{"id":22781,"date":"2026-06-10T15:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-06-10T20:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/?p=22781"},"modified":"2026-06-10T15:49:10","modified_gmt":"2026-06-10T20:49:10","slug":"waving-not-drowning","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/waving-not-drowning\/","title":{"rendered":"Waving, Not Drowning"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<ul class=\"wp-block-social-links is-content-justification-right is-layout-flex wp-container-core-social-links-is-layout-765c4724 wp-block-social-links-is-layout-flex\"><li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-facebook  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/profile.php?id=61556140010887\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12 2C6.5 2 2 6.5 2 12c0 5 3.7 9.1 8.4 9.9v-7H7.9V12h2.5V9.8c0-2.5 1.5-3.9 3.8-3.9 1.1 0 2.2.2 2.2.2v2.5h-1.3c-1.2 0-1.6.8-1.6 1.6V12h2.8l-.4 2.9h-2.3v7C18.3 21.1 22 17 22 12c0-5.5-4.5-10-10-10z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Facebook<\/span><\/a><\/li>\n\n<li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-instagram  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/boudin_mcneese\/\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12,4.622c2.403,0,2.688,0.009,3.637,0.052c0.877,0.04,1.354,0.187,1.671,0.31c0.42,0.163,0.72,0.358,1.035,0.673 c0.315,0.315,0.51,0.615,0.673,1.035c0.123,0.317,0.27,0.794,0.31,1.671c0.043,0.949,0.052,1.234,0.052,3.637 s-0.009,2.688-0.052,3.637c-0.04,0.877-0.187,1.354-0.31,1.671c-0.163,0.42-0.358,0.72-0.673,1.035 c-0.315,0.315-0.615,0.51-1.035,0.673c-0.317,0.123-0.794,0.27-1.671,0.31c-0.949,0.043-1.233,0.052-3.637,0.052 s-2.688-0.009-3.637-0.052c-0.877-0.04-1.354-0.187-1.671-0.31c-0.42-0.163-0.72-0.358-1.035-0.673 c-0.315-0.315-0.51-0.615-0.673-1.035c-0.123-0.317-0.27-0.794-0.31-1.671C4.631,14.688,4.622,14.403,4.622,12 s0.009-2.688,0.052-3.637c0.04-0.877,0.187-1.354,0.31-1.671c0.163-0.42,0.358-0.72,0.673-1.035 c0.315-0.315,0.615-0.51,1.035-0.673c0.317-0.123,0.794-0.27,1.671-0.31C9.312,4.631,9.597,4.622,12,4.622 M12,3 C9.556,3,9.249,3.01,8.289,3.054C7.331,3.098,6.677,3.25,6.105,3.472C5.513,3.702,5.011,4.01,4.511,4.511 c-0.5,0.5-0.808,1.002-1.038,1.594C3.25,6.677,3.098,7.331,3.054,8.289C3.01,9.249,3,9.556,3,12c0,2.444,0.01,2.751,0.054,3.711 c0.044,0.958,0.196,1.612,0.418,2.185c0.23,0.592,0.538,1.094,1.038,1.594c0.5,0.5,1.002,0.808,1.594,1.038 c0.572,0.222,1.227,0.375,2.185,0.418C9.249,20.99,9.556,21,12,21s2.751-0.01,3.711-0.054c0.958-0.044,1.612-0.196,2.185-0.418 c0.592-0.23,1.094-0.538,1.594-1.038c0.5-0.5,0.808-1.002,1.038-1.594c0.222-0.572,0.375-1.227,0.418-2.185 C20.99,14.751,21,14.444,21,12s-0.01-2.751-0.054-3.711c-0.044-0.958-0.196-1.612-0.418-2.185c-0.23-0.592-0.538-1.094-1.038-1.594 c-0.5-0.5-1.002-0.808-1.594-1.038c-0.572-0.222-1.227-0.375-2.185-0.418C14.751,3.01,14.444,3,12,3L12,3z M12,7.378 c-2.552,0-4.622,2.069-4.622,4.622S9.448,16.622,12,16.622s4.622-2.069,4.622-4.622S14.552,7.378,12,7.378z M12,15 c-1.657,0-3-1.343-3-3s1.343-3,3-3s3,1.343,3,3S13.657,15,12,15z M16.804,6.116c-0.596,0-1.08,0.484-1.08,1.08 s0.484,1.08,1.08,1.08c0.596,0,1.08-0.484,1.08-1.08S17.401,6.116,16.804,6.116z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Instagram<\/span><\/a><\/li><\/ul>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-large-font-size\"><strong>Waving, Not Drowning<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><strong>David Lohrey<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">__________<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">The very thought of throwing myself overboard made me recoil. There were Conrad and Melville, of course, maybe Golding. No other major writer of fiction who\u2019d spent much time at sea came to mind. The watery writers didn\u2019t much appeal. Eugene O\u2019Neill was the only playwright I could think of who sailed. Hart Crane and Virginia Woolf drowned themselves, of course. The whole thing was preposterous. Taking poison seemed a much better alternative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">There was someone at the door. I buzzed him in and was met by a fellow carrying a pile of take-out boxes, enough to feed an army. Middle Eastern cuisine is great, but not even hummus, my favorite dish in the whole wide world, tempted me. I had been poked and pinched so much back in Houston that my whole body felt numb. I already looked like a Barbie doll designed for the Arab sex-trade. The boobs were not done yet, but my coifed hair and bright cocksucker lips screamed slut. The delivery man gave me the once-over. I thought of offering a BJ as a tip but decided against it. One blow job, and his friends would be lined up at my door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">The clinician told me that Malik wanted to see 700 cc silicone implants, or something bigger. The doctor asked what I thought about going, possibly, to 720-750.&nbsp; \u201cYou\u2019ll look like a Playmate.\u201d When he showed me the digital models, my mouth dropped. How long would my back hold up under that load? By the time he was finished, the only original equipment left I cared about would be my dick. This is the fate that awaited me if I stayed in town and went under the knife.&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I was trapped. That\u2019s not the same, to be clear, as <em>feeling<\/em> trapped. Most people <em>feel <\/em>trapped but aren\u2019t. I actually was in a trap, held against my will. There was no use coming up with some sort of heroics or concocting a grand gesture, no point in rehearsing a speech to set the angels afire. I was down and out. Escape would have to be my final act. Not words; a single deed. Get out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">This time I\u2019d be on the run. That was the plan. This was no metaphor. No, I wasn\u2019t lighting out for the territories. My life was at stake. Not like before when I was trying to find myself. There wasn\u2019t to be any of that Tom Sawyer shit this time. Now I was trying to get away, this time for good. I wanted out before surgery, ideally, but the next best option was before becoming embroiled with the Sheikh, that is, before commencing employment.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I anticipated arriving at the marina with two huge new tits, 34D, on my small frame. Malik wanted to turn me into a stacked chick, now with blonde hair, looking a bit like Reese Witherspoon, only bosomy. The result would be unrecognizable \u2013 even to me. Now I knew what the Roman poet meant when he wrote of someone\u2019s swollen breasts appearing like tall ships on the horizon. The doctor promised my tits would be beautiful and firm, with pigmented \u201cAsian\u201d nipples and enhanced areola to better suit local tastes; \u201cdark and sensual\u201d was how Malik put it. I knew what Malik wanted; he\u2019d told me a million times.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Malik called Carmen my titty-tutor and laughed when I told him she had lectured me on breast care. I didn\u2019t totally get it, but he thought topics like boob rashes and nipple coverage were very funny. Less funny was the dedicated voice training program he signed me up for. He said when I snored, I sounded like the kind of man who drives an eighteen-wheeler. My body may have been petite but my voice was unchanged. He told everybody how much he was paying for my boob job and said it would all be wasted if I didn\u2019t do something to feminize my voice. He wanted me to practice on his driver. He also insisted on a titty-fuck before returning to Riyadh.&nbsp; He expected to be first. \u201cI\u2019m warning you, Del. I\u2019m not fucking used tits.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">My friend lived on the other side of Sharjah, some distance away. Nonetheless, he promised to pick me up. We just had to set a date. I arranged to have my two sets of luggage ready to go. We\u2019d race to the airport, and I would leave the UAE, never to return. That was the plan. From the airport I would send Malik his money, not enough to cover the scheduled boob job, but enough to pay him back for many of the little things he had done for me. Nothing for the things I didn\u2019t want. That was blood under the bridge. The idea of never seeing him again began to torment me. C\u2019est la vie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I spent several days in bed and waited every morning to be picked up, but nobody came.&nbsp; Days were spent looking at myself in the mirror. They\u2019d arranged three weeks of supervised recovery. Even Malik came by. He was eager to see for himself. Those first days passed in a blur, but as soon as the doctor unwrapped me, I spent much of the time cupping my breasts or bouncing them on my open palms, constantly looking myself over and, to tell the truth, not giving a damn who saw me. Not after Japan. It did not matter anymore. One day, I noticed the Filipino custodian trying to cop a look, so I kicked the door open. He looked like he wanted to give them a kiss, so I invited him in for a feel. Had he leaned over I would have let him kiss my nipples. I had in fact lost ten pounds since I had checked in and looked damned good. My ass was fine. I hadn\u2019t been working out, but it was firm. Everyone\u2019s eye focused on my branding scar. It gave the men hard-ons. None of that shamed me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">After an extended time in recovery, they took me out to Dubai Harbor, which was both exotic and beautiful. The water there was as still as sand. The Sheikh\u2019s yacht appeared indistinguishable from the many others floating there, with the exception of its unique flag and its much-publicized solid gold trim. That morning, a package of pricey lingerie was delivered: three-bras and one-panties sets &nbsp; \u0336 &nbsp; a gift from Myla of London and sent by Malik\u2019s staff.&nbsp; I was already wearing my favorite set, colorfully embroidered in copper lace. Malik, God bless, could be generous. I\u2019d also had overnight an epiphany. My metamorphosis would never be complete.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I had it all: a woman\u2019s face, a woman\u2019s lips, and flowing hair, but my eyes gave me away, my soul. Another woman would surely be able to tell. A woman could see the real me behind the facade. That\u2019s all I knew. What remained was a premonition and a few scars. I felt less of a woman with the big boobs than I had before with the bare minimum. The hormones had given me a bump but, after surgery, I was stacked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">As promised, Malik showed up. He told the doctors he wanted nipple rings, permanent ones, but the doctor said it was still too early for that; there was still a risk of infection.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI want them to stand at attention 24\/7.\u201d&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cDo you expect them to bow when the Sheikh enters the room?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">We were still talking about my nipples.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cCurtsy,\u201d he nodded, this time with a big laugh. He was in a good mood. \u201cDidn\u2019t Carmen<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">teach you anything? I am not kidding around. She told me you preferred to stay flat.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cShe showed me nipple collars. They\u2019re little rubber bands. We priced them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cLet\u2019s see them. I want you perky. Perky: isn\u2019t that the right word?\u201d&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cThose can wait,\u201d the doctor interrupted. \u201cI recommend 14 caret gold. I know the perfect&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">thing. Solid gold fish hooks, right through the nipples, left and right.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cThat\u2019ll hurt.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cGood,\u201d Malik smiled as he looked over at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I couldn\u2019t help noticing Malik\u2019s good humor. Being self-centered, I naturally assumed that he was happy for me and my sensational breasts. They were too beautiful to remain tits. Why not? When the doctor came in, he threw up his hands, \u201cHow are the twins?\u201d There was momentary confusion between my \u201ctwins\u201d, the newly released beauties and the newborns Malik\u2019s fourth wife had just given birth to. I had no idea. Malik didn\u2019t answer but before departing he presented a beautiful present of a L\u2019Or\u00e9al makeup kit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I knew myself. I was big enough to star as Cleavage Galore in the next James Bond film. Big tits might impress the Sheikh and his entourage, but I would never be satisfied unless I got to pick them for myself.&nbsp; He\u2019d already branded my ass; now I let him brand my chest. Still, I was not going to let it get me down. I had inherited from my father his penchant for imitating lunatics, I was totally caught up in that Korean rapper\u2019s \u201cGangnam Style\u201d so, as it had recently come out, I would do him for the hospital staff, mainly the custodians who had time to waste. I even bought a pair of Bermuda shorts in Psy\u2019s signature pink and wore dark shades just like him. I called myself Psycho.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">The private hospital served a rich clientele. I\u2019d see a lot. Brits do affluence so well. Rich Americans, however, wealthy Saudis, Emirati, Bahrainis\u2026they seemed coarse, greedy, even dangerous. The English, by contrast, the elegant rich, the fabulously rich are so well-bred, so cool, so feminine \u2013 don\u2019t they seem feminine? \u2013 effete, smooth, almost creamy. But these big fat stogie-smoking Cadillac millionaires really act like pigs. Isn\u2019t that why they breed, so they can fuck in mud holes, covered in shit and dollar bills? That was my main reason for running away, anything to get away from these fat cats who want you to lick their fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Thank God, they picked me up and took me everywhere. I was ashamed to be seen now that I was dressed. Why was that?&nbsp; My first time out was daunting. I expected to feel disoriented and confused after being isolated in the company apartments, cut off from all human contact save for <s>my<\/s> visits to the clinic. I wasn\u2019t sleeping well and became obsessed with my childhood. So little had really changed in my life. That night I met Malik, the faculty parties, and then the gala parties my parents held for the arts council. It all sort of blended together.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">If anyone had been foolish enough to bring chips and dip, Father would take them out to the kitchen and drop them on the floor.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cWhoops!\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He\u2019d return to the party, flamboyantly blowing kisses. He didn\u2019t want any of \u201cthat shit\u201d served to his guests. Then, he\u2019d turn on me if he caught me looking in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cThe least you can do is empty the ashtrays.\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He\u2019d be all keyed up. My brother Nathan called them our \u201cLucky Charms Nights.\u201d There would be no dinner for us. We hid in our rooms as the party unfolded and ate cereal, often without milk. We were not invited. They told people we hadn\u2019t been born. Sometimes, I wished it were true. I dreamed of being taken away. From time to time, a family friend might wander in and catch us with our pants down. She\u2019d grasp her pearls and let out a cry. The door would close. Me and my brother hid under our beds and prayed Father wouldn\u2019t come up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">For opening nights, Estelle made cassoulet. All Mother had to do was serve it. It\u2019d be two or three in the morning when the guests were good and drunk. Father poured champagne. Occasionally, I wandered in, especially at late night parties. One time, an actress ran outside in nothing but her bra.&nbsp; When they called for her to come inside, she took it off and waived it in the air. She flounced around and, as she came in from the patio, she screamed, \u201cOh, darling, you take it,\u201d and draped it across my head.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">In the morning we\u2019d find hundreds of cocktail glasses in the sink and the refrigerator door wide open. My parents slept all day. We were told to go to the Appels if we got hungry. As phony as this baloney was, I\u2019m not sure it made me unhappy. One numbs oneself. My brother and I watched <em>Cosby<\/em>. I saved baseball cards I stole from the five-and-dime. The Starship Enterprise was always lurking and so was <em>The Simpsons.<\/em> When I look back now, I\u2019d say it wasn\u2019t so bad. I might even say we never had it so good.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Back to reality. I was still in hospital. The doctors said there might have to be additional surgery. They kept bringing me back to the clinic for tests. Malik\u2019s staff escorted me around the piers, snapped a few pictures &nbsp; \u0336 &nbsp; mainly of me &nbsp; \u0336 &nbsp; and we climbed back into the big Audi SUV. Luckily, there was no one else. I had spent my entire life with a flat chest. Now, men and women stared. When I spoke to Reggie on Skype, the first thing he said was, \u201cYou didn\u2019t say anything about twins. What are their names?\u201d&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Malik was pushing hard for total sex reassignment or feminization. \u201cMake it final,\u201d Al-Otaibi said with a shrug. I still loved his masculine nonchalance, but I had gotten to hate his manners. He joked that I might want branding, this time on my right cheek, next time on my left. I said I would. This would be our last exchange, our last time on Skype. I couldn\u2019t resist congratulating him on his bravura performance. All he said was, \u201cNow we are waiting for yours.\u201d In a matter of days, he\u2019d deleted the audio and managed to turn my topless Skype appearance into an ad for his trans dating service. I hadn\u2019t sat that close to the camera, but he used zoom. This final back and forth reminded me of that sad old saying, \u201cThere is no affair that doesn\u2019t end badly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I stepped to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cAll right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cAll right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">In my fantasy he went to kiss me on the cheek. I pulled back. I took one last look. I wasn\u2019t about to hang around. My new breasts made me look fat, made me feel positively ridiculous. Finally, I too stepped out into the corridor, threw the silver butt plug, his gift, into the trash, and made a run for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Minutes later found me on board my friend\u2019s SUV. Reggie was right on time. I jumped in the back, and he pulled away. He had a full set of clothes for me, a suit and tie, shoes and socks, the works. Thank God for the Brooks Brothers at Dubai Mall. I wanted to look sharp; it always helps when going through customs and checking into hotels. My tits were big, but I had to pass as Dennis Vanderhoff, so I put on two undershirts. Reggie spoke little as we raced for the airport. He was a good driver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">My plan was to fly into Hong Kong and worry about getting to Mainland from there. I figured on flying but thought about taking the bus to the border, then on to Guilin by train. One way or the other &#8230; I\u2019d get there. Time was of the essence\u2026 an elegant escape\u2026but nothing too devious, something simple. Once in China, I would be free. There were tons of jobs for teachers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I told Reggie I\u2019d be in touch once I arrived in Houston, but didn\u2019t mention a word about Hong Kong or about anything else for that matter. It was critical that he not know where I was in case Malik was able to find him and apply pressure. I had begged him not to say a word, but knew he would break if they threatened his job. In the Middle East, it was easy to revoke someone\u2019s visa. We were friends but not that close. I left other clues pointing back to Houston back at the company apartment, left some notes under my bed, all pointing to a return home. I had also said something to the doctor just to stir the pot and asked him to keep it to himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">While buttoning my shirt, I turned around one last time. The doctor was standing on the stairs. Had he seen me? He was fading from sight, growing smaller and smaller. My memory of him dwindled as we moved through the impenetrable traffic. At the red light, a white Lamborghini pulled up to our left and, in the oncoming lane, an orange Rolls. Reg stepped on the accelerator. As I tied my tie, I couldn\u2019t resist looking back once more. He was gone. He\u2019d vanished. The rest of it would come out soon enough.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Thanks to Reggie\u2019s driving, and a fair amount of luck, we arrived at the airport with time to spare. I could scarcely believe my good fortune. Somehow, I had both remained and become myself.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I no longer thought of myself as trans and doubted that transsexuals would accept me. Joining the girl scouts had never appealed to me. It was not physical; it was mental. I had perhaps not in fact transformed so much as metamorphosed. I resolved to think of myself as a metaphor. I closed my eyes and imagined myself eating hand-made wontons in red chili sauce. Who the hell could say? Maybe fortune would find me at the famous titty bar in Kowloon, the Fortune Nookie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">__________<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><strong>David Lohrey<\/strong> was raised in Memphis and educated in California. He has had a diverse career that includes teaching in California, New Jersey, and China. David\u2019s writing includes playwriting, poetry and travel articles. He enjoys Japanese theatre, particularly Kabuki, and Delta blues. His first collection Machiavelli\u2019s Backyard was published in 2017. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in <em>BlazeVOX<\/em>, <em>Cardiff Review<\/em>, <em>Expat Press<\/em>, the <em>New Orleans Review<\/em>, <em>Otoliths<\/em>, and <em>South Florida Poetry Journal<\/em>. He was a 2020 finalist for LA\u2019s Jack Grapes Poetry Prize. A multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, David\u2019s <em>Bluff City<\/em> was published by Terror House Press in 2021. He lives in Tokyo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p><strong>__________<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"alignleft size-full\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"438\" height=\"211\" src=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-15484\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg 438w, https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1-300x145.jpg 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 438px) 100vw, 438px\" \/><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-large-font-size\">&lt;&lt; <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/the-rubiks-cube\/\" data-type=\"link\" data-id=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/the-rubiks-cube\/\">Back<\/a> <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/rakpabon-%E0%B8%A3%E0%B8%81%E0%B8%A9%E0%B8%9B%E0%B8%B2%E0%B8%9A%E0%B8%AD%E0%B8%99\/\" data-type=\"link\" data-id=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/rakpabon-%E0%B8%A3%E0%B8%81%E0%B8%A9%E0%B8%9B%E0%B8%B2%E0%B8%9A%E0%B8%AD%E0%B8%99\/\">Next<\/a> &gt;&gt;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">To learn more about submitting your work to <em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/boudin-submissions\/\">Boudin<\/a><\/em> or applying to McNeese State University&#8217;s Creative Writing <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/mfa-application-submissions\/\">MFA program<\/a>, please visit Submissions for details.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Waving, Not Drowning David Lohrey __________ The very thought of throwing myself overboard made me recoil. There were Conrad and Melville, of course, maybe Golding. No other major writer of fiction who\u2019d spent much time at sea came to mind. The watery writers didn\u2019t much appeal. Eugene O\u2019Neill was the only playwright I could think&hellip;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":97,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[256],"tags":[75,146,26],"class_list":["post-22781","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-pride-june-26","tag-boudin","tag-fiction-2","tag-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22781","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/97"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=22781"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22781\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23049,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22781\/revisions\/23049"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=22781"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=22781"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=22781"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}