Category: Essays

The Truth by Sierra Cammack

The Truth

by Sierra Cammack

When you’re looking for the truth, you have to be careful. Finding truth is like attempting to sail a boat through a violent storm, while you are not wearing a life jacket. You have to be careful not to go overboard, when your only support is a thin cord that tethers you to your mast. That tether is what you know for sure. It keeps you upright and provides some security. The raging storm? That’s what has been said, written, and whispered in hushed tones behind closed doors. It’s all the information, true and false, secret and widely known, that you are going to have to deal with. The wind and the rain are lies, pushing you off course and blinding you. The occasional finger of lightning that touches down in the distance is a truth that lights up your situation, so that just for a moment, you can see a bit further and a bit clearer. The thunder is encouragement, like a far away audience applauding, reminding you to keep going. You have to keep going. The storm is going to try and push you out to sea, but you have got to keep moving forward, guided to the answer by random flashes of light and your own instincts. After all, it is not the whole truth, if you settle for only halfway, and half a truth is not enough for me. Half a truth is still half a lie.

The Loneliness of the Independent Scholar by Stu Burns

The Loneliness of the Independent Scholar

by Stu Burns

“Myself as an Individual” by Alao-Ibiyinka

You steer your car into the university’s interior drive. There is a lot next to the library where the impressions on the asphalt have taken the shape of your tires. You pull into the familiar spot marked “Visitors Only,” grab your well-worn leather bag, and make your way inside to a flimsy table. The temporary desk will support a diverse stack of books today, background research for a rigorous article on an original topic. You set up on the faux-wood laminate, noticing how it has warped from the condensation of too many students’ drinks on too many humid days. This is the closest thing to an office you have here. It suits you.

The conferences where you speak list you as an independent scholar. When you were a grad student, an old Oxford Don sniffed that this was a discreet euphemism for “unemployed.” You are more fortunate than that. Self-interested college instructors always said that a liberal arts education prepared you for a number of jobs, and they were right. You were trained to research things and write about them. In a business drowning in reports and figures where accountants can make profits appear and disappear based on office politics, executives appreciate well-made narratives and charts. You make a living as a business analyst, not as a tenure-track professor employed by a university to teach and do research. As an independent scholar, you do it for the love. That’s what the word “amateur” means: one who works for love, not money. You have become a professional at something else. Continue reading “The Loneliness of the Independent Scholar by Stu Burns”

How I Got Into Fine Lines Writing Camp by Kristi Bolling

How I got into Fine Lines Writing Camp

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It all started back in eighth grade when Mrs. Tiller gave us an assignment. We were supposed to write a children’s book and read it to two peers. She printed off the pictures from the original book, and we had to come up with the character’s name, conflict, and setting. I got one that dealt with a little horse no bigger than a butterfly. I wrote my story and presented it to Mrs. Tiller.

She loved it so much that, not only did I get an amazing grade, but I also got recommended to Fine Lines. I was so surprised that inside me, I felt like I was screaming. I know it sounds weird, but that’s what I felt like. I went to the Fine Lines summer creative writing camp, and I had a blast. I recently had a poem I wrote published in a Fine Lines issue. Mrs. Tiller is one of my favorite teachers because she saw my true potential, and so did Fine Lines.

Letter from a Friend of Fine Lines

The attached letter from a new writer to Fine Lines (Shawnelle Alley, Fremont, NE) arrived just in time for the holidays. I could not have wished for a better present. Her wonderful expression of what a new writer feels like to be published is the reason we have continued to develop Fine Lines and reach out to “young writers of all ages” these past twenty years.

Dear David Martin,

I understand that I am now published twice by you; once online and once in print! Amazing!! Perhaps I am in shock, I don’t know if I should laugh, or cry, or both.

Continue reading “Letter from a Friend of Fine Lines”

Strange Addiction by Grace Magisana

Strange Addiction

Grace Magisana

I wondered why I had suddenly gotten the urge to rush outside and stuff butternut squash in my ears and up my nose. I wondered why I had an hour before run outside and stuffed peas in my pants. I wondered where the can was. I had just gone to the bathroom and discovered peas in my underwear. I knew then that my craving had taken over.

I am a vegetable overeater! I sighed. I went back to my room and flicked on the light. I gasped!

The room was a disaster area! Broccoli was on my pillow. A bag of frozen lima beans was strewn on my lampshade. Carrots spelled “VEGGIEZ” on my keyboard. Corn was smeared on my window. I remembered opening a bottle of ranch dressing and glugging it down. Then, I painted my name on the walls with tomatoes.

I slapped my forehead. I had thrown myself a veggie party! I slumped into a chair. CRUNCH!! I got up. I just sat on a clump of zucchini.

It was time for an appointment with Dr. Turnipheart. The wimp. Continue reading “Strange Addiction by Grace Magisana”

Going Home

Going Home

Allison Keeton Fisher

It’s a small town, the center of which is situated just about three miles south of Interstate 64 in eastern Kentucky. The connecting road between the town and the Interstate is a four-lane highway dotted with businesses and homes built on and into the hills that border the road. Close to the Interstate, nestled on a hill at the edge of the forest, is a funeral home that transports the deceased through town and all over the countryside to small family cemeteries.

On a recent trip home, my mother and I were driving north on this connecting highway toward the Interstate, when I noticed that all the cars in front of me were pulling off to the side of the road and stopping. I slowed down, too, simply because I didn’t know what was going on. Then, around the bend, I saw what was happening. There was a hearse leading a long line of cars toward town. I pulled over, like everyone else, and noticed that everything around us had come to a halt as well. In a parking lot across the road, some high school kids were raising money at a car wash. They stopped their laughing and sloshing around and stood still, some with hands folded in front, some with their heads down. Continue reading “Going Home”

The Gift of Five Minutes

My Gift of Five Minutes

Courtney Warren

In five minutes, a man could take a gun and shoot up a mall. In five minutes, a war could begin. In five minutes, a person can die, and in five minutes, thousands of lives can change. A lot can happen in a short amount of time. Things happen in minutes that people spend the rest of their lives wishing they could take back. That’s where my gift comes in.

I wouldn’t give a gift wrapped in a box and tied with a pretty bow. No, I would grant the ability to go back in time and change something we wish we had not done. Think about it. Imagine someone close to you died. Would you go back and use your minutes to tell that person you loved them just one last time? I bet thousands would use their five minutes to try and prevent 9/11 from happening. All it would take is one person at the airport to report the situation to the guards.

Continue reading “The Gift of Five Minutes”

A Tribute to Ray Bradbury

A Tribute to Ray Bradbury

Loren Logsdon

I find myself nearing the end of a long and rewarding career in college teaching. This fall marks the 49th time I will be welcoming students to begin the first semester in the groves of academe. Along the way, I have encountered all kinds of interesting students and colleagues whom I will always remember—students for their energy, individuality, and potential and colleagues for their friendship and generosity in sharing ideas and teaching materials. Of the many authors I taught along the way, one stands out as being very special. He is Ray Bradbury, and I am writing this essay as a gesture of gratitude to a writer who celebrates the joy of living and reminds us that life is a precious gift. Ray’s works have not only given students some exciting reading experiences, but they have also influenced the way I think and live, indeed with the way I touch the world with my life. What also convinces me that Ray is special is the tribute paid by countless numbers of students over the years who have thanked me for assigning his novels and stories. Frequently, students from years ago tell me that reading Ray Bradbury was the highlight of the class. Continue reading “A Tribute to Ray Bradbury”