the new 2012 Shinnery Review

http://blogs.acu.edu/shinnery/2012/04/27/announcing-the-2012-shinnery-review/

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For great creative works by ACU's undergraduate literary arts magazine, The Shinnery Review

Plasmapheresis Take 2

New ending for the piece.

The process of plasma extraction is complete. After another few minutes the mousy brunette comes back around and asks me for my name and last four digits of my social security number to verify the account to which CSL Plasma will send funds of roughly twenty dollars. As I bid Rhonda adieu, I try to fathom the existence of the everyday CSL Plasma donor, but it's hard to abstract the character in question.

Simply put, we're just all plasma donatin' lookin' ass mothafuckas, looking for a break, trying not to get stepped on, and trying to earn some cash. I write my signature at the bottom of my letter and climb off the leather bed, my elbow wrapped tightly in sand colored bandaging. While heading back through the waiting room, I notice that the waiting room is full of an entirely new crowd in muddy tank tops, flannel, and medical scrubs. Right now the world demands twenty million liters of our plasma, so it's a good thing that the human body regenerates blood plasma so quickly. I walk outside of the facility's front doors. They always wrap the bandaging too tightly. Two more hours and I'll be able to take off these bandages.

There are a couple of men smoking cigarettes in front of the brick wall. They laugh and joke. They both wear shirts with their names and different company names stitched into the front pocket. One has considerably more stains on his shirt, black and oily. Neither of them seem to have noticed me. Maybe the two men met at the CSL Plasma center awhile ago and have become friends in their common plasma donating experiences. I walk through a very full parking lot under a very bright sky. The sky is always so dizzyingly bright after walking out of any clinical sort of establishment. I slump forward and slide into my car's front seat.

Sorake Beach's Sting, pt. 2

Dr. Cavitt and Randy walk up to the table with their bibles. I feel sweat slowly running down the sides of my torso. The bits of sea long to crawl back to mother sea. Sweat and more sweat. Of course none of us have grown accustomed to the blazing equatorial sun, and to make matters worse, we must wear pants and long sleeve shirts at these gatherings so as not to offend any of the older villagers who were converted to Christianity by conservative missionaries fifty years ago.

The others are coming now. Beat-up jeeps and vans pull into the bumpy driveway in front of our hotel. They come out in colorful clothes, floral prints, smiling, their hands locked with their children's. The women walk into the hotel cafe and sit on side of the room as the men file in and sit on the other. The whole group reminds me of some small town Texas congregation, locked in itself by trees and miles and miles of raw terrain, slow to change, sometimes stubborn and unbudging. Alex looks at me and rolls her eyes. She will not be able to speak tonight. The men of Nias would be grossly offended. I feel uncomfortable, but I smile nevertheless.

Elderly Nias men bang their right fists on their chests:

--Ya'ahowu!

Shivers rush through my legs as something strange and prickly brushes against my pant. I look down, and to my dismay, the warty hotel cat is accosting me for scarps of food. I have nothing. Whenever the odious creature walks underneath the table I cringe. I lift my feet off the ground and cross them under my bottom in my chair. I cannot allow for this fungus-cat to rub against my legs.

My fingers fumble through the pages of my bible where I've taken notes. Tonight I am to speak to the Nias people through the best of Andrew's abilities as interpreter. I hold this holy doctrine in my hands. What is it I'm preaching tonight? Wait, I'm really preaching? I have not known what to do with this book for a few years now, yet here I am about to talk about faith and doubt and promises.

Andrew smiles as he looks at Logan and I. He signals to everyone in their seats to politely end their conversations and to look toward the American students. He introduces Logan and I and "Paul and Barnabas," a sort of joke that the villagers have learned to love when fanny packed-foreigners come with their bibles tucked under their arms.

We have everyone's attention. I beat my chest with my right fist to greet them all:

--Ya'ahowu!

The Nias people love it:

--Ya'ahowu!

I'm wearing my best grin. Something that I feel needs no translation. I uncross my legs and plant them on the concrete floor. Ina Hestu fans herself. Ama Tuna and Ama Toreh wait eagerly for the words I am intended to relay to them from God. I become animated. I use my hands to help conduct this silly opus. Translation takes time. I talk and read from my notes. I quote the bible because I am told to do so to validate my words. I speak of Job and become anxious. My peers comfort me with their presence. Warty cat brushes up against my leg.

The man who has been sitting in the corner of the room with his arms and legs crossed the entire time finally lifts up his hand. As I feel the air of the room harden and begin to drip down my forehead in sweat, I remember Dr. Cavitt's warning. This man can be trouble. I nod to him and point so that he knows he has my full attention.

The man takes off his glasses and snaps his bible shut. His deeply set frown doesn't budge. He sits there now twisted like an old tree. I keep my eyes focused on his eyes as Andrew translates:

--How does God expect us to have faith in him when he gives us bad rice harvests?

My stomach starts to spill into my lap. I try to empathize and twist my face into an expression of soulful pity and love. It's painful.