uncommon to see live main branches-some as big as a man can reach around—lying on the ground. These live branches are victims of wind-caused stress cracks on the top of the branch where it connects to the trunk. On the very large branches, water collects at this spot, andinstead of running off or evaporating, it seeps into the stress crack and causes that area to rot. Consequently the otherwise healthy branches break at that point and crash to the ground. Before Hurricane Ivan, a sick or dying tree in this forest was most likely evidence of a lightning strike. Now, however, the culprit is almost always wind damage as some trees are cracked deep in the trunk or their roots are broken and damaged due to the severity of the bending and swaying caused by the high winds. Though the damage is invisible to the casual observer, the effect on the tree is obvious.

Lastly, a walk in the forest along the Escambia River was once an experience akin to those that inspired the poetry of Emerson, but now just walking there is practically impossible. Before Hurricane Ivan, the ridges and hammocks in the Escambia River watershed were as close as Florida gets to the beauty of the forests in the Northeastern United States. The undergrowth was sparse and walking was easy, so a person could take his or her time and enjoy nature. Since the storm, though, the forest is almost impenetrable. Downed trees are stacked one-on-top-of-another, their massive bodies strewn carelessly about the forest floor as toys left behind by a spoiled child. Now, just to get through the tangle a person has to weave over and under huge tree trunks, spending more time crawling than walking. Before Ivan downed these trees, the canopy overhead was absolutely magnificent with brilliant colors in the fall. Even during that time of year, the canopy was still dense enough to keep significant sunlight from reaching the ground, shading those hammocks where I once hunted, stalking effortlessly across an uncluttered forest floor. However, since Hurricane Ivan blew the trees down, the canopy is very thin at best. Now there is more sunlight than shade on the forest floor, promoting the occurrence of all manners of dense undergrowth, including weeds and vines usually only seen in open fields or along roadsides. This new siege of misplaced weeds and vines is doubly restricting because it is entwined with and entangled in the twisted branches in the tops of the downed trees. Not only is it nearly impossible to walk in the forest now, but why would anyone want to? Not even the deer can go there anymore.

Imagine the home you grew up in, with all of the things you love securely tucked away in the places where they’ve always been. You love your home; you are comfortable there. Now imagine a giant picking up your home, turning it upside down, and shaking it until all of the things are shaken from their places and scattered about, then setting your home back on its foundation. It appears this is the action Hurricane Ivan took on the forest of the Upper Escambia River Watershed. Everything is out of its proper place: most of the trees are lying on the forest floor instead of towering above it, many of the trees left standing are slowly dying, even the trees that look healthy are losing large main branches due to rot and undetected wind damage, and an impenetrable jungle has emerged in the form of weeds and vines becoming entangled in the branches of downed trees. The forest I once cherished and enjoyed, with all of its beauty, color, and coolness has been turned upside down, and I shall never again know it as it once was.

Game Review: Resident Evil 5 hits the systems

Wade Manns

The Corsair

 

Resident Evil 5

by Capcom

Rating: Mature (17+) for, from what I’ve observed so far, blood and gore and violence.

Genre: survival horror

Players: one or two over Xbox Live

The Resident Evil series, since 1997 has been one of the leading and scariest survival horror series ever. First released on the original PlayStation, with rather good graphics for the standards of the time (though the backgrounds were all pre-rendered), very poor voice acting all around, a very limited control scheme, but with a compelling story nonetheless, it captured the hearts and minds of gamers everywhere.

To understand this newest release in this series, I think it necessary to give you a brief history of the Resident Evil series.

It started with the Mansion Incident, as recorded in the first game. An unscrupulous pharmaceutical enterprise known as Umbrella Corporation was developing B.O.W.’s, or Bio Organic Weapons, hoping to change the face of warfare throughout the world.

However, an old mansion on the outskirts of a small Midwestern town, Raccoon City, which served as the research facility for Umbrella, was breeding far more than superpowered soldiers. Because of research into a manufactured virus known as the T-virus designed to create BOWs, zombies were being created, and had begun to spread to the outskirts of the city, devouring a few of its inhabitants.

A special arm of the Raccoon City police, known as S.T.A.R.S. (Special Tactics and Rescue Squad) was sent in to investigate the mansion and destroy any threat caused by the so-called cannibalistic killings. To make a long story short, the mansion and the research facility were destroyed, along with the only real biological weapon that we had seen come out of Umbrella so far, the Tyrant.

This new game in the series sends Chris Redfield, one of the playable protagonists of the first game, to Africa as part of a special UN-sanctioned force called the BSAA, or the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance, to investigate a new outbreak of Las Plagas and to deal with it as he’s ordered and as he sees fit. He’s joined on this mission by Sheva Alomar, another member of the BSAA, who backs Chris up quite effectively and provides a companion through this long, lonely mission.

The graphics in this game are simply stunning. Everything looks very bleak, as it should, with highly detailed facial animations on the main characters and on that of our enemies, and from what I’ve seen so far, quite the variety of creatures that can be faced.

The voice acting in this game seems to be on the level of the fourth game in the series which is to say, quite good. I’ve not yet identified a voice that I can recognize, but even if the cast is all unknown, they still do a great job.

The controls, as in the previous games are limited: you cannot strafe, or move side to side, while aiming (or at all for that matter; you may only turn in place), but this is surely to enhance the survival horror nature of the title; they do have to restrict movement in some way, or else encounters would be far too easy to escape.

The gameplay is quite the same as the fourth game in the series, with the addition of the aforementioned partner. Sheva helps you out in combat, gives you ammunition when you need it, and points out special items in the environment that you can take to enhance your arsenal. All in all, she is a good addition to the gameplay, adding some personality to the proceedings.

I have heard that some controversy has existed because of this game; certain groups have denounced this game as being racist for portraying black people as zombies, but I say it is not.

These are basically zombies, though they do not act like the generic, typical zombies in that they are much faster and smarter, and their race does not matter.

All in all, this is one of the best games I’ve played this year. If you’re into survival horror games as I am, and you don’t mind being scared a good deal, then I believe you should pick this one up.

Conflicting breaks cause conflicts for students

Ansley Zecckine
The Corsair

PJC, the University of West Florida and the school districts of Escambia and Santa Rosa counties need to take the time to schedule spring breaks that better serve student needs — consistently.

For years spring breaks in Escambia and Santa Rosa county schools have been occurring at no specifically pre-scheduled week in the school year; the same goes for PJC and UWF. In terms of providing a break that falls on the midpoint of the term, they have each failed.

Spring breaks fall between March and April, while academic terms come to a rapid close in as little as a month following the break.

The local colleges and school districts have had meetings in the past for the purpose of coordinating a common spring break among them, but because of the differences among them it never came to pass.

Indeed, colleges and school districts are about as similar as beach balls and basketballs; sure, they both have educational facilities, but they operate in different environments, serve different communities, and are subject to different processes. Therefore, having them share a common spring break is neither feasible nor convenient.

The Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test, or FCAT, occurs in March and is one restriction that local school districts must work around when deciding dates for spring break. March, on the other hand, is a common month for spring break among PJC and UWF.

Incidentally, the local colleges and school districts somehow manage to coordinate coinciding breaks from time to time, but that isn’t necessarily a good thing.

When spring break is paired between a school district and a college it may provide too early of a break for the K-12 group or too late of a break for the college group. In addition to FCAT restrictions, this is due to their significantly different semesters or quarters; the local school districts let out for summer weeks after PJC and UWF.

Of course, when spring break is paired between PJC and UWF, the result can be a convenient break near the midpoint of the term, right where it’s supposed to be. The same goes for when the break is paired between Escambia County and Santa Rosa County schools.

Now that’s starting to sound like a solution. In addition, each of their breaks should fall at a consistent point in the year, every year.

This should do away with the major differences and build on the similarities of like animals, plus add some convenience for students and parents.

Colleges and universities have common start dates; PJC and UWF have similar semesters and therefore similar calendars too. Registrars from both schools have claimed that their goal is to schedule spring break to be just past the midpoint of the term.

Since PJC and UWF are nearly identical in these respects, it makes perfect sense that their breaks should be during the same week.

Furthermore, students do travel beyond their own backyard; it is not farfetched to think that students from PJC might have friends that attend UWF. After all, the schools are only about six miles apart. Friends like to hang out over spring break, and that was hard for them to do since their breaks were two weeks apart.

College spring breaks shouldn’t be bound by the restrictions of school districts and vice versa. Escambia County and Santa Rosa County school districts should adopt a similar policy: instead of trying to coordinate with PJC and UWF, they should coordinate with themselves.

This will free them up to provide for their students’ needs, giving them an appropriate break as well.

With many distractions, road dangers abound

 

Technology provides more tools than ever at LRC

Erin Smallwood
The Corsair

Long live the libraries! Now more than ever students are turning to Internet search engines instead of entering the doors of the library to complete their term papers.

NetLibrary, a provider of eBooks, conducted a study of the online habits of 2,000 college students. Ninety-three percent claimed that finding information online makes more sense than going to the library.

“I usually go online to do my research,” said dual enrollment student Brittany Riley. “The Internet can be a good source of information if you know where to look.”

Unfortunately, some students don’t know where to look.

“From observation, I find that some people have no idea how search engines work and many simply settle for the first results on their hits list,” explained PJC librarian Virginia Vail.

According to BrightPlanet, an Internet search company, traditional search engines such as Google or Yahoo only access around one percent of what exists on the Internet because they do not access the “deep Web.”

The deep Web is a vague definition for Web pages that traditional search engines cannot access. It includes, but is not limited to: fee based Web sites such as The New York Times that require a subscription to view articles, databases that return full-text documents, or databases that are only available to members such as Spyglass.

With so much of the Internet hidden, students may be overlooking some of the most specific sources of information available over the Web.

Fortunately, the PJC library has made it easier to locate quality information by granting access to library resources from virtually anywhere. By logging onto lrc.pjc.edu, students can read a collection of more than 32,000 eBooks and access the library’s subscriptions to magazines, journals, and newspapers for free.

According to the Learning Resource Center’s Web site, PJC students and staff only need an activated PJC ID card to access Web-based resources.

If students are unable to find what they need through the LRC’s Web site, an online catalog of books held on campus and at other campus libraries is also available.

While the Internet offers a variety of benefits such as home access and up-to-date news from around the world, the campus library offers several tangible information outlets.

By walking into the library, students are instantly granted access to a collection of more than 70,000 books, audio-visuals such as DVDs or video tapes, and computers. Some of the online subscriptions to magazines, journals, and newspapers can also be found in print.

In addition to all this, the newly rebuilt library will have televisions available to view audiovisuals, private study rooms, a computer lab complete with microfilm printers, and even a coffee shop.

While some may believe that the day of the book may soon be gone, PJC librarian Charlotte Sweeney insists that her job has not changed much. The only things that have changed are the tools that she uses.

Instead of teaching students how to use a card catalog, she now teaches them how to get optimum results from Internet search engines.

“There’s a place for both the library and the Internet,” said Vail. “The question boils down to the best source and whether it is available on the Internet or not.”

Tuscan Oven Pizzeria cooks meals with slice of tradition

Erin Smallwood
The Corsair

Prior to World War II most European villagers relied largely on a single communal wood-fired oven to cook their daily meals, rotating different types of food throughout the day.

Once the war had ended, more than lives and landmarks were lost. Many of the communal ovens were also destroyed, leaving villagers with no way to prepare meals.

Sylvio Valoriani, the Henry Ford of pizza ovens, was commissioned by the Italian government to solve the oven crisis. His solution: a smaller, more affordable version of the communal oven that quickly became the center of nearly every home.

Just as wood-fired ovens became the heart and soul of traditional Italian homes in the mid 1900s, the Valoriani brand oven has become the heart and soul of one of the privately owned pizzerias in town, the Tuscan Oven.

While Valoriani is best known for his smaller ovens, the Tuscan oven houses the Prima 120 model, which is one of the largest models made by Valoriani.

Ted Lamarche, owner of the Tuscan Oven, says that four large pizzas, six mediums, or 10 smalls can fit in the oven together.

While most commercial ovens found at the local Domino’s or Cici’s fire up with a push of a button, Simply flipping the on switch doesn’t work for Lamarche’s oven.

The oven runs entirely off of wood, and getting the fire started is just the first obstacle of the day. Employees throw a stack of wood in the back of the oven and use lighters and paper to get it lit.

“In order to get the oven’s full capacity, it takes at least an hour to heat up,” said manager Milany Russell. “If the wood isn’t cured enough or if the wood is wet it could take longer.”

Once the fire is finally roaring, workers must continuously throw logs into the oven; otherwise the fire could go out. On average, the restaurant uses 25-35 logs a day.

The fire from the logs warms the oven’s brick floor to cook the bottom of the pizzas, while a convective flow of heat created by the oven’s shape bakes the top and center of the restaurant’s masterpieces.

Lemarche says that the oven is supposed reach as high as 500 degrees, but he’s convinced that it heats up much higher.

After the oven is lit, the dough is stretched and toppings are piled, pizzas are placed into the oven.

Evenly cooked pizzas are guaranteed by commercial ovens, as pizzas are thrown on a conveyer belt that runs through a tunnel of heating elements, but creating an evenly cooked pizza in a wood-fired oven requires a little more time and a lot more concentration.

“Pizzas are rotated manually with a keel so pizzas cook evenly,” said pizza cook Casey Coco. “If they aren’t rotated, the sides of the pizza closest to the fire would burn and the sides facing away from the fire would stay raw.”

After about 10 minutes by the fire, pizza are cut and sent to tables.

Tony Staples, who dines at the Tuscan Oven at least once a week, said that “the pizza here is superior to anything anywhere else in town. I can only attribute it to the real oven and all the natural ingredients.”

 

Couture for a Cause raises proceeds for The Zoo

Sarah Marie Thompson

The Corsair

The building was packed with Pensacola’s finest at downtown Seville Quarter for Couture for a Cause. It was a rare chance for designers and models to strut their stuff as they went “green” down the runway.

Couture for a Cause was presented with models showcasing nifty wearables from recycled items. Usual components that are likely to be thrown away were made into fantastic designs like no other. The unique items were displayed from simple casual garments such as model Erin’s “Cotton Candy” to the most intricate and elaborate themes such as PJC Professor Jen Erhardt’s “Alumina” — an updated version of the Ancient Goddess Lucia — made of recycled fish lines, soda cans, and much more. Erhardt won “most outrageous” costume.

Proceeds from various sponsors, including gold sponsor Levin Papantonio, P.A. will help aid The ZOO Northwest Florida. Supplementing the fashion show was a silent auction for prizes. Donations to the ZOO fund a wide array of opportunities such as ZOOcamp, a summer program for schoolchildren to have the rare experience of working at a wildlife preserve.

The show’s master of ceremonies was the energetic Dana Cervantes from the Morning Show on Cat Country. The judges were local celebrities, such as Mollye Barrows of WEAR Channel 3, Madrina Newcomb of The Skin Care Center of Gulf Breeze, and Santa Rosa County Commissioner Bob Cole. All models were escorted by Marines and Air Force soldiers throughout the show.

The show started out with model and PJC pre-pharmacy major, Sheryl Miles, who wore a design from designer Diana Booth called “Summer Solstice.” As the disc jokey played the upbeat song “Circus” by Britney Spears, Sheryl walked down the runway in an outfit from butchered paper towels from the seafood department, blue plastic from the recycle bin, and Christmas bows she received from her grandmother.

“I just liked that I got to model and be outrageous and nobody cared, and I had a lot of fun wearing just a piece of paper,” Miles said. “My outfit is actually made out of the seafood wrapping paper that they wrap seafood in at Wal-Mart.”

Overall, the fashion and environmentally friendly fashion show was a success. To end, the proud accomplishment of the night was PJC’s talented Jessica Woods. Although visually impaired, she succeeded in making and designing an outfit from a used table cover with circles from shopping bags for her and her guide dog. As Jessica walked across the stage the sound of applaud rose. The show ended in an upbeat fashion.

 

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